Section 6
Original German
In Betreff des Archilochus hat die gelehrte Forschung entdeckt, dass er das Volkslied in die Litteratur eingeführt habe, und dass ihm, dieser That halber, jene einzige Stellung neben Homer, in der allgemeinen Schätzung der Griechen zukomme. Was aber ist das Volkslied im Gegensatz zu dem völlig apollinischen Epos? Was anders als das perpetuum vestigium einer Vereinigung des Apollinischen und des Dionysischen; seine ungeheure, über alle Völker sich erstreckende und in immer neuen Geburten sich steigernde Verbreitung ist uns ein Zeugniss dafür, wie stark jener künstlerische Doppeltrieb der Natur ist: der in analoger Weise seine Spuren im Volkslied hinterlässt, wie die orgiastischen Bewegungen eines Volkes sich in seiner Musik verewigen. Ja es müsste auch historisch nachweisbar sein, wie jede an Volksliedern reich productive Periode zugleich auf das Stärkste durch dionysische Strömungen erregt worden ist, welche wir immer als Untergrund und Voraussetzung des Volksliedes zu betrachten haben.
Das Volkslied aber gilt uns zu allernächst als musikalischer Weltspiegel, als ursprüngliche Melodie, die sich jetzt eine parallele Traumerscheinung sucht und diese in der Dichtung ausspricht. Die Melodie ist also das Erste und Allgemeine, das deshalb auch mehrere Objectivationen, in mehreren Texten, an sich erleiden kann. Sie ist auch das bei weitem wichtigere und nothwendigere in der naiven Schätzung des Volkes. Die Melodie gebiert die Dichtung aus sich und zwar immer wieder von Neuem; nichts Anderes will uns die Strophenform des Volksliedes sagen: welches Phänomen ich immer mit Erstaunen betrachtet habe, bis ich endlich diese Erklärung fand. Wer eine Sammlung von Volksliedern z.B. des Knaben Wunderhorn auf diese Theorie hin ansieht, der wird unzählige Beispiele finden, wie die fortwährend gebärende Melodie Bilderfunken um sich aussprüht: die in ihrer Buntheit, ihrem jähen Wechsel, ja ihrem tollen Sichüberstürzen eine dem epischen Scheine und seinem ruhigen Fortströmen wildfremde Kraft offenbaren. Vom Standpunkte des Epos ist diese ungleiche und unregelmässige Bilderwelt der Lyrik einfach zu verurtheilen: und dies haben gewiss die feierlichen epischen Rhapsoden der apollinischen Feste im Zeitalter des Terpander gethan.
In der Dichtung des Volksliedes sehen wir also die Sprache auf das Stärkste angespannt, die Musik nachzuahmen: deshalb beginnt mit Archilochus eine neue Welt der Poesie, die der homerischen in ihrem tiefsten Grunde widerspricht. Hiermit haben wir das einzig mögliche Verhältniss zwischen Poesie und Musik, Wort und Ton bezeichnet: das Wort, das Bild, der Begriff sucht einen der Musik analogen Ausdruck und erleidet jetzt die Gewalt der Musik an sich. In diesem Sinne dürfen wir in der Sprachgeschichte des griechischen Volkes zwei Hauptströmungen unterscheiden, jenachdem die Sprache die Erscheinungs- und Bilderwelt oder die Musikwelt nachahmte. Man denke nur einmal tiefer über die sprachliche Differenz der Farbe, des syntaktischen Bau's, des Wortmaterial's bei Homer und Pindar nach, um die Bedeutung dieses Gegensatzes zu begreifen; ja es wird Einem dabei handgreiflich deutlich, dass zwischen Homer und Pindar die orgiastischen Flötenweisen des Olympus erklungen sein müssen, die noch im Zeitalter des Aristoteles, inmitten einer unendlich entwickelteren Musik, zu trunkner Begeisterung hinrissen und gewiss in ihrer ursprünglichen Wirkung alle dichterischen Ausdrucksmittel der gleichzeitigen Menschen zur Nachahmung aufgereizt haben. Ich erinnere hier an ein bekanntes, unserer Aesthetik nur anstössig dünkendes Phänomen unserer Tage. Wir erleben es immer wieder, wie eine Beethoven'sche Symphonie die einzelnen Zuhörer zu einer Bilderrede nöthigt, sei es auch dass eine Zusammenstellung der verschiedenen, durch ein Tonstück erzeugten Bilderwelten sich recht phantastisch bunt, ja widersprechend ausnimmt: an solchen Zusammenstellungen ihren armen Witz zu üben und das doch wahrlich erklärenswerthe Phänomen zu übersehen, ist recht in der Art jener Aesthetik. Ja selbst wenn der Tondichter in Bildern über eine Composition geredet hat, etwa wenn er eine Symphonie als pastorale und einen Satz als „Scene am Bach“, einen anderen als „lustiges Zusammensein der Landleute“ bezeichnet, so sind das ebenfalls nur gleichnissartige, aus der Musik geborne Vorstellungen—und nicht etwa die nachgeahmten Gegenstände der Musik—Vorstellungen, die über den dionysischen Inhalt der Musik uns nach keiner Seite hin belehren können, ja die keinen ausschliesslichen Werth neben anderen Bildern haben. Diesen Prozess einer Entladung der Musik in Bildern haben wir uns nun auf eine jugendfrische, sprachlich schöpferische Volksmenge zu übertragen, um zur Ahnung zu kommen, wie das strophische Volkslied entsteht, und wie das ganze Sprachvermögen durch das neue Princip der Nachahmung der Musik aufgeregt wird.
Dürfen wir also die lyrische Dichtung als die nachahmende Effulguration der Musik in Bildern und Begriffen betrachten, so können wir jetzt fragen: „als was erscheint die Musik im Spiegel der Bildlichkeit und der Begriffe?“ Sie erscheint als Wille, das Wort im Schopenhauerischen Sinne genommen, d.h. als Gegensatz der aesthetischen, rein beschaulichen willenlosen Stimmung. Hier unterscheide man nun so scharf als möglich den Begriff des Wesens von dem der Erscheinung: denn die Musik kann, ihrem Wesen nach, unmöglich Wille sein, weil sie als solcher gänzlich aus dem Bereich der Kunst zu bannen wäre—denn der Wille ist das an sich Unaesthetische—; aber sie erscheint als Wille. Denn um ihre Erscheinung in Bildern auszudrücken, braucht der Lyriker alle Regungen der Leidenschaft, vom Flüstern der Neigung bis zum Grollen des Wahnsinns; unter dem Triebe, in apollinischen Gleichnissen von der Musik zu reden, versteht er die ganze Natur und sich in ihr nur als das ewig Wollende, Begehrende, Sehnende. Insofern er aber die Musik in Bildern deutet, ruht er selbst in der stillen Meeresruhe der apollinischen Betrachtung, so sehr auch alles, was er durch das Medium der Musik anschaut, um ihn herum in drängender und treibender Bewegung ist. Ja wenn er sich selbst durch dasselbe Medium erblickt, so zeigt sich ihm sein eignes Bild im Zustande des unbefriedigten Gefühls: sein eignes Wollen, Sehnen, Stöhnen, Jauchzen ist ihm ein Gleichniss, mit dem er die Musik sich deutet. Dies ist das Phänomen des Lyrikers: als apollinischer Genius interpretirt er die Musik durch das Bild des Willens, während er selbst, völlig losgelöst von der Gier des Willens, reines ungetrübtes Sonnenauge ist.
Diese ganze Erörterung hält daran fest, dass die Lyrik eben so abhängig ist vom Geiste der Musik als die Musik selbst, in ihrer völligen Unumschränktheit, das Bild und den Begriff nicht braucht, sondern ihn nur neben sich erträgt. Die Dichtung des Lyrikers kann nichts aussagen, was nicht in der ungeheuersten Allgemeinheit und Allgültigkeit bereits in der Musik lag, die ihn zur Bilderrede nöthigte. Der Weltsymbolik der Musik ist eben deshalb mit der Sprache auf keine Weise erschöpfend beizukommen, weil sie sich auf den Urwiderspruch und Urschmerz im Herzen des Ur-Einen symbolisch bezieht, somit eine Sphäre symbolisirt, die über alle Erscheinung und vor aller Erscheinung ist. Ihr gegenüber ist vielmehr jede Erscheinung nur Gleichniss: daher kann die Sprache, als Organ und Symbol der Erscheinungen, nie und nirgends das tiefste Innere der Musik nach Aussen kehren, sondern bleibt immer, sobald sie sich auf Nachahmung der Musik einlässt, nur in einer äusserlichen Berührung mit der Musik, während deren tiefster Sinn, durch alle lyrische Beredsamkeit, uns auch keinen Schritt näher gebracht werden kann.
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.
Regarding Archilochus, scholarly research has discovered that he introduced the folk song into literature, and that on account of this deed he holds that unique place beside Homer in the general esteem of the Greeks. But what is the folk song, as opposed to the wholly Apollonian epic? What else but the perpetual trace of a union of the Apollonian and the Dionysian? Its immense diffusion, spread over all peoples and swelling in ever new births, is for us a testimony to how strong that twofold artistic drive of nature is—a drive that leaves its traces in the folk song in the same way that the orgiastic movements of a people immortalize themselves in its music. Indeed, it would also have to be demonstrable historically that every period rich in productive folk songs was at the same time stirred most powerfully by Dionysian currents, which we must always regard as the ground and presupposition of the folk song.
The folk song, however, counts for us first and foremost as a musical mirror of the world, as primal melody, which now seeks out a parallel dream appearance for itself and speaks it forth in poetry. Melody is therefore the first and universal thing, which for that very reason can undergo several objectifications, in several texts. In the naive estimation of the people it is also by far the more important and the more necessary element. Melody gives birth to poetry out of itself, and does so again and again, ever anew; nothing else is what the strophic form of the folk song wants to tell us—a phenomenon I always regarded with astonishment until I finally found this explanation. Anyone who looks through a collection of folk songs, Des Knaben Wunderhorn for instance, with this theory in mind will find countless examples of how the ceaselessly birthing melody sprays sparks of images around itself, which in their motley colors, their abrupt changes, even their mad tumbling over one another reveal a force utterly alien to epic semblance and its calm onward flow. From the standpoint of the epic, this uneven and irregular world of images in lyric is simply to be condemned; and this is surely what the solemn epic rhapsodes at the Apollonian festivals in the age of Terpander did.
In the poetry of the folk song, then, we see language strained to the utmost to imitate music; and so with Archilochus a new world of poetry begins, one that contradicts the Homeric at its deepest root. With this we have named the only possible relation between poetry and music, word and tone: the word, the image, the concept seeks an expression analogous to music and now suffers the power of music upon itself. In this sense we may distinguish two main currents in the linguistic history of the Greek people, according to whether language imitated the world of appearances and images or the world of music. One need only reflect more deeply on the linguistic differences of color, of syntactic structure, of vocabulary between Homer and Pindar to grasp the significance of this opposition; indeed, it becomes palpably clear that between Homer and Pindar the orgiastic flute melodies of Olympus must have sounded—melodies that even in the age of Aristotle, amid a vastly more developed music, still swept people away into drunken rapture and surely, in their original effect, provoked every poetic means of expression of the people of that time to imitation. I recall here a familiar phenomenon of our own day, one that our aesthetics finds merely offensive. Again and again we experience how a Beethoven symphony compels individual listeners to speak in images, even if an assemblage of the various worlds of images produced by a single piece of music looks quite fantastically motley, even contradictory. To exercise one’s poor wit on such assemblages while overlooking a phenomenon that is surely worth explaining is exactly in the manner of that aesthetics. Indeed, even when the tone-poet himself has spoken about a composition in images—when, say, he calls a symphony pastoral, and one movement “Scene by the Brook,” another “Merry Gathering of Country Folk”—these too are merely figurative representations born out of the music, and not at all the imitated objects of music—representations that can teach us nothing whatever about the Dionysian content of music, and that have no exclusive worth beside other images. We must now transfer this process of music discharging itself in images to a youthfully fresh, linguistically creative multitude, in order to get an inkling of how the strophic folk song arises, and how the whole faculty of language is stirred up by the new principle of imitating music.
If we may therefore regard lyric poetry as the imitative effulguration of music in images and concepts, we can now ask: “As what does music appear in the mirror of imagery and concepts?” It appears as will, the word taken in Schopenhauer’s sense, that is, as the opposite of the aesthetic, purely contemplative, will-less state of mind. Here one must now distinguish as sharply as possible the concept of essence from that of appearance: for music, in its essence, cannot possibly be will, because as such it would have to be banished entirely from the realm of art—for the will is that which is in itself unaesthetic—; but it appears as will. For in order to express its appearance in images, the lyric poet needs every stirring of passion, from the whisper of fondness to the rumble of madness; driven by the urge to speak of music in Apollonian similes, he understands all of nature, and himself within it, only as the eternally willing, desiring, yearning. But insofar as he interprets music in images, he himself rests in the still sea-calm of Apollonian contemplation, however much everything he beholds through the medium of music may be in urgent, driving motion around him. Indeed, when he catches sight of himself through that same medium, his own image shows itself to him in a state of unsatisfied feeling: his own willing, yearning, groaning, exulting is a simile by which he interprets music to himself. This is the phenomenon of the lyric poet: as an Apollonian genius he interprets music through the image of the will, while he himself, wholly released from the greed of the will, is a pure, untroubled sun-eye.
This whole discussion holds fast to the claim that lyric is just as dependent on the spirit of music as music itself, in its complete unrestrictedness, does not need image and concept but merely tolerates them beside itself. The poetry of the lyric poet can say nothing that did not already lie, in the most immense generality and universal validity, in the music that compelled him to speak in images. The world-symbolism of music can by no means be exhaustively grasped through language, precisely because it refers symbolically to the primal contradiction and primal pain in the heart of the primordial One, and thus symbolizes a sphere that lies above all appearance and before all appearance. Measured against it, every appearance is rather only a simile: and so language, as the organ and symbol of appearances, can never and nowhere turn the innermost depth of music outward, but remains, as soon as it engages in imitating music, only in an external contact with it, while music’s deepest meaning cannot be brought one step nearer to us by all lyrical eloquence.
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.
As for Archilochus, scholarly research has found that he introduced the folk song into literature, and that because of this deed he holds his unique place beside Homer in the general esteem of the Greeks. But what is the folk song, as opposed to the thoroughly Apollonian epic? It is nothing other than the lasting trace of a union of the Apollonian and the Dionysian. Its enormous spread across all peoples, growing through ever new births, is evidence for us of how strong that double artistic drive of nature is. This drive leaves its traces in the folk song in the same way that the orgiastic movements of a people make themselves permanent in its music. Indeed, it would also have to be provable historically that every period rich in folk songs was at the same time stirred most powerfully by Dionysian currents. We must always regard these currents as the underlying ground and precondition of the folk song.
For us, though, the folk song counts first of all as a musical mirror of the world, as original melody that now looks for a parallel dream appearance and expresses it in poetry. So melody is the first and universal thing, and for that reason it can undergo several objectifications, in several texts. In the simple judgment of the people it is also by far the more important and the more necessary part. Melody gives birth to poetry out of itself, and does so again and again. This is all that the stanza form of the folk song wants to tell us. I always looked at this phenomenon with astonishment, until I finally found this explanation. Whoever examines a collection of folk songs from this point of view, for example The Boy’s Magic Horn, will find countless examples of how the continually birthing melody sprays sparks of images around itself. In their colorfulness, their sudden changes, even their mad tumbling over one another, these images reveal a force utterly foreign to epic semblance and its calm flowing on. From the standpoint of the epic, this uneven and irregular world of images in lyric poetry can simply be condemned. And the solemn epic rhapsodes of the Apollonian festivals in the age of Terpander certainly did condemn it.
In the poetry of the folk song, then, we see language strained to the utmost to imitate music. That is why a new world of poetry begins with Archilochus, one that contradicts the Homeric world at its deepest ground. With this we have named the only possible relationship between poetry and music, word and tone: the word, the image, the concept looks for an expression analogous to music, and now suffers the force of music itself. In this sense we may distinguish two main currents in the history of the Greek language, depending on whether the language imitated the world of appearances and images or the world of music. One only needs to think more deeply about the linguistic difference in coloring, sentence structure, and vocabulary between Homer and Pindar to grasp the meaning of this opposition. It even becomes tangibly clear that between Homer and Pindar the orgiastic flute melodies of Olympus must have sounded. Even in the age of Aristotle, in the midst of an infinitely more developed music, they still swept people away into drunken enthusiasm. And in their original effect they certainly provoked all the poetic means of expression of the people of that time to imitate them. Here I recall a familiar phenomenon of our own day, one that our aesthetics finds merely offensive. Again and again we see how a Beethoven symphony forces individual listeners to speak in images. A comparison of the different worlds of images that a single piece of music produces may look quite fantastically colorful, even contradictory. But to exercise one’s poor wit on such comparisons, and to overlook the phenomenon, which truly deserves an explanation, is exactly in the manner of that aesthetics. Even when the composer himself has spoken about a composition in images—for example, when he calls a symphony pastoral, one movement “Scene at the Brook,” and another “Merry Gathering of Country Folk”—these are likewise only ideas that are likenesses, born from the music—and not, say, the imitated objects of the music—ideas that cannot teach us anything about the Dionysian content of the music, and that have no exclusive value beside other images. We must now transfer this process of music discharging itself in images to a youthfully fresh, linguistically creative crowd of people, in order to get an inkling of how the strophic folk song arises and how the whole power of language is stirred up by the new principle of imitating music.
If we may regard lyric poetry as the imitative shining forth of music in images and concepts, we can now ask: “What does music appear as in the mirror of imagery and concepts?” It appears as will, taking the word in Schopenhauer’s sense, that is, as the opposite of the aesthetic mood, which is purely contemplative and free of will. Here we must distinguish, as sharply as possible, the concept of essence from the concept of appearance. For music, in its essence, cannot possibly be will, because as will it would have to be banished completely from the realm of art—for will is what is unaesthetic in itself. But it appears as will. To express its appearance in images, the lyric poet needs every stirring of passion, from the whisper of affection to the rumble of madness. Under the urge to speak about music in Apollonian likenesses, he understands all of nature, and himself within it, only as that which eternally wills, desires, and longs. But insofar as he interprets music in images, he himself rests in the quiet calm of the sea that belongs to Apollonian contemplation, however much everything he sees through the medium of music is in pressing, driving motion around him. Indeed, when he catches sight of himself through the same medium, his own image shows itself to him in a state of unsatisfied feeling. His own willing, longing, groaning, and rejoicing is a likeness by which he interprets music to himself. This is the phenomenon of the lyric poet: as an Apollonian genius he interprets music through the image of will, while he himself, completely released from the craving of will, is a pure, untroubled eye of the sun.
This whole discussion insists that lyric poetry depends on the spirit of music just as much as music itself, in its complete boundlessness, does not need the image and the concept but only tolerates them beside itself. The lyric poet’s poetry can say nothing that was not already contained, in the greatest possible generality and universal validity, in the music that forced him to speak in images. For this very reason, the world symbolism of music can in no way be fully captured in language. Music refers symbolically to the primal contradiction and primal pain in the heart of the primal unity, and so it symbolizes a sphere that is above all appearance and before all appearance. Compared with it, every appearance is rather only a likeness. So language, as the organ and symbol of appearances, can never and nowhere turn the innermost depth of music outward. Whenever language takes up the imitation of music, it stays in only an external contact with music, while the deepest meaning of music cannot be brought one step closer to us by all lyrical eloquence.
About this section
Section 6 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 14 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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