Section 10
Original German
Es ist eine unanfechtbare Ueberlieferung, dass die griechische Tragödie in ihrer ältesten Gestalt nur die Leiden des Dionysus zum Gegenstand hatte und dass der längere Zeit hindurch einzig vorhandene Bühnenheld eben Dionysus war. Aber mit der gleichen Sicherheit darf behauptet werden, dass niemals bis auf Euripides Dionysus aufgehört hat, der tragische Held zu sein, sondern dass alle die berühmten Figuren der griechischen Bühne Prometheus, Oedipus u. s. w. nur Masken jenes ursprünglichen Helden Dionysus sind. Dass hinter allen diesen Masken eine Gottheit steckt, das ist der eine wesentliche Grund für die so oft angestaunte typische „Idealität“ jener berühmten Figuren. Es hat ich weiss nicht wer behauptet, dass alle Individuen als Individuen komisch und damit untragisch seien: woraus zu entnehmen wäre, dass die Griechen überhaupt Individuen auf der tragischen Bühne nicht ertragen konnten. In der That scheinen sie so empfunden zu haben: wie überhaupt jene platonische Unterscheidung und Werthabschätzung der „Idee“ im Gegensatze zum „Idol“ zum Abbild tief im hellenischen Wesen begründet liegt. Um uns aber der Terminologie Plato's zu bedienen, so wäre von den tragischen Gestalten der hellenischen Bühne etwa so zu reden: der eine wahrhaft reale Dionysus erscheint in einer Vielheit der Gestalten, in der Maske eines kämpfenden Helden und gleichsam in das Netz des Einzelwillens verstrickt. So wie jetzt der erscheinende Gott redet und handelt, ähnelt er einem irrenden strebenden leidenden Individuum: und dass er überhaupt mit dieser epischen Bestimmtheit und Deutlichkeit erscheint, ist die Wirkung des Traumdeuters Apollo, der dem Chore seinen dionysischen Zustand durch jene gleichnissartige Erscheinung deutet. In Wahrheit aber ist jener Held der leidende Dionysus der Mysterien, jener die Leiden der Individuation an sich erfahrende Gott, von dem wundervolle Mythen erzählen, wie er als Knabe von den Titanen zerstückelt worden sei und nun in diesem Zustande als Zagreus verehrt werde: wobei angedeutet wird, dass diese Zerstückelung, das eigentlich dionysische Leiden, gleich einer Umwandlung in Luft, Wasser, Erde und Feuer sei, dass wir also den Zustand der Individuation als den Quell und Urgrund alles Leidens, als etwas an sich Verwerfliches, zu betrachten hätten. Aus dem Lächeln dieses Dionysus sind die olympischen Götter, aus seinen Thränen die Menschen entstanden. In jener Existenz als zerstückelter Gott hat Dionysus die Doppelnatur eines grausamen verwilderten Dämons und eines milden sanftmüthigen Herrschers. Die Hoffnung der Epopten ging aber auf eine Wiedergeburt des Dionysus, die wir jetzt als das Ende der Individuation ahnungsvoll zu begreifen haben: diesem kommenden dritten Dionysus erscholl der brausende Jubelgesang der Epopten. Und nur in dieser Hoffnung giebt es einen Strahl von Freude auf dem Antlitze der zerrissenen, in Individuen zertrümmerten Welt: wie es der Mythus durch die in ewige Trauer versenkte Demeter verbildlicht, welche zum ersten Male wieder sich freut, als man ihr sagt, sie könne den Dionysus noch einmal gebären. In den angeführten Anschauungen haben wir bereits alle Bestandtheile einer tiefsinnigen und pessimistischen Weltbetrachtung und zugleich damit die Mysterienlehre der Tragödie zusammen: die Grunderkenntniss von der Einheit alles Vorhandenen, die Betrachtung der Individuation als des Urgrundes des Uebels, die Kunst als die freudige Hoffnung, dass der Bann der Individuation zu zerbrechen sei, als die Ahnung einer wiederhergestellten Einheit. —
Es ist früher angedeutet worden, dass das homerische Epos die Dichtung der olympischen Cultur ist, mit der sie ihr eignes Siegeslied über die Schrecken des Titanenkampfes gesungen hat. Jetzt, unter dem übermächtigen Einflusse der tragischen Dichtung, werden die homerischen Mythen von Neuem umgeboren und zeigen in dieser Metempsychose, dass inzwischen auch die olympische Cultur von einer noch tieferen Weltbetrachtung besiegt worden ist. Der trotzige Titan Prometheus hat es seinem olympischen Peiniger angekündigt, dass einst seiner Herrschaft die höchste Gefahr drohe, falls er nicht zur rechten Zeit sich mit ihm verbinden werde. In Aeschylus erkennen wir das Bündniss des erschreckten, vor seinem Ende bangenden Zeus mit dem Titanen. So wird das frühere Titanenzeitalter nachträglich wieder aus dem Tartarus ans Licht geholt. Die Philosophie der wilden und nackten Natur schaut die vorübertanzenden Mythen der homerischen Welt mit der unverhüllten Miene der Wahrheit an: sie erbleichen, sie zittern vor dem blitzartigen Auge dieser Göttin — bis sie die mächtige Faust des dionysischen Künstlers in den Dienst der neuen Gottheit zwingt. Die dionysische Wahrheit übernimmt das gesammte Bereich des Mythus als Symbolik ihrer Erkenntnisse und spricht diese theils in dem öffentlichen Cultus der Tragödie, theils in den geheimen Begehungen dramatischer Mysterienfeste, aber immer unter der alten mythischen Hülle aus. Welche Kraft war dies, die den Prometheus von seinen Geiern befreite und den Mythus zum Vehikel dionysischer Weisheit umwandelte? Dies ist die heraklesmässige Kraft der Musik: als welche, in der Tragödie zu ihrer höchsten Erscheinung gekommen, den Mythus mit neuer tiefsinnigster Bedeutsamkeit zu interpretiren weiss; wie wir dies als das mächtigste Vermögen der Musik früher schon zu charakterisiren hatten. Denn es ist das Loos jedes Mythus, allmählich in die Enge einer angeblich historischen Wirklichkeit hineinzukriechen und von irgend einer späteren Zeit als einmaliges Factum mit historischen Ansprüchen behandelt zu werden: und die Griechen waren bereits völlig auf dem Wege, ihren ganzen mythischen Jugendtraum mit Scharfsinn und Willkür in eine historisch-pragmatische Jugendgeschichte umzustempeln. Denn dies ist die Art, wie Religionen abzusterben pflegen: wenn nämlich die mythischen Voraussetzungen einer Religion unter den strengen, verstandesmässigen Augen eines rechtgläubigen Dogmatismus als eine fertige Summe von historischen Ereignissen systematisirt werden und man anfängt, ängstlich die Glaubwürdigkeit der Mythen zu vertheidigen, aber gegen jedes natürliche Weiterleben und Weiterwuchern derselben sich zu sträuben, wenn also das Gefühl für den Mythus abstirbt und an seine Stelle der Anspruch der Religion auf historische Grundlagen tritt. Diesen absterbenden Mythus ergriff jetzt der neugeborne Genius der dionysischen Musik: und in seiner Hand blühte er noch einmal, mit Farben, wie er sie noch nie gezeigt, mit einem Duft, der eine sehnsüchtige Ahnung einer metaphysischen Welt erregte. Nach diesem letzten Aufglänzen fällt er zusammen, seine Blätter werden welk, und bald haschen die spöttischen Luciane des Alterthums nach den von allen Winden fortgetragnen, entfärbten und verwüsteten Blumen. Durch die Tragödie kommt der Mythus zu seinem tiefsten Inhalt, seiner ausdrucksvollsten Form; noch einmal erhebt er sich, wie ein verwundeter Held, und der ganze Ueberschuss von Kraft, sammt der weisheitsvollen Ruhe des Sterbenden, brennt in seinem Auge mit letztem, mächtigem Leuchten.
Was wolltest du, frevelnder Euripides, als du diesen Sterbenden noch einmal zu deinem Frohndienste zu zwingen suchtest? Er starb unter deinen gewaltsamen Händen: und jetzt brauchtest du einen nachgemachten, maskirten Mythus, der sich wie der Affe des Herakles mit dem alten Prunke nur noch aufzuputzen wusste. Und wie dir der Mythus starb, so starb dir auch der Genius der Musik: mochtest du auch mit gierigem Zugreifen alle Gärten der Musik plündern, auch so brachtest du es nur zu einer nachgemachten maskirten Musik. Und weil du Dionysus verlassen, so verliess dich auch Apollo; jage alle Leidenschaften von ihrem Lager auf und banne sie in deinen Kreis, spitze und feile dir für die Reden deiner Helden eine sophistische Dialektik zurecht — auch deine Helden haben nur nachgeahmte maskirte Leidenschaften und sprechen nur nachgeahmte maskirte Reden.
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.
It is an unassailable tradition that Greek tragedy in its oldest form had only the sufferings of Dionysus for its subject, and that for a long time the only stage hero in existence was precisely Dionysus. But with the same certainty it may be asserted that right up to Euripides Dionysus never ceased to be the tragic hero, and that all the famous figures of the Greek stage—Prometheus, Oedipus, and so forth—are only masks of that original hero Dionysus. That a deity lurks behind all these masks is the one essential reason for the typical “ideality” of those famous figures, so often marveled at. Someone—I don’t know who—has claimed that all individuals as individuals are comic and therefore untragic: from which one would have to conclude that the Greeks were altogether unable to bear individuals on the tragic stage. In fact they seem to have felt that way: just as, in general, that Platonic distinction and valuation of the “idea” as opposed to the “idol,” the image, lies deeply grounded in the Hellenic nature. But to make use of Plato’s terminology, we might speak of the tragic figures of the Hellenic stage roughly like this: the one truly real Dionysus appears in a multiplicity of figures, in the mask of a struggling hero and, as it were, entangled in the net of the individual will. As the appearing god now speaks and acts, he resembles an erring, striving, suffering individual: and that he appears at all with this epic definiteness and clarity is the effect of Apollo, the interpreter of dreams, who interprets to the chorus its Dionysian state through that parable-like appearance. In truth, however, that hero is the suffering Dionysus of the mysteries, that god who experiences in himself the sufferings of individuation, of whom wondrous myths tell how as a boy he was torn to pieces by the Titans and is now worshiped in this state as Zagreus: whereby it is intimated that this dismemberment, the properly Dionysian suffering, is like a transformation into air, water, earth, and fire, and that we should therefore regard the state of individuation as the source and primal ground of all suffering, as something reprehensible in itself. From the smile of this Dionysus the Olympian gods arose, from his tears human beings. In that existence as a dismembered god, Dionysus has the double nature of a cruel, savage demon and a mild, gentle ruler. The hope of the epopts, however, was directed toward a rebirth of Dionysus, which we must now grasp, with a premonition, as the end of individuation: to this coming third Dionysus the roaring jubilant song of the epopts resounded. And only in this hope is there a ray of joy on the face of the world, torn apart, shattered into individuals: as the myth depicts it through Demeter, sunk in eternal mourning, who for the first time rejoices again when she is told that she can give birth to Dionysus once more. In the views just cited we already have together all the components of a profound and pessimistic view of the world and, with it, the mystery doctrine of tragedy: the fundamental insight into the unity of everything that exists, the view of individuation as the primal ground of evil, art as the joyful hope that the spell of individuation can be broken, as the premonition of a restored unity.—
It was indicated earlier that the Homeric epic is the poetry of Olympian culture, with which that culture sang its own victory song over the terrors of the Titan struggle. Now, under the overpowering influence of tragic poetry, the Homeric myths are reborn once more and show in this metempsychosis that in the meantime the Olympian culture too has been conquered by a still deeper view of the world. The defiant Titan Prometheus announced to his Olympian tormentor that his rule would one day be threatened by the gravest danger unless he joined forces with Prometheus in time. In Aeschylus we recognize the alliance of the terrified Zeus, anxious about his end, with the Titan. Thus the earlier age of the Titans is afterward brought back from Tartarus into the light. The philosophy of wild and naked nature regards the myths of the Homeric world, dancing past, with the unveiled countenance of truth: they turn pale, they tremble before the lightning eye of this goddess—until the mighty fist of the Dionysian artist forces them into the service of the new deity. Dionysian truth takes over the entire domain of myth as the symbolism of its own insights and expresses these partly in the public cult of tragedy, partly in the secret celebrations of dramatic mystery festivals, but always under the old mythic cloak. What force was this that freed Prometheus from his vultures and transformed myth into a vehicle of Dionysian wisdom? It is the Heracles-like force of music: which, having reached its highest appearance in tragedy, knows how to interpret myth with a new and most profound significance; as we had already had to characterize this earlier as the mightiest capacity of music. For it is the lot of every myth gradually to creep into the narrowness of a supposedly historical reality and to be treated by some later age as a unique fact with historical claims: and the Greeks were already well on the way to restamping their entire mythic dream of youth, with ingenuity and caprice, as a historical-pragmatic history of their youth. For this is the way religions tend to die: namely, when the mythic presuppositions of a religion are systematized, under the stern, rationalistic eyes of an orthodox dogmatism, into a finished sum of historical events, and one begins anxiously to defend the credibility of the myths, while balking at any natural continued life and proliferation of them; when, that is, the feeling for myth dies and the claim of religion to historical foundations takes its place. This dying myth was now seized by the newborn genius of Dionysian music: and in the genius’s hand it bloomed once more, with colors such as it had never shown, with a fragrance that stirred a yearning intimation of a metaphysical world. After this last flaring up it collapses, its leaves wither, and soon the mocking Lucians of antiquity grab at the flowers, bleached and ravaged, carried off on every wind. Through tragedy myth arrives at its deepest content, its most expressive form; once more it rises, like a wounded hero, and the whole surplus of strength, together with the wisdom-filled calm of the dying, burns in its eye with a last, mighty gleam.
What did you want, sacrilegious Euripides, when you tried to force this dying creature into your servitude once more? It died under your violent hands: and now you needed a counterfeit, masked myth, which, like Heracles’ ape, knew only how to deck itself out in the old finery. And as the myth died for you, so too the genius of music died for you: even though you plundered all the gardens of music with greedy seizing, you still arrived only at a counterfeit, masked music. And because you abandoned Dionysus, Apollo abandoned you as well; rouse all the passions from their lair and conjure them into your circle, sharpen and file a sophistic dialectic into shape for the speeches of your heroes—even your heroes have only imitated, masked passions and speak only imitated, masked speeches.
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.
An unquestionable tradition tells us that Greek tragedy in its earliest form dealt only with the sufferings of Dionysus, and that for a long time Dionysus was its only stage hero. But we can say with equal certainty that, right up to Euripides, Dionysus never stopped being the tragic hero. All the famous figures of the Greek stage—Prometheus, Oedipus, and the rest—are only masks of that original hero, Dionysus. A god stands behind all these masks. That is the one essential reason for the characteristic “ideal quality” of those famous figures, which has so often inspired amazement. Someone—I do not know who—has claimed that all individuals, as individuals, are comic and therefore not tragic. From this we could conclude that the Greeks simply could not tolerate individuals on the tragic stage. They do seem to have felt that way. In general, Plato’s distinction between the “Idea” and the “idol,” or copy, and his different valuation of the two, are deeply rooted in the Greek character. To use Plato’s terms, we could describe the tragic figures of the Greek stage roughly like this: the one truly real Dionysus appears in a multitude of forms, wearing the mask of a struggling hero and caught, as it were, in the net of the individual will. As the god now speaks and acts in this appearance, he resembles an individual who makes mistakes, strives, and suffers. That he appears at all with this epic precision and clarity is the work of Apollo, the interpreter of dreams. Through this symbolic appearance, Apollo explains the chorus’ Dionysian state to it. But in truth this hero is the suffering Dionysus of the mysteries, the god who experiences in himself the suffering of being divided into individuals. Wonderful myths tell how the Titans cut him to pieces as a boy, and how in this state he is now worshiped as Zagreus. This suggests that the dismemberment, the specifically Dionysian suffering, is like a transformation into air, water, earth, and fire. We should therefore see the state of being divided into individuals as the source and original basis of all suffering, as something objectionable in itself. The Olympian gods came from this Dionysus’ smile, and human beings from his tears. In his existence as a dismembered god, Dionysus has the double nature of a cruel, savage demon and a mild, gentle ruler. But those fully initiated in the mysteries placed their hope in a rebirth of Dionysus. We must now try to understand this as the end of division into individuals. Their roaring song of celebration rang out for this coming third Dionysus. Only in this hope is there a ray of joy on the face of the torn world, shattered into individuals. The myth illustrates this through Demeter, sunk in eternal grief. For the first time she rejoices again when she is told that she can give birth to Dionysus once more. In the ideas just described, we already have all the elements of a profound and pessimistic view of the world, and with them tragedy’s teaching of the mysteries: the basic insight that everything that exists is one; the view that division into individuals is the original basis of evil; and art as the joyful hope that the spell of this division can be broken, as the foreboding of a restored unity.—
It was suggested earlier that Homeric epic is the poetry of Olympian culture, through which that culture sang its own song of victory over the terrors of the battle with the Titans. Now, under the overwhelming influence of tragic poetry, the Homeric myths are reborn once again. In this migration of their souls, they show that Olympian culture, too, has meanwhile been defeated by a still deeper view of the world. The defiant Titan Prometheus had warned his Olympian tormentor that one day his rule would face the greatest danger unless he joined forces with Prometheus in time. In Aeschylus, we see the alliance of the frightened Zeus, fearful of his own end, with the Titan. In this way, the earlier age of the Titans is brought back up from Tartarus into the light after all. The philosophy of wild, naked nature looks at the myths of the Homeric world as they dance past, and it wears the unveiled face of truth. They turn pale and tremble before this goddess’ lightning gaze—until the mighty fist of the Dionysian artist forces them into the service of the new god. Dionysian truth takes over the entire realm of myth as a set of symbols for its insights. It expresses them partly in the public worship of tragedy, partly in the secret performances of dramatic mystery festivals, but always beneath the old mythical covering. What power was it that freed Prometheus from his vultures and turned myth into a vehicle for Dionysian wisdom? It was the Herculean power of music. Reaching its highest expression in tragedy, music knows how to interpret myth with a new and deeply profound meaning. Earlier, we already had to identify this as music’s most powerful ability. For every myth is destined to creep gradually into the narrow confines of a supposedly historical reality, and to be treated by some later age as a one-time event claiming historical truth. The Greeks were already well on their way to using ingenuity and arbitrary decisions to recast their whole mythical dream of youth as a history of their youth based on historical events and practical causes. This is how religions usually die: an orthodox dogmatism, with its strict, rational scrutiny, organizes a religion’s mythical premises into a fixed set of historical events. People begin anxiously defending the myths’ credibility while resisting any natural continuation of their life and growth. In other words, the feeling for myth dies, and in its place comes religion’s claim to historical foundations. The newborn genius of Dionysian music now took hold of this dying myth. In its hand, the myth blossomed once more, with colors it had never shown before and a fragrance that awakened a longing foreboding of a metaphysical world. After this last blaze of brightness, it collapses. Its leaves wither, and soon antiquity’s mocking Lucians snatch at the faded, ruined flowers carried off by every wind. Through tragedy, myth reaches its deepest content and its most expressive form. Once again it rises like a wounded hero, and all its remaining strength, together with the wise calm of someone dying, burns in its eye with one last powerful light.
What did you want, you sacrilegious Euripides, when you tried to force this dying figure into your compulsory service once again? It died under your violent hands. Now you needed a counterfeit, masked myth, which, like the ape of Heracles, could do no more than dress itself up in the old finery. And just as myth died on you, so did the genius of music. However greedily you reached out to plunder every garden of music, you still managed to produce only counterfeit, masked music. And because you abandoned Dionysus, Apollo abandoned you too. Drive all the passions out of their resting places and trap them in your circle; sharpen and polish a sophist’s argumentative technique for your heroes’ speeches—even your heroes have only imitated, masked passions, and speak only imitated, masked speeches.
About this section
Section 10 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 18 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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