Section 3
Original German
Um dies zu begreifen, müssen wir jenes kunstvolle Gebäude der apollinischen Cultur gleichsam Stein um Stein abtragen, bis wir die Fundamente erblicken, auf die es begründet ist. Hier gewahren wir nun zuerst die herrlichen olympischen Göttergestalten, die auf den Giebeln dieses Gebäudes stehen, und deren Thaten in weithin leuchtenden Reliefs dargestellt seine Friese zieren. Wenn unter ihnen auch Apollo steht, als eine einzelne Gottheit neben anderen und ohne den Anspruch einer ersten Stellung, so dürfen wir uns dadurch nicht beirren lassen. Derselbe Trieb, der sich in Apollo versinnlichte, hat überhaupt jene ganze olympische Welt geboren, und in diesem Sinne darf uns Apollo als Vater derselben gelten. Welches war das ungeheure Bedürfniss, aus dem eine so leuchtende Gesellschaft olympischer Wesen entsprang?
Wer, mit einer anderen Religion im Herzen, an diese Olympier herantritt und nun nach sittlicher Höhe, ja Heiligkeit, nach unleiblicher Vergeistigung, nach erbarmungsvollen Liebesblicken bei ihnen sucht, der wird unmuthig und enttäuscht ihnen bald den Rücken kehren müssen. Hier erinnert nichts an Askese, Geistigkeit und Pflicht: hier redet nur ein üppiges, ja triumphirendes Dasein zu uns, in dem alles Vorhandene vergöttlicht ist, gleichviel ob es gut oder böse ist. Und so mag der Beschauer recht betroffen vor diesem phantastischen Ueberschwang des Lebens stehn, um sich zu fragen, mit welchem Zaubertrank im Leibe diese übermüthigen Menschen das Leben genossen haben mögen, dass, wohin sie sehen, Helena, das „in süsser Sinnlichkeit schwebende“ Idealbild ihrer eignen Existenz, ihnen entgegenlacht. Diesem bereits rückwärts gewandten Beschauer müssen wir aber zurufen: „Geh’ nicht von dannen, sondern höre erst, was die griechische Volksweisheit von diesem selben Leben aussagt, das sich hier mit so unerklärlicher Heiterkeit vor dir ausbreitet. Es geht die alte Sage, dass König Midas lange Zeit nach dem weisen Silen, dem Begleiter des Dionysus, im Walde gejagt habe, ohne ihn zu fangen. Als er ihm endlich in die Hände gefallen ist, fragt der König, was für den Menschen das Allerbeste und Allervorzüglichste sei. Starr und unbeweglich schweigt der Dämon; bis er, durch den König gezwungen, endlich unter gellem Lachen in diese Worte ausbricht: „Elendes Eintagsgeschlecht, des Zufalls Kinder und der Mühsal, was zwingst du mich dir zu sagen, was nicht zu hören für dich das Erspriesslichste ist? Das Allerbeste ist für dich gänzlich unerreichbar: nicht geboren zu sein, nicht zu sein, nichts zu sein. Das Zweitbeste aber ist für dich—bald zu sterben“.
Wie verhält sich zu dieser Volksweisheit die olympische Götterwelt? Wie die entzückungsreiche Vision des gefolterten Märtyrers zu seinen Peinigungen.
Jetzt öffnet sich uns gleichsam der olympische Zauberberg und zeigt uns seine Wurzeln. Der Grieche kannte und empfand die Schrecken und Entsetzlichkeiten des Daseins: um überhaupt leben zu können, musste er vor sie hin die glänzende Traumgeburt der Olympischen stellen. Jenes ungeheure Misstrauen gegen die titanischen Mächte der Natur, jene über allen Erkenntnissen erbarmungslos thronende Moira, jener Geier des grossen Menschenfreundes Prometheus, jenes Schreckensloos des weisen Oedipus, jener Geschlechtsfluch der Atriden, der Orest zum Muttermorde zwingt, kurz jene ganze Philosophie des Waldgottes, sammt ihren mythischen Exempeln, an der die schwermüthigen Etrurier zu Grunde gegangen sind—wurde von den Griechen durch jene künstlerische Mittelwelt der Olympier fortwährend von Neuem überwunden, jedenfalls verhüllt und dem Anblick entzogen. Um leben zu können, mussten die Griechen diese Götter, aus tiefster Nöthigung, schaffen: welchen Hergang wir uns wohl so vorzustellen haben, dass aus der ursprünglichen titanischen Götterordnung des Schreckens durch jenen apollinischen Schönheitstrieb in langsamen Uebergängen die olympische Götterordnung der Freude entwickelt wurde: wie Rosen aus dornigem Gebüsch hervorbrechen. Wie anders hätte jenes so reizbar empfindende, so ungestüm begehrende, zum Leiden so einzig befähigte Volk das Dasein ertragen können, wenn ihm nicht dasselbe, von einer höheren Glorie umflossen, in seinen Göttern gezeigt worden wäre. Derselbe Trieb, der die Kunst in’s Leben ruft, als die zum Weiterleben verführende Ergänzung und Vollendung des Daseins, liess auch die olympische Welt entstehn, in der sich der hellenische „Wille“ einen verklärenden Spiegel vorhielt. So rechtfertigen die Götter das Menschenleben, indem sie es selbst leben—die allein genügende Theodicee! Das Dasein unter dem hellen Sonnenscheine solcher Götter wird als das an sich Erstrebenswerthe empfunden, und der eigentliche Schmerz der homerischen Menschen bezieht sich auf das Abscheiden aus ihm, vor allem auf das baldige Abscheiden: so dass man jetzt von ihnen, mit Umkehrung der silenischen Weisheit, sagen könnte, „das Allerschlimmste sei für sie, bald zu sterben, das Zweitschlimmste, überhaupt einmal zu sterben“. Wenn die Klage einmal ertönt, so klingt sie wieder vom kurzlebenden Achilles, von dem blättergleichen Wechsel und Wandel des Menschengeschlechts, von dem Untergang der Heroenzeit. Es ist des grössten Helden nicht unwürdig, sich nach dem Weiterleben zu sehnen, sei es selbst als Tagelöhner. So ungestüm verlangt, auf der apollinischen Stufe, der „Wille“ nach diesem Dasein, so eins fühlt sich der homerische Mensch mit ihm, dass selbst die Klage zu seinem Preisliede wird.
Hier muss nun ausgesprochen werden, dass diese von den neueren Menschen so sehnsüchtig angeschaute Harmonie, ja Einheit des Menschen mit der Natur, für die Schiller das Kunstwort „naiv“ in Geltung gebracht hat, keinesfalls ein so einfacher, sich von selbst ergebender, gleichsam unvermeidlicher Zustand ist, dem wir an der Pforte jeder Cultur, als einem Paradies der Menschheit begegnen müssten: dies konnte nur eine Zeit glauben, die den Emil Rousseau’s sich auch als Künstler zu denken suchte und in Homer einen solchen am Herzen der Natur erzogenen Künstler Emil gefunden zu haben wähnte. Wo uns das „Naive“ in der Kunst begegnet, haben wir die höchste Wirkung der apollinischen Cultur zu erkennen: welche immer erst ein Titanenreich zu stürzen und Ungethüme zu tödten hat und durch kräftige Wahnvorspiegelungen und lustvolle Illusionen über eine schreckliche Tiefe der Weltbetrachtung und reizbarste Leidensfähigkeit Sieger geworden sein muss. Aber wie selten wird das Naive, jenes völlige Verschlungensein in der Schönheit des Scheines, erreicht! Wie unaussprechbar erhaben ist deshalb Homer, der sich, als Einzelner, zu jener apollinischen Volkscultur verhält, wie der einzelne Traumkünstler zur Traumbefähigung des Volks und der Natur überhaupt. Die homerische „Naivetät“ ist nur als der vollkommene Sieg der apollinischen Illusion zu begreifen: es ist dies eine solche Illusion, wie sie die Natur, zur Erreichung ihrer Absichten, so häufig verwendet. Das wahre Ziel wird durch ein Wahnbild verdeckt: nach diesem strecken wir die Hände aus, und jenes erreicht die Natur durch unsre Täuschung. In den Griechen wollte der „Wille“ sich selbst, in der Verklärung des Genius und der Kunstwelt, anschauen; um sich zu verherrlichen, mussten seine Geschöpfe sich selbst als verherrlichenswerth empfinden, sie mussten sich in einer höheren Sphäre wiedersehn, ohne dass diese vollendete Welt der Anschauung als Imperativ oder als Vorwurf wirkte. Dies ist die Sphäre der Schönheit, in der sie ihre Spiegelbilder, die Olympischen, sahen. Mit dieser Schönheitsspiegelung kämpfte der hellenische „Wille“ gegen das dem künstlerischen correlative Talent zum Leiden und zur Weisheit des Leidens: und als Denkmal seines Sieges steht Homer vor uns, der naive Künstler.
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.
To understand this, we must dismantle that artful edifice of Apollonian culture, stone by stone, as it were, until we see the foundations on which it rests. Here we first perceive the glorious figures of the Olympian gods standing on the pediments of this building, their deeds adorning its friezes in reliefs that shine far and wide. If Apollo too stands among them, as one deity beside others and without claiming first place, we must not let this mislead us. The same drive that took visible form in Apollo gave birth to that entire Olympian world, and in this sense we may regard Apollo as its father. What was the tremendous need from which so radiant a company of Olympian beings arose?
Anyone who approaches these Olympians with another religion in his heart and now searches among them for moral elevation, indeed holiness, for disembodied spiritualization, for loving looks full of compassion, will soon have to turn his back on them, displeased and disappointed. Nothing here recalls asceticism, spirituality, and duty: here only a luxuriant, indeed triumphant existence speaks to us, in which everything that exists is deified, whether good or evil. And so the onlooker may stand quite bewildered before this fantastic exuberance of life and ask himself with what magic potion in their veins these high-spirited people can have enjoyed life, that, wherever they look, Helen, the ideal image of their own existence, “hovering in sweet sensuality,” meets them with laughter. But to this onlooker, already turning away, we must call out: “Do not leave, but first hear what Greek folk wisdom says of this same life that spreads before you here with such inexplicable cheerfulness. The old legend tells how King Midas hunted the wise Silenus, companion of Dionysus, in the forest for a long time without catching him. When he finally fell into his hands, the king asked what was the very best and most excellent thing for human beings. Stiff and motionless, the spirit remained silent, until, compelled by the king, he at last broke out with shrill laughter into these words: ‘Miserable race of a day, children of chance and toil, why do you force me to tell you what it would be most beneficial for you not to hear? The very best is utterly beyond your reach: not to have been born, not to be, to be nothing. But the second best for you is—to die soon.’”
How does the Olympian world of gods relate to this folk wisdom? As the tortured martyr’s rapturous vision relates to his torments.
Now the Olympian magic mountain opens before us, as it were, and shows us its roots. The Greek knew and felt the terrors and horrors of existence: to be able to live at all, he had to set before them the radiant dream-birth of the Olympians. That immense distrust of the Titanic powers of nature, that Moira enthroned mercilessly above all knowledge, that vulture of the great friend of humanity, Prometheus, that fearful fate of wise Oedipus, that ancestral curse of the house of Atreus which forces Orestes to murder his mother—in short, that whole philosophy of the forest god, together with its mythical examples, which brought the melancholy Etruscans to ruin—was continually overcome anew by the Greeks through that artistic intermediate world of the Olympians, or at least veiled and hidden from view. To be able to live, the Greeks had to create these gods out of the deepest necessity: a process we may probably imagine as the gradual development, through that Apollonian drive for beauty, of the Olympian divine order of joy from the original Titanic divine order of terror, as roses burst forth from thorny bushes. How else could this people, so acutely sensitive, so impetuous in desire, so uniquely capable of suffering, have endured existence if it had not been shown to them in their gods, suffused with a higher glory? The same drive that calls art into life, as the complement and completion of existence that seduces us into living on, also brought the Olympian world into being, in which the Hellenic “will” held up a transfiguring mirror to itself. Thus the gods justify human life by living it themselves—the only sufficient theodicy! Existence beneath the bright sunshine of such gods is felt to be desirable in itself, and the true pain of Homeric humanity concerns departure from it, above all an early departure, so that one might now say of them, reversing the wisdom of Silenus, “The very worst thing for them is to die soon, the second worst to die at all.” When lament does sound, it tells once more of short-lived Achilles, of the human race changing and passing like leaves, of the downfall of the heroic age. It is not unworthy of the greatest hero to long to go on living, even as a day laborer. So impetuously does the “will,” at the Apollonian stage, crave this existence, so completely at one with it does the Homeric human being feel, that even lament becomes its hymn of praise.
Here it must now be said that this harmony, indeed unity, of humanity with nature, gazed upon so longingly by modern people, for which Schiller established the technical term “naive,” is by no means so simple, self-evident, almost inevitable a condition that we must encounter it at the gateway of every culture as a paradise of humanity: only an age that tried to imagine Rousseau’s Emile as an artist too, and fancied it had found in Homer just such an artist-Emile, brought up at nature’s heart, could believe this. Wherever we encounter the “naive” in art, we must recognize the highest effect of Apollonian culture, which must always first overthrow a realm of Titans and slay monsters, and must have triumphed, through powerful delusive visions and pleasurable illusions, over a terrifying depth of insight into the world and the most acute capacity for suffering. But how rarely is the naive, that complete absorption in the beauty of semblance, attained! How inexpressibly sublime, then, is Homer, who, as an individual, stands in the same relation to that Apollonian popular culture as the individual dream-artist to the capacity for dreaming of the people and of nature in general. Homeric “naivety” can be understood only as the complete victory of Apollonian illusion: an illusion of the kind nature so often uses to attain her purposes. The true goal is concealed by a delusive image: we reach out our hands for the latter, and nature attains the former through our deception. In the Greeks the “will” wanted to behold itself in the transfiguration of genius and the world of art; to glorify itself, its creatures had to feel themselves worthy of glorification; they had to see themselves again in a higher sphere, without this perfected world of vision acting as an imperative or a reproach. This is the sphere of beauty in which they saw their mirror images, the Olympians. With this mirroring of beauty, the Hellenic “will” fought against the talent for suffering and for the wisdom of suffering that corresponded to the artistic talent: and as a monument to its victory, Homer stands before us, the naive artist.
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.
To understand this, we must take down the artful building of Apollonian culture, stone by stone, as it were, until we see the foundations on which it rests. The first things we notice are the magnificent figures of the Olympian gods standing on its pediments. Their deeds, shown in reliefs that shine far into the distance, decorate its friezes. Apollo stands among them as one god beside others, with no claim to first place, but we must not let that confuse us. The same drive that took visible form in Apollo gave birth to this whole Olympian world. In this sense, we may regard Apollo as its father. What enormous need gave rise to so radiant a company of Olympian beings?
Anyone who approaches these Olympians with another religion in his heart, looking for moral elevation, even holiness, for disembodied spirituality, for loving looks full of compassion, will soon have to turn away in disappointment and irritation. Nothing here suggests self-denial, spirituality, or duty. Only a lush, indeed triumphant existence speaks to us here, in which everything that exists is made divine, whether good or evil. The observer may stand quite taken aback before this fantastic overflow of life. He may ask with what magic potion in their bodies these high-spirited people must have enjoyed life, so that wherever they look, Helen smiles back at them, the ideal image of their own existence, “floating in sweet sensuality.” But we must call out to this observer, who has already turned to leave: “Do not go away. First listen to what Greek folk wisdom says about this very life, which spreads before you here with such inexplicable cheerfulness. The old story goes that King Midas hunted for a long time in the forest for the wise Silenus, companion of Dionysus, without catching him. When Silenus finally fell into his hands, the king asked what was the very best and most excellent thing for human beings. Stiff and motionless, the daemon remained silent. At last, forced by the king, he broke into shrill laughter and these words: ‘Wretched creatures of a day, children of chance and toil, why do you force me to tell you what it would be most beneficial for you not to hear? The very best thing is completely beyond your reach: not to have been born, not to be, to be nothing. But the second best thing for you is—to die soon.’”
How does the Olympian world of gods relate to this folk wisdom? As a tortured martyr’s ecstatic vision relates to his torments.
Now the enchanted mountain of Olympus seems to open up and show us its roots. The Greek knew and felt the terrors and horrors of existence. To be able to live at all, he had to place before them the shining dream creation of the Olympians. There was that enormous distrust of the Titanic powers of nature; Moira, mercilessly enthroned above all knowledge; the vulture of Prometheus, the great friend of humanity; the terrible fate of wise Oedipus; the ancestral curse of the house of Atreus, which forces Orestes to murder his mother. In short, there was the forest god’s entire philosophy, together with its mythical examples, which brought the melancholy Etruscans to ruin. Through the Olympians, that artistic world in between, the Greeks continually overcame it anew, or at least covered it up and removed it from sight. Out of the deepest necessity, the Greeks had to create these gods in order to live. We should probably imagine the process like this: from the original Titanic order of gods, an order of terror, the Apollonian drive for beauty gradually developed the Olympian order of gods, an order of joy, as roses burst out of a thornbush. How else could this people, so sensitive, so fiercely desiring, so uniquely capable of suffering, have endured existence if it had not been shown to them in their gods, surrounded by a higher glory? The same drive that calls art into life, as the supplement and completion of existence that tempts us to keep living, also brought the Olympian world into being. In it, the Greek “will” held up to itself a transfiguring mirror. Thus the gods justify human life by living it themselves—the only sufficient justification of God! Existence in the bright sunshine of such gods is felt to be desirable in itself. The real pain of the Homeric people concerns leaving it, above all leaving it soon. Reversing the wisdom of Silenus, we could now say of them: “The very worst thing for them is to die soon, and the second worst is to die at all.” When a lament does sound, it speaks again of short-lived Achilles, of the human race changing and passing like leaves, of the fall of the heroic age. It is not unworthy of the greatest hero to long to keep living, even as a day laborer. At the Apollonian stage, the “will” desires this existence so fiercely, and the Homeric person feels so much at one with it, that even lament becomes a song in its praise.
Here we must make something clear. This harmony, indeed unity, between human beings and nature, which modern people look at with such longing, and for which Schiller established the special term “naive,” is by no means a simple, seemingly unavoidable condition that arises on its own. It is not something we must encounter at the entrance to every culture as a paradise of humanity. Only an age that tried to imagine Rousseau’s Emile as an artist as well, and believed it had found in Homer just such an artist-Emile raised close to nature’s heart, could believe that. Wherever we meet the “naive” in art, we must recognize the highest achievement of Apollonian culture. This culture must always first overthrow an empire of Titans and kill monsters. Through powerful deceptive images and pleasurable illusions, it must have overcome a terrifying depth in its view of the world and an acutely sensitive capacity for suffering. But how rarely the naive is achieved—that complete absorption in the beauty of semblance! How inexpressibly great Homer is, therefore. As an individual, he stands in the same relationship to that Apollonian popular culture as the individual dream-artist stands to the capacity for dreaming of the people and of nature in general. Homeric “naivety” can be understood only as the complete victory of Apollonian illusion. It is the kind of illusion that nature so often uses to achieve its aims. An illusory image hides the true goal. We reach out our hands toward that image, and nature achieves its goal through our deception. In the Greeks, the “will” wanted to look at itself, transfigured in genius and the world of art. To glorify itself, its creatures had to feel that they themselves deserved glorification. They had to see themselves again in a higher sphere, without this perfected world of vision acting as a command or a reproach. This is the sphere of beauty in which they saw their mirror images, the Olympians. With this reflection of beauty, the Greek “will” fought against the talent for suffering and for the wisdom of suffering that went hand in hand with its artistic talent. As the monument to its victory, Homer stands before us, the naive artist.
About this section
Section 3 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 11 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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