Section 4
Original German
Ueber diesen naiven Künstler giebt uns die Traumanalogie einige Belehrung. Wenn wir uns den Träumenden vergegenwärtigen, wie er, mitten in der Illusion der Traumwelt und ohne sie zu stören, sich zuruft: „es ist ein Traum, ich will ihn weiter träumen“, wenn wir hieraus auf eine tiefe innere Lust des Traumanschauens zu schliessen haben, wenn wir andererseits, um überhaupt mit dieser inneren Lust am Schauen träumen zu können, den Tag und seine schreckliche Zudringlichkeit völlig vergessen haben müssen: so dürfen wir uns alle diese Erscheinungen etwa in folgender Weise, unter der Leitung des traumdeutenden Apollo, interpretiren. So gewiss von den beiden Hälften des Lebens, der wachen und der träumenden Hälfte, uns die erstere als die ungleich bevorzugtere, wichtigere, würdigere, lebenswerthere, ja allein gelebte dünkt: so möchte ich doch, bei allem Anscheine einer Paradoxie, für jenen geheimnissvollen Grund unseres Wesens, dessen Erscheinung wir sind, gerade die entgegengesetzte Werthschätzung des Traumes behaupten. Je mehr ich nämlich in der Natur jene allgewaltigen Kunsttriebe und in ihnen eine inbrünstige Sehnsucht zum Schein, zum Erlöstwerden durch den Schein gewahr werde, um so mehr fühle ich mich zu der metaphysischen Annahme gedrängt, dass das Wahrhaft-Seiende und Ur-Eine, als das ewig Leidende und Widerspruchsvolle, zugleich die entzückende Vision, den lustvollen Schein, zu seiner steten Erlösung braucht: welchen Schein wir, völlig in ihm befangen und aus ihm bestehend, als das Wahrhaft-Nichtseiende d. h. als ein fortwährendes Werden in Zeit, Raum und Causalität, mit anderen Worten, als empirische Realität zu empfinden genöthigt sind. Sehen wir also einmal von unsrer eignen „Realität“ für einen Augenblick ab, fassen wir unser empirisches Dasein, wie das der Welt überhaupt, als eine in jedem Moment erzeugte Vorstellung des Ur-Einen, so muss uns jetzt der Traum als der Schein des Scheins, somit als eine noch höhere Befriedigung der Urbegierde nach dem Schein hin gelten. Aus diesem selben Grunde hat der innerste Kern der Natur jene unbeschreibliche Lust an dem naiven Künstler und dem naiven Kunstwerke, das gleichfalls nur „Schein des Scheins“ ist. Rafael, selbst einer jener unsterblichen „Naiven“, hat uns in einem gleichnissartigen Gemälde jenes Depotenziren des Scheins zum Schein, den Urprozess des naiven Künstlers und zugleich der apollinischen Cultur, dargestellt. In seiner Transfiguration zeigt uns die untere Hälfte, mit dem besessenen Knaben, den verzweifelnden Trägern, den rathlos geängstigten Jüngern, die Widerspiegelung des ewigen Urschmerzes, des einzigen Grundes der Welt: der „Schein“ ist hier Widerschein des ewigen Widerspruchs, des Vaters der Dinge. Aus diesem Schein steigt nun, wie ein ambrosischer Duft, eine visionsgleiche neue Scheinwelt empor, von der jene im ersten Schein Befangenen nichts sehen—ein leuchtendes Schweben in reinster Wonne und schmerzlosem, aus weiten Augen strahlenden Anschauen. Hier haben wir, in höchster Kunstsymbolik, jene apollinische Schönheitswelt und ihren Untergrund, die schreckliche Weisheit des Silen, vor unseren Blicken und begreifen, durch Intuition, ihre gegenseitige Nothwendigkeit. Apollo aber tritt uns wiederum als die Vergöttlichung des principii individuationis entgegen, in dem allein das ewig erreichte Ziel des Ur-Einen, seine Erlösung durch den Schein, sich vollzieht: er zeigt uns, mit erhabenen Gebärden, wie die ganze Welt der Qual nöthig ist, damit durch sie der Einzelne zur Erzeugung der erlösenden Vision gedrängt werde und dann, ins Anschauen derselben versunken, ruhig auf seinem schwankenden Kahne, inmitten des Meeres, sitze.
Diese Vergöttlichung der Individuation kennt, wenn sie überhaupt imperativisch und Vorschriften gebend gedacht wird, nur Ein Gesetz, das Individuum d. h. die Einhaltung der Grenzen des Individuums, das Maass im hellenischen Sinne. Apollo, als ethische Gottheit, fordert von den Seinigen das Maass und, um es einhalten zu können, Selbsterkenntniss. Und so läuft neben der ästhetischen Nothwendigkeit der Schönheit die Forderung des „Erkenne dich selbst“ und des „Nicht zu viel!“ her, während Selbstüberhebung und Uebermaass als die eigentlich feindseligen Dämonen der nicht-apollinischen Sphäre, daher als Eigenschaften der vor-apollinischen Zeit, des Titanenzeitalters, und der ausser-apollinischen Welt d. h. der Barbarenwelt, erachtet wurden. Wegen seiner titanenhaften Liebe zu den Menschen musste Prometheus von den Geiern zerrissen werden, seiner übermässigen Weisheit halber, die das Räthsel der Sphinx löste, musste Oedipus in einen verwirrenden Strudel von Unthaten stürzen: so interpretirte der delphische Gott die griechische Vergangenheit.
„Titanenhaft“ und „barbarisch“ dünkte dem apollinischen Griechen auch die Wirkung, die das Dionysische erregte: ohne dabei sich verhehlen zu können, dass er selbst doch zugleich auch innerlich mit jenen gestürzten Titanen und Heroen verwandt sei. Ja er musste noch mehr empfinden: sein ganzes Dasein mit aller Schönheit und Mässigung ruhte auf einem verhüllten Untergrunde des Leidens und der Erkenntniss, der ihm wieder durch jenes Dionysische aufgedeckt wurde. Und siehe! Apollo konnte nicht ohne Dionysus leben! Das „Titanische“ und das „Barbarische“ war zuletzt eine eben solche Nothwendigkeit wie das Apollinische! Und nun denken wir uns, wie in diese auf den Schein und die Mässigung gebaute und künstlich gedämmte Welt der ekstatische Ton der Dionysusfeier in immer lockenderen Zauberweisen hineinklang, wie in diesen das ganze Uebermaass der Natur in Lust, Leid und Erkenntniss, bis zum durchdringenden Schrei, laut wurde: denken wir uns, was diesem dämonischen Volksgesange gegenüber der psalmodirende Künstler des Apollo, mit dem gespensterhaften Harfenklange, bedeuten konnte! Die Musen der Künste des „Scheins“ verblassten vor einer Kunst, die in ihrem Rausche die Wahrheit sprach, die Weisheit des Silen rief Wehe! Wehe! aus gegen die heiteren Olympier. Das Individuum, mit allen seinen Grenzen und Maassen, ging hier in der Selbstvergessenheit der dionysischen Zustände unter und vergass die apollinischen Satzungen. Das Uebermaass enthüllte sich als Wahrheit, der Widerspruch, die aus Schmerzen geborene Wonne sprach von sich aus dem Herzen der Natur heraus. Und so war, überall dort, wo das Dionysische durchdrang, das Apollinische aufgehoben und vernichtet. Aber eben so gewiss ist, dass dort, wo der erste Ansturm ausgehalten wurde, das Ansehen und die Majestät des delphischen Gottes starrer und drohender als je sich äusserte. Ich vermag nämlich den dorischen Staat und die dorische Kunst mir nur als ein fortgesetztes Kriegslager des Apollinischen zu erklären: nur in einem unausgesetzten Widerstreben gegen das titanisch-barbarische Wesen des Dionysischen konnte eine so trotzig-spröde, mit Bollwerken umschlossene Kunst, eine so kriegsgemässe und herbe Erziehung, ein so grausames und rücksichtsloses Staatswesen von längerer Dauer sein.
Bis zu diesem Punkte ist des Weiteren ausgeführt worden, was ich am Eingange dieser Abhandlung bemerkte: wie das Dionysische und das Apollinische in immer neuen auf einander folgenden Geburten, und sich gegenseitig steigernd das hellenische Wesen beherrscht haben: wie aus dem „erzenen“ Zeitalter, mit seinen Titanenkämpfen und seiner herben Volksphilosophie, sich unter dem Walten des apollinischen Schönheitstriebes die homerische Welt entwickelt, wie diese „naive“ Herrlichkeit wieder von dem einbrechenden Strome des Dionysischen verschlungen wird, und wie dieser neuen Macht gegenüber sich das Apollinische zur starren Majestät der dorischen Kunst und Weltbetrachtung erhebt. Wenn auf diese Weise die ältere hellenische Geschichte, im Kampf jener zwei feindseligen Principien, in vier grosse Kunststufen zerfällt: so sind wir jetzt gedrängt, weiter nach dem letzten Plane dieses Werdens und Treibens zu fragen, falls uns nicht etwa die letzterreichte Periode, die der dorischen Kunst, als die Spitze und Absicht jener Kunsttriebe gelten sollte: und hier bietet sich unseren Blicken das erhabene und hochgepriesene Kunstwerk der attischen Tragödie und des dramatischen Dithyrambus, als das gemeinsame Ziel beider Triebe, deren geheimnissvolles Ehebündniss, nach langem vorhergehenden Kampfe, sich in einem solchen Kinde—das zugleich Antigone und Kassandra ist—verherrlicht hat.
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.
The analogy of dreams teaches us something about this naive artist. If we picture the dreamer calling out to himself, in the midst of the illusion of the dream-world and without disturbing it, “It is a dream; I want to keep dreaming it”; if from this we must infer a deep inner pleasure in beholding dreams; if, on the other hand, to be able to dream at all with this inner pleasure in seeing, we must have completely forgotten the day and its dreadful intrusiveness—then, under the guidance of Apollo the interpreter of dreams, we may interpret all these phenomena somewhat as follows. Certain as it is that, of the two halves of life, the waking and the dreaming half, the former seems to us incomparably preferable, more important, more worthy, more worth living, indeed the only half actually lived, I would nevertheless, despite every appearance of paradox, maintain precisely the opposite valuation of dreams for that mysterious ground of our being whose appearance we are. For the more I perceive in nature those all-powerful artistic drives, and in them an ardent longing for semblance, for redemption through semblance, the more I feel compelled toward the metaphysical assumption that the truly existent and primordial One, as the eternally suffering and contradictory, also needs the enchanting vision, the pleasurable semblance, for its continual redemption: a semblance that we, wholly caught within it and consisting of it, are compelled to experience as the truly nonexistent—that is, as a continual becoming in time, space, and causality, in other words, as empirical reality. If, then, we set aside our own “reality” for a moment and understand our empirical existence, like that of the world in general, as a representation of the primordial One generated at every moment, then the dream must now count for us as the semblance of semblance, and thus as a still higher satisfaction of the primordial desire for semblance. For this same reason, the innermost core of nature takes that indescribable pleasure in the naive artist and the naive artwork, which is likewise only “semblance of semblance.” Raphael, himself one of those immortal “naive” artists, has portrayed for us in a symbolic painting that reduction of semblance to semblance, the primordial process of the naive artist and of Apollonian culture alike. In his Transfiguration, the lower half, with the possessed boy, his despairing bearers, the helplessly frightened disciples, shows us the reflection of eternal primordial pain, the sole ground of the world: “semblance” here is the reflected glow of eternal contradiction, the father of things. From this semblance there now rises, like an ambrosial fragrance, a visionary new world of semblance, invisible to those caught in the first semblance—a radiant hovering in purest bliss and painless contemplation shining from wide-open eyes. Here, in the highest symbolism of art, we have before our eyes that Apollonian world of beauty and its foundation, the terrible wisdom of Silenus, and through intuition we grasp their mutual necessity. Apollo, however, confronts us once again as the deification of the principle of individuation, in which alone the eternally attained goal of the primordial One, its redemption through semblance, is accomplished: with sublime gestures he shows us how the whole world of torment is necessary so that through it the individual may be driven to produce the redeeming vision and then, absorbed in contemplating it, sit calmly in his rocking boat in the middle of the sea.
This deification of individuation, if it is conceived at all as imperative and prescriptive, knows only one law: the individual—that is, observance of the individual’s boundaries, measure in the Hellenic sense. Apollo, as an ethical deity, demands measure from his followers and, so that they may observe it, self-knowledge. Thus alongside the aesthetic necessity of beauty run the demands “Know yourself” and “Not too much!” while self-exaltation and excess were regarded as the truly hostile demons of the non-Apollonian sphere, and hence as qualities of the pre-Apollonian time, the age of Titans, and of the world outside the Apollonian, that is, the barbarian world. Because of his Titanic love for humanity, Prometheus had to be torn apart by vultures; because of his excessive wisdom, which solved the riddle of the Sphinx, Oedipus had to plunge into a bewildering whirlpool of atrocities: thus the Delphic god interpreted the Greek past.
The effect aroused by the Dionysian also seemed “Titanic” and “barbaric” to the Apollonian Greek, though he could not conceal from himself that he was at the same time inwardly akin to those overthrown Titans and heroes. Indeed, he had to feel still more: his entire existence, with all its beauty and moderation, rested on a veiled foundation of suffering and knowledge, which that Dionysian power laid bare to him again. And look! Apollo could not live without Dionysus! The “Titanic” and the “barbaric” were ultimately just as necessary as the Apollonian! And now let us imagine how the ecstatic sound of the Dionysian festival rang into this world built on semblance and moderation and artificially dammed up, in ever more enticing, magical strains; how in these strains the whole excess of nature in pleasure, suffering, and knowledge grew audible, rising to a piercing scream: let us imagine what the psalm-chanting artist of Apollo, with the ghostly sound of his harp, could amount to beside this demonic popular song! The Muses of the arts of “semblance” grew pale before an art that spoke the truth in its intoxication; the wisdom of Silenus cried “Woe! Woe!” against the cheerful Olympians. The individual, with all his boundaries and measures, perished here in the self-forgetfulness of Dionysian states and forgot the Apollonian laws. Excess revealed itself as truth; contradiction, bliss born from pain, spoke of itself from the heart of nature. And so, wherever the Dionysian broke through, the Apollonian was suspended and annihilated. Yet it is just as certain that wherever the first assault was withstood, the prestige and majesty of the Delphic god expressed themselves more rigidly and menacingly than ever. For I can explain the Doric state and Doric art to myself only as a permanent military encampment of the Apollonian: only in unremitting resistance to the Titanic-barbaric essence of the Dionysian could so defiantly austere an art, enclosed by ramparts, so martial and harsh an education, so cruel and ruthless a state endure for long.
Up to this point we have developed further what I observed at the opening of this essay: how the Dionysian and the Apollonian ruled the Hellenic character in ever-new, successive births, each intensifying the other; how out of the “bronze” age, with its battles of Titans and its harsh folk philosophy, the Homeric world developed under the sway of the Apollonian drive for beauty; how this “naive” splendor was swallowed up again by the invading flood of the Dionysian; and how, confronting this new power, the Apollonian rose to the rigid majesty of Doric art and its view of the world. If in this way the earlier history of the Hellenes, in the struggle of those two hostile principles, falls into four great stages of art, we are now compelled to ask further about the ultimate design of this becoming and striving, unless we are to regard the last period attained, that of Doric art, as the summit and purpose of those artistic drives. And here the sublime and highly praised artwork of Attic tragedy and the dramatic dithyramb presents itself to our eyes as the shared goal of both drives, whose mysterious marriage, after a long preceding struggle, has glorified itself in such a child—who is at once Antigone and Cassandra.
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.
The analogy with dreams teaches us something about this naive artist. Picture a dreamer who, in the middle of the illusion of the dream world and without disturbing it, calls to himself: “It is a dream; I want to keep dreaming it.” From this we must infer a deep inner pleasure in looking at dreams. On the other hand, to dream at all with this inner pleasure in looking, we must have completely forgotten the day and its terrible intrusiveness. Under the guidance of Apollo, the interpreter of dreams, we may explain all these phenomena roughly as follows. Of life’s two halves, waking and dreaming, we certainly think the first far more preferable, important, worthy, and worth living—indeed, the only half really lived. Yet, however paradoxical it may seem, I would assert, for that mysterious ground of our being whose appearance we are, precisely the opposite valuation of the dream. The more I see those all-powerful artistic drives in nature, and in them a passionate longing for semblance, for deliverance through semblance, the more I feel driven to a metaphysical assumption. What truly exists, the primal unity, as that which eternally suffers and is full of contradictions, also needs the enchanting vision, the pleasurable semblance, for its continual deliverance. We, completely caught in this semblance and made up of it, are compelled to experience it as what truly does not exist: that is, as a constant becoming in time, space, and causality, or, in other words, as empirical reality. Let us therefore set aside our own “reality” for a moment. Let us understand our existence as we experience it, and that of the world in general, as a representation produced by the primal unity at every moment. Then we must now regard the dream as the semblance of semblance, and therefore as an even higher satisfaction of the primal desire for semblance. For this same reason, nature’s innermost core takes that indescribable pleasure in the naive artist and the naive artwork, which is likewise only “semblance of semblance.” Raphael, himself one of those immortal “naive” artists, showed us in a symbolic painting how semblance is taken down one level into semblance: the primal process of the naive artist and also of Apollonian culture. In his Transfiguration, the lower half, with the possessed boy, the despairing bearers, and the helpless, frightened disciples, shows us the reflection of eternal primal pain, the world’s only ground. Here “semblance” is the reflection of eternal contradiction, the father of things. Out of this semblance a new, vision-like world of semblance rises like an ambrosial fragrance. Those caught in the first semblance see nothing of it: a radiant floating in the purest bliss and a painless contemplation shining from wide-open eyes. Here, in the highest artistic symbolism, we have before our eyes that Apollonian world of beauty and its foundation, the terrible wisdom of Silenus. Through intuition, we grasp their mutual necessity. But Apollo once again appears to us as the principle of individuation made divine. Only in this principle is the eternally achieved goal of the primal unity, its deliverance through semblance, fulfilled. With grand gestures he shows us how the whole world of torment is needed, so that it drives the individual to produce the vision that delivers him. Then, absorbed in looking at it, the individual sits calmly in his rocking boat in the middle of the sea.
Treating individuation as divine, if we think of this as issuing commands and rules at all, means recognizing only one law: the individual. That means keeping within the individual’s boundaries, measure in the Greek sense. As an ethical god, Apollo demands measure from his followers, and self-knowledge so that they can keep to it. So alongside the aesthetic necessity of beauty run the demands “Know yourself” and “Not too much!” Self-conceit and excess, meanwhile, were regarded as the truly hostile spirits of the non-Apollonian sphere, and therefore as qualities of the pre-Apollonian age, the age of the Titans, and of the world outside the Apollonian, the world of barbarians. Because of his Titanic love for human beings, Prometheus had to be torn apart by vultures. Because of his excessive wisdom, which solved the Sphinx’s riddle, Oedipus had to plunge into a bewildering whirlpool of crimes. This was how the Delphic god interpreted the Greek past.
The Apollonian Greek also thought the effect produced by the Dionysian was “Titanic” and “barbaric.” Yet he could not hide from himself that he was also inwardly related to those overthrown Titans and heroes. Indeed, he had to feel something more: his whole existence, with all its beauty and moderation, rested on a hidden foundation of suffering and knowledge, which the Dionysian revealed to him again. And look! Apollo could not live without Dionysus! The “Titanic” and the “barbaric” were ultimately just as necessary as the Apollonian! Now imagine the ecstatic sound of the Dionysian celebration entering this world built on semblance and moderation and held in check by artifice, in ever more enticing, magical melodies. Imagine all the excess of nature in pleasure, suffering, and knowledge sounding out in them, rising to a piercing scream. What could Apollo’s chanting artist, with his ghostly harp music, amount to beside this demonic song of the people? The Muses of the arts of “semblance” grew pale before an art that spoke the truth in its intoxication. The wisdom of Silenus cried out “Misery! Misery!” against the cheerful Olympians. Here the individual, with all his limits and measures, sank into the self-forgetfulness of Dionysian states and forgot Apollo’s rules. Excess revealed itself as truth. Contradiction, bliss born from pain, spoke of itself from the heart of nature. And so, wherever the Dionysian broke through, the Apollonian was canceled and destroyed. But it is just as certain that wherever the first assault was withstood, the Delphic god’s authority and majesty expressed themselves more rigidly and threateningly than ever. I can explain the Doric state and Doric art only as a permanent armed camp of the Apollonian. Only through unceasing resistance to the Titanic-barbaric nature of the Dionysian could such a defiantly unyielding art, enclosed in fortifications, such a warlike and harsh education, and such a cruel and ruthless state endure for long.
Up to this point, we have developed in more detail what I noted at the beginning of this essay: how the Dionysian and the Apollonian ruled Greek life through ever new, successive births, each intensifying the other. Under the rule of the Apollonian drive for beauty, the Homeric world developed out of the “bronze” age, with its battles of Titans and its harsh folk philosophy. This “naive” splendor was swallowed in turn by the flooding stream of the Dionysian. In opposition to this new power, the Apollonian rose to the rigid majesty of Doric art and its view of the world. In this way, the earlier history of Greece, through the struggle of these two hostile principles, falls into four great artistic stages. Unless we regard the last period reached, the period of Doric art, as the peak and purpose of these artistic drives, we are now pushed to ask further about the ultimate plan behind this becoming and activity. Here the magnificent and highly praised artwork of Attic tragedy and the dramatic dithyramb presents itself to our eyes as the shared goal of both drives. After a long earlier struggle, their mysterious marriage glorified itself in such a child—who is both Antigone and Cassandra.
About this section
Section 4 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 12 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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