Section 2
Original German
Wir haben bis jetzt das Apollinische und seinen Gegensatz, das Dionysische, als künstlerische Mächte betrachtet, die aus der Natur selbst, ohne Vermittelung des menschlichen Künstlers, hervorbrechen, und in denen sich ihre Kunsttriebe zunächst und auf directem Wege befriedigen: einmal als die Bilderwelt des Traumes, deren Vollkommenheit ohne jeden Zusammenhang mit der intellectuellen Höhe oder künstlerischen Bildung des Einzelnen ist, andererseits als rauschvolle Wirklichkeit, die wiederum des Einzelnen nicht achtet, sondern sogar das Individuum zu vernichten und durch eine mystische Einheitsempfindung zu erlösen sucht. Diesen unmittelbaren Kunstzuständen der Natur gegenüber ist jeder Künstler „Nachahmer“, und zwar entweder apollinischer Traumkünstler oder dionysischer Rauschkünstler oder endlich—wie beispielweise in der griechischen Tragödie—zugleich Rausch- und Traumkünstler: als welchen wir uns etwa zu denken haben, wie er, in der dionysischen Trunkenheit und mystischen Selbstentäusserung, einsam und abseits von den schwärmenden Chören niedersinkt und wie sich ihm nun, durch apollinische Traumeinwirkung, sein eigener Zustand d. h. seine Einheit mit dem innersten Grunde der Welt in einem gleichnissartigen Traumbilde offenbart.
Nach diesen allgemeinen Voraussetzungen und Gegenüberstellungen nahen wir uns jetzt den Griechen, um zu erkennen, in welchem Grade und bis zu welcher Höhe jene Kunsttriebe der Natur in ihnen entwickelt gewesen sind: wodurch wir in den Stand gesetzt werden, das Verhältniss des griechischen Künstlers zu seinen Urbildern, oder, nach dem aristotelischen Ausdrucke, „die Nachahmung der Natur“ tiefer zu verstehn und zu würdigen. Von den Träumen der Griechen ist trotz aller Traumlitteratur derselben und zahlreichen Traumanecdoten nur vermuthungsweise, aber doch mit ziemlicher Sicherheit zu sprechen: bei der unglaublich bestimmten und sicheren plastischen Befähigung ihres Auges, sammt ihrer hellen und aufrichtigen Farbenlust, wird man sich nicht entbrechen können, zur Beschämung aller Spätergeborenen, auch für ihre Träume eine logische Causalität der Linien und Umrisse, Farben und Gruppen, eine ihren besten Reliefs ähnelnde Folge der Scenen vorauszusetzen, deren Vollkommenheit uns, wenn eine Vergleichung möglich wäre, gewiss berechtigen würde, die träumenden Griechen als Homere und Homer als einen träumenden Griechen zu bezeichnen: in einem tieferen Sinne als wenn der moderne Mensch sich hinsichtlich seines Traumes mit Shakespeare zu vergleichen wagt.
Dagegen brauchen wir nicht nur vermuthungsweise zu sprechen, wenn die ungeheure Kluft aufgedeckt werden soll, welche die dionysischen Griechen von den dionysischen Barbaren trennt. Aus allen Enden der alten Welt—um die neuere hier bei Seite zu lassen—von Rom bis Babylon können wir die Existenz dionysischer Feste nachweisen, deren Typus sich, besten Falls, zu dem Typus der griechischen verhält, wie der bärtige Satyr, dem der Bock Namen und Attribute verlieh, zu Dionysus selbst. Fast überall lag das Centrum dieser Feste in einer überschwänglichen geschlechtlichen Zuchtlosigkeit, deren Wellen über jedes Familienthum und dessen ehrwürdige Satzungen hinweg flutheten; gerade die wildesten Bestien der Natur wurden hier entfesselt, bis zu jener abscheulichen Mischung von Wollust und Grausamkeit, die mir immer als der eigentliche „Hexentrank“ erschienen ist. Gegen die fieberhaften Regungen jener Feste, deren Kenntniss auf allen Land- und Seewegen zu den Griechen drang, waren sie, scheint es, eine Zeit lang völlig gesichert und geschützt durch die hier in seinem ganzen Stolz sich aufrichtende Gestalt des Apollo, der das Medusenhaupt keiner gefährlicheren Macht entgegenhalten konnte als dieser fratzenhaft ungeschlachten dionysischen. Es ist die dorische Kunst, in der sich jene majestätisch-ablehnende Haltung des Apollo verewigt hat. Bedenklicher und sogar unmöglich wurde dieser Widerstand, als endlich aus der tiefsten Wurzel des Hellenischen heraus sich ähnliche Triebe Bahn brachen: jetzt beschränkte sich das Wirken des delphischen Gottes darauf, dem gewaltigen Gegner durch eine zur rechten Zeit abgeschlossene Versöhnung die vernichtenden Waffen aus der Hand zu nehmen. Diese Versöhnung ist der wichtigste Moment in der Geschichte des griechischen Cultus: wohin man blickt, sind die Umwälzungen dieses Ereignisses sichtbar. Es war die Versöhnung zweier Gegner, mit scharfer Bestimmung ihrer von jetzt ab einzuhaltenden Grenzlinien und mit periodischer Uebersendung von Ehrengeschenken; im Grunde war die Kluft nicht überbrückt. Sehen wir aber, wie sich unter dem Drucke jenes Friedensschlusses die dionysische Macht offenbarte, so erkennen wir jetzt, im Vergleiche mit jenen babylonischen Sakäen und ihrem Rückschritte des Menschen zum Tiger und Affen, in den dionysischen Orgien der Griechen die Bedeutung von Welterlösungsfesten und Verklärungstagen. Erst bei ihnen erreicht die Natur ihren künstlerischen Jubel, erst bei ihnen wird die Zerreissung des principii individuationis ein künstlerisches Phänomen. Jener scheussliche Hexentrank aus Wollust und Grausamkeit war hier ohne Kraft: nur die wundersame Mischung und Doppelheit in den Affecten der dionysischen Schwärmer erinnert an ihn—wie Heilmittel an tödtliche Gifte erinnern—, jene Erscheinung, dass Schmerzen Lust erwecken, dass der Jubel der Brust qualvolle Töne entreisst. Aus der höchsten Freude tönt der Schrei des Entsetzens oder der sehnende Klagelaut über einen unersetzlichen Verlust. In jenen griechischen Festen bricht gleichsam ein sentimentalischer Zug der Natur hervor, als ob sie über ihre Zerstückelung in Individuen zu seufzen habe. Der Gesang und die Gebärdensprache solcher zwiefach gestimmter Schwärmer war für die homerisch-griechische Welt etwas Neues und Unerhörtes: und insbesondere erregte ihr die dionysische Musik Schrecken und Grausen. Wenn die Musik scheinbar bereits als eine apollinische Kunst bekannt war, so war sie dies doch nur, genau genommen, als Wellenschlag des Rhythmus, dessen bildnerische Kraft zur Darstellung apollinischer Zustände entwickelt wurde. Die Musik des Apollo war dorische Architektonik in Tönen, aber in nur angedeuteten Tönen, wie sie der Kithara zu eigen sind. Behutsam ist gerade das Element, als unapollinisch, ferngehalten, das den Charakter der dionysischen Musik und damit der Musik überhaupt ausmacht, die erschütternde Gewalt des Tones, der einheitliche Strom des Melos und die durchaus unvergleichliche Welt der Harmonie. Im dionysischen Dithyrambus wird der Mensch zur höchsten Steigerung aller seiner symbolischen Fähigkeiten gereizt; etwas Nieempfundenes drängt sich zur Aeusserung, die Vernichtung des Schleiers der Maja, das Einssein als Genius der Gattung, ja der Natur. Jetzt soll sich das Wesen der Natur symbolisch ausdrücken; eine neue Welt der Symbole ist nöthig, einmal die ganze leibliche Symbolik, nicht nur die Symbolik des Mundes, des Gesichts, des Wortes, sondern die volle, alle Glieder rhythmisch bewegende Tanzgebärde. Sodann wachsen die anderen symbolischen Kräfte, die der Musik, in Rhythmik, Dynamik und Harmonie, plötzlich ungestüm. Um diese Gesammtentfesselung aller symbolischen Kräfte zu fassen, muss der Mensch bereits auf jener Höhe der Selbstentäusserung angelangt sein, die in jenen Kräften sich symbolisch aussprechen will: der dithyrambische Dionysusdiener wird somit nur von Seinesgleichen verstanden! Mit welchem Erstaunen musste der apollinische Grieche auf ihn blicken! Mit einem Erstaunen, das um so grösser war, als sich ihm das Grausen beimischte, dass ihm jenes Alles doch eigentlich so fremd nicht sei, ja dass sein apollinisches Bewusstsein nur wie ein Schleier diese dionysische Welt vor ihm verdecke.
Musean translation
Complete machine-assisted Musean translation of the 1886 issue, with the Attempt at Self-Criticism and the Preface to Richard Wagner, made directly from the German of the Fritzsch Neue Ausgabe and read against its page images; reviewed against the German before publication.
So far we have considered the Apollonian and its opposite, the Dionysian, as artistic powers that burst forth from nature itself, without the mediation of the human artist, and in which nature’s artistic drives find their first and direct satisfaction: on the one hand as the image-world of dreams, whose perfection has no connection whatever with the individual’s intellectual level or artistic education; on the other as an intoxicated reality that likewise pays no heed to the individual, but even seeks to annihilate him and redeem him through a mystical feeling of unity. In relation to these immediate artistic states of nature, every artist is an “imitator”: either an Apollonian dream-artist or a Dionysian artist of intoxication, or finally—as, for example, in Greek tragedy—an artist of both intoxication and dream. Such an artist we might imagine sinking down in Dionysian drunkenness and mystical self-abandonment, alone and apart from the rapturous choruses, whereupon, through the influence of Apollonian dreaming, his own state—that is, his unity with the innermost ground of the world—is revealed to him in a symbolic dream-image.
After these general premises and contrasts, let us now approach the Greeks to discover to what degree and to what height those artistic drives of nature were developed in them. This will enable us to understand and appreciate more deeply the Greek artist’s relation to his archetypes, or, in Aristotle’s phrase, “the imitation of nature.” Despite all their literature on dreams and their numerous dream anecdotes, we can speak of the Greeks’ dreams only conjecturally, though with considerable confidence: given their eye’s incredibly precise and sure grasp of sculptural form, together with their bright and candid delight in color, we cannot help assuming, to the shame of all later generations, that their dreams too possessed a logical causality of lines and contours, colors and groups, a succession of scenes resembling their finest reliefs, whose perfection, if a comparison were possible, would surely entitle us to call the dreaming Greeks Homers and Homer a dreaming Greek—in a deeper sense than when a modern person ventures to compare himself, as regards his dreaming, with Shakespeare.
By contrast, we need not speak merely in conjectures when uncovering the enormous gulf that separates the Dionysian Greeks from the Dionysian barbarians. From every corner of the ancient world—leaving the modern world aside here—from Rome to Babylon, we can demonstrate the existence of Dionysian festivals whose type stands, at best, in the same relation to that of the Greek festivals as the bearded satyr, to whom the goat gave its name and attributes, stands to Dionysus himself. Almost everywhere the center of these festivals lay in an extravagant sexual license whose waves swept over every form of family life and its venerable laws; it was precisely nature’s wildest beasts that were unleashed here, reaching that abominable mixture of sensuality and cruelty that has always seemed to me the true “witches’ brew.” Against the feverish stirrings of these festivals, knowledge of which reached the Greeks by every land and sea route, they seem for a time to have been completely secured and protected by the figure of Apollo, rising here in all his pride, who could hold up the head of Medusa against no more dangerous power than this grotesquely uncouth Dionysian one. It is in Doric art that this majestically rejecting stance of Apollo has been immortalized. This resistance became more precarious and even impossible when similar drives at last broke through from the deepest root of the Hellenic itself: now the activity of the Delphic god was confined to taking the destructive weapons from his mighty opponent’s hands through a timely reconciliation. This reconciliation is the most important moment in the history of Greek worship: wherever one looks, the upheavals caused by this event are visible. It was the reconciliation of two opponents, with a strict definition of the boundaries they were henceforth to observe and with the periodic sending of gifts of honor; at bottom, the gulf had not been bridged. But if we look at how Dionysian power revealed itself under the pressure of that peace agreement, we now recognize in the Dionysian orgies of the Greeks, in comparison with those Babylonian Sacaea and their reversion of the human being to tiger and ape, the significance of festivals of world-redemption and days of transfiguration. Only with them does nature attain her artistic jubilation; only with them does the rending of the principle of individuation become an artistic phenomenon. That hideous witches’ brew of sensuality and cruelty was powerless here: only the wondrous mixture and duality in the emotions of the Dionysian enthusiasts recalls it—as medicines recall deadly poisons—that phenomenon in which pain awakens pleasure and jubilation wrests agonized sounds from the breast. Out of the highest joy sounds a cry of horror or a yearning lament for an irreplaceable loss. In those Greek festivals a sentimental strain in nature breaks forth, as it were, as though she had to sigh over her dismemberment into individuals. The song and gesture-language of such doubly attuned enthusiasts was something new and unheard-of to the Homeric Greek world; and Dionysian music in particular aroused terror and horror in it. If music was apparently already known as an Apollonian art, it was so, strictly speaking, only as the wave-beat of rhythm, whose shaping power was developed to represent Apollonian states. Apollo’s music was Doric architecture in sound, but in merely suggested sounds, such as belong to the kithara. Precisely the element that constitutes the character of Dionysian music, and thus of music altogether, is carefully kept away as un-Apollonian: the shattering power of sound, the unified stream of melody, and the utterly incomparable world of harmony. In the Dionysian dithyramb the human being is stimulated to the highest intensification of all his symbolic capacities; something never before felt presses for expression—the destruction of the veil of Maya, oneness as the genius of the species, indeed of nature. Now the essence of nature is to express itself symbolically; a new world of symbols is needed: first the whole symbolism of the body, not merely the symbolism of the mouth, the face, the word, but the full gesture of dance, moving every limb in rhythm. Then the other symbolic powers, those of music, suddenly grow impetuously in rhythm, dynamics, and harmony. To comprehend this total unleashing of all symbolic powers, a human being must already have reached that height of self-abandonment which seeks to express itself symbolically in these powers: thus the dithyrambic servant of Dionysus is understood only by his own kind! With what astonishment the Apollonian Greek must have looked at him! An astonishment all the greater because it was mingled with the horror that all this was not really so alien to him after all, indeed that his Apollonian consciousness concealed this Dionysian world from him only like a veil.
Plain English translation
Complete machine-assisted Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the same German text, without reference to the Musean edition or to any English translation.
So far we have considered the Apollonian and its opposite, the Dionysian, as artistic powers that break out of nature itself, without the human artist acting as a go-between. In them, nature’s artistic drives find their first, direct satisfaction. On the one hand there is the world of dream images, whose perfection has no connection with an individual’s intellectual level or artistic education. On the other there is the reality of intoxication, which likewise pays no attention to the individual. Indeed, it seeks to destroy the individual and redeem him through a mystical feeling of oneness. In relation to these immediate artistic states of nature, every artist is an “imitator.” He is either an Apollonian artist of dreams or a Dionysian artist of intoxication, or finally—as in Greek tragedy, for example—an artist of both intoxication and dreams. We might imagine this last artist sinking down alone, apart from the ecstatic choruses, in Dionysian drunkenness and mystical self-abandonment. Then, through the influence of Apollonian dreaming, his own condition—his oneness with the innermost ground of the world—is revealed to him in a symbolic dream image.
After these general assumptions and contrasts, we now approach the Greeks. We want to recognize to what degree and to what height these artistic drives of nature had developed in them. This will enable us to understand and appreciate more deeply the Greek artist’s relationship to his original models, or, in Aristotle’s expression, “the imitation of nature.” Despite all the Greeks’ literature about dreams and their many dream anecdotes, we can speak of their dreams only by conjecture, though still with considerable confidence. Their eye had an unbelievably precise and sure gift for visual form, along with a bright, straightforward pleasure in color. We cannot help assuming, to the shame of everyone born later, that their dreams too had a logical causal order of lines and outlines, colors and groups, and a sequence of scenes resembling their finest relief sculptures. If comparison were possible, the perfection of these dreams would certainly justify calling the dreaming Greeks Homers and Homer a dreaming Greek. This would be true in a deeper sense than when a modern person dares to compare himself with Shakespeare on the subject of his own dreams.
By contrast, we need not speak merely by conjecture when revealing the enormous gulf separating the Dionysian Greeks from the Dionysian barbarians. From every corner of the ancient world—leaving the modern world aside here—from Rome to Babylon, we can show that Dionysian festivals existed. At best, their character compares with that of the Greek festivals as the bearded satyr, who received his name and attributes from the goat, compares with Dionysus himself. Almost everywhere, these festivals centered on extravagant sexual license, whose waves swept over all family life and its respected rules. The wildest beasts of nature were unleashed here, reaching that disgusting mixture of lust and cruelty that has always seemed to me the true “witches’ brew.” News of these festivals reached the Greeks by every land and sea route. For a time, it seems, they were entirely protected and secured against the festivals’ feverish impulses by the figure of Apollo, standing here in all his pride. There was no more dangerous power against which he could hold up the head of Medusa than this grotesque, uncouth Dionysian power. Doric art made this majestic, rejecting posture of Apollo permanent. Resistance became more doubtful, even impossible, when similar drives finally broke out from the deepest roots of Greek life itself. Now the Delphic god’s action was limited to taking the destructive weapons out of his mighty opponent’s hand through a timely reconciliation. This reconciliation is the most important moment in the history of Greek worship. Wherever we look, the changes brought about by this event are visible. It was a reconciliation between two opponents, with a sharp definition of the boundaries they must now observe, and with periodic exchanges of gifts of honor. At bottom, the gulf had not been bridged. But if we look at how Dionysian power revealed itself under the pressure of this peace settlement, we now recognize what the Greeks’ Dionysian orgies meant. Compared with the Babylonian Sacaea festivals and their regression of humanity to the tiger and the ape, they were festivals of the world’s deliverance and days of transfiguration. Only with the Greeks does nature reach its artistic jubilation; only with them does the tearing apart of the principle of individuation become an artistic phenomenon. That horrible witches’ brew of lust and cruelty had no power here. Only the strange mixture and doubleness in the emotions of Dionysian enthusiasts recall it—as medicines recall deadly poisons. This is the phenomenon in which pain awakens pleasure and jubilation tears sounds of agony from the chest. Out of the highest joy comes a scream of horror or a longing lament for an irreplaceable loss. In these Greek festivals, a sentimental side of nature seems to break out, as if nature had to sigh over being broken into individuals. The song and body language of these enthusiasts, with their twofold mood, were new and unheard-of to the Homeric Greek world. In particular, Dionysian music filled that world with terror and horror. Music may already have seemed familiar as an Apollonian art, but strictly speaking, it was known only as the wave-like beat of rhythm. Rhythm’s power to shape forms had been developed to represent Apollonian states. Apollo’s music was Doric architecture in sounds, but in sounds only hinted at, like those of the cithara. Precisely the element that makes up the character of Dionysian music, and therefore of music in general, is carefully kept away as un-Apollonian: the shattering power of sound, the unified flow of melody, and the completely incomparable world of harmony. In the Dionysian dithyramb, human beings are driven to develop all their symbolic abilities to their highest intensity. Something never felt before presses for expression: the destruction of the veil of Maya, oneness as the spirit of the species, indeed of nature. Now the essence of nature must express itself symbolically. A new world of symbols is needed. First comes the full symbolism of the body, not just the symbolism of the mouth, face, and words, but the complete gesture of dance, moving every limb rhythmically. Then the other symbolic powers, those of music, suddenly grow with wild force in rhythm, dynamics, and harmony. To grasp this total unleashing of all symbolic powers, a person must already have reached that height of self-abandonment that seeks symbolic expression through these powers. Thus the dithyrambic servant of Dionysus is understood only by his own kind! How astonished the Apollonian Greek must have been to look at him! His astonishment was all the greater because it was mixed with the horror of realizing that all this was not really so foreign to him after all. Indeed, his Apollonian consciousness only covered this Dionysian world from his sight like a veil.
About this section
Section 2 is part of The Birth of Tragedy by Friedrich Nietzsche. This page sets the German original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is section 10 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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