Section 13
Original German
Dass Sokrates eine enge Beziehung der Tendenz zu Euripides habe, entging dem gleichzeitigen Alterthume nicht; und der beredteste Ausdruck für diesen glücklichen Spürsinn ist jene in Athen umlaufende Sage, Sokrates pflege dem Euripides im Dichten zu helfen. Beide Namen wurden von den Anhängern der „guten alten Zeit“ in einem Athem genannt, wenn es galt, die Volksverführer der Gegenwart aufzuzählen: von deren Einflusse es herrühre, dass die alte marathonische vierschrötige Tüchtigkeit an Leib und Seele immer mehr einer zweifelhaften Aufklärung, bei fortschreitender Verkümmerung der leiblichen und seelischen Kräfte, zum Opfer falle. In dieser Tonart, halb mit Entrüstung, halb mit Verachtung, pflegt die aristophanische Komödie von jenen Männern zu reden, zum Schrecken der Neueren, welche zwar Euripides gerne preisgeben, aber sich nicht genug darüber wundern können, dass Sokrates als der erste und oberste Sophist, als der Spiegel und Inbegriff aller sophistischen Bestrebungen bei Aristophanes erscheine: wobei es einzig einen Trost gewährt, den Aristophanes selbst als einen lüderlich lügenhaften Alcibiades der Poesie an den Pranger zu stellen. Ohne an dieser Stelle die tiefen Instincte des Aristophanes gegen solche Angriffe in Schutz zu nehmen, fahre ich fort, die enge Zusammengehörigkeit des Sokrates und des Euripides aus der antiken Empfindung heraus zu erweisen; in welchem Sinne namentlich daran zu erinnern ist, dass Sokrates als Gegner der tragischen Kunst sich des Besuchs der Tragödie enthielt, und nur, wenn ein neues Stück des Euripides aufgeführt wurde, sich unter den Zuschauern einstellte. Am berühmtesten ist aber die nahe Zusammenstellung beider Namen in dem delphischen Orakelspruche, welcher Sokrates als den Weisesten unter den Menschen bezeichnet, zugleich aber das Urtheil abgab, dass dem Euripides der zweite Preis im Wettkampfe der Weisheit gebühre.
Als der dritte in dieser Stufenleiter war Sophokles genannt; er, der sich gegen Aeschylus rühmen durfte, er thue das Rechte und zwar, weil er wisse, was das Rechte sei. Offenbar ist gerade der Grad der Helligkeit dieses Wissens dasjenige, was jene drei Männer gemeinsam als die drei „Wissenden“ ihrer Zeit auszeichnet.
Das schärfste Wort aber für jene neue und unerhörte Hochschätzung des Wissens und der Einsicht sprach Sokrates, als er sich als den Einzigen vorfand, der sich eingestehe, nichts zu wissen; während er, auf seiner kritischen Wanderung durch Athen, bei den grössten Staatsmännern, Rednern, Dichtern und Künstlern vorsprechend, überall die Einbildung des Wissens antraf. Mit Staunen erkannte er, dass alle jene Berühmtheiten selbst über ihren Beruf ohne richtige und sichere Einsicht seien und denselben nur aus Instinct trieben. „Nur aus Instinct“: mit diesem Ausdruck berühren wir Herz und Mittelpunkt der sokratischen Tendenz. Mit ihm verurtheilt der Sokratismus eben so die bestehende Kunst wie die bestehende Ethik: wohin er seine prüfenden Blicke richtet, sieht er den Mangel der Einsicht und die Macht des Wahns und schliesst aus diesem Mangel auf die innerliche Verkehrtheit und Verwerflichkeit des Vorhandenen. Von diesem einen Punkte aus glaubte Sokrates das Dasein corrigieren zu müssen: er, der Einzelne, tritt mit der Miene der Nichtachtung und der Ueberlegenheit, als der Vorläufer einer ganz anders gearteten Cultur, Kunst und Moral, in eine Welt hinein, deren Zipfel mit Ehrfurcht zu erhaschen wir uns zum grössten Glücke rechnen würden.
Dies ist die ungeheuere Bedenklichkeit, die uns jedesmal, Angesichts des Sokrates, ergreift und die uns immer und immer wieder anreizt, Sinn und Absicht dieser fragwürdigsten Erscheinung des Alterthums zu erkennen. Wer ist das, der es wagen darf, als ein Einzelner das griechische Wesen zu verneinen, das als Homer, Pindar und Aeschylus, als Phidias, als Perikles, als Pythia und Dionysus, als der tiefste Abgrund und die höchste Höhe unserer staunenden Anbetung gewiss ist? Welche dämonische Kraft ist es, die diesen Zaubertrank in den Staub zu schütten sich erkühnen darf? Welcher Halbgott ist es, dem der Geisterchor der Edelsten der Menschheit zurufen muss: „Weh! Weh! Du hast sie zerstört, die schöne Welt, mit mächtiger Faust; sie stürzt, sie zerfällt!“
Einen Schlüssel zu dem Wesen des Sokrates bietet uns jene wunderbare Erscheinung, die als „Dämonion des Sokrates“ bezeichnet wird. In besonderen Lagen, in denen sein ungeheurer Verstand in's Schwanken gerieth, gewann er einen festen Anhalt durch eine in solchen Momenten sich äussernde göttliche Stimme. Diese Stimme mahnt, wenn sie kommt, immer ab. Die instinctive Weisheit zeigt sich bei dieser gänzlich abnormen Natur nur, um dem bewussten Erkennen hier und da hindernd entgegenzutreten. Während doch bei allen productiven Menschen der Instinct gerade die schöpferisch-affirmative Kraft ist, und das Bewusstsein kritisch und abmahnend sich gebärdet: wird bei Sokrates der Instinct zum Kritiker, das Bewusstsein zum Schöpfer—eine wahre Monstrosität per defectum! Und zwar nehmen wir hier einen monstrosen defectus jeder mystischen Anlage wahr, so dass Sokrates als der specifische Nicht-Mystiker zu bezeichnen wäre, in dem die logische Natur durch eine Superfötation eben so excessiv entwickelt ist wie im Mystiker jene instinctive Weisheit. Andrerseits aber war es jenem in Sokrates erscheinenden logischen Triebe völlig versagt, sich gegen sich selbst zu kehren; in diesem fessellosen Dahinströmen zeigt er eine Naturgewalt, wie wir sie nur bei den allergrössten instinctiven Kräften zu unsrer schaudervollen Ueberraschung antreffen. Wer nur einen Hauch von jener göttlichen Naivetät und Sicherheit der sokratischen Lebensrichtung aus den platonischen Schriften gespürt hat, der fühlt auch, wie das ungeheure Triebrad des logischen Sokratismus gleichsam hinter Sokrates in Bewegung ist, und wie dies durch Sokrates wie durch einen Schatten hindurch angeschaut werden muss. Dass er aber selbst von diesem Verhältniss eine Ahnung hatte, das drückt sich in dem würdevollen Ernste aus, mit dem er seine göttliche Berufung überall und noch vor seinen Richtern geltend machte. Ihn darin zu widerlegen war im Grunde eben so unmöglich als seinen die Instincte auflösenden Einfluss gut zu heissen. Bei diesem unlösbaren Conflicte war, als er einmal vor das Forum des griechischen Staates gezogen war, nur eine einzige Form der Verurtheilung geboten, die Verbannung; als etwas durchaus Räthselhaftes, Unrubricirbares, Unaufklärbares hätte man ihn über die Grenze weisen dürfen, ohne dass irgend eine Nachwelt im Recht gewesen wäre, die Athener einer schmählichen That zu zeihen. Dass aber der Tod und nicht nur die Verbannung über ihn ausgesprochen wurde, das scheint Sokrates selbst, mit völliger Klarheit und ohne den natürlichen Schauder vor dem Tode, durchgesetzt zu haben: er ging in den Tod, mit jener Ruhe, mit der er nach Plato's Schilderung als der letzte der Zecher im frühen Tagesgrauen das Symposion verlässt, um einen neuen Tag zu beginnen; indess hinter ihm, auf den Bänken und auf der Erde, die verschlafenen Tischgenossen zurückbleiben, um von Sokrates, dem wahrhaften Erotiker, zu träumen. Der sterbende Sokrates wurde das neue, noch nie sonst geschaute Ideal der edlen griechischen Jugend: vor allen hat sich der typische hellenische Jüngling, Plato, mit aller inbrünstigen Hingebung seiner Schwärmerseele vor diesem Bilde niedergeworfen.
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.
Socrates’ close affinity of purpose with Euripides did not escape their contemporaries in antiquity; the most eloquent expression of this fortunate instinct is the story circulating in Athens that Socrates regularly helped Euripides write his plays. The adherents of the “good old days” named both men in the same breath whenever they listed the corrupters of the people in their own time: it was their influence, they said, that was increasingly sacrificing the old, foursquare excellence of body and soul—the excellence of Marathon—to a dubious enlightenment, as physical and spiritual powers steadily withered. This is the tone, half indignation and half contempt, in which Aristophanic comedy habitually speaks of these men, to the horror of modern readers, who are quite willing to abandon Euripides but cannot cease wondering that Aristophanes should present Socrates as the first and foremost Sophist, the mirror and epitome of every sophistic endeavor. Their only consolation is to pillory Aristophanes himself as a dissolute, lying Alcibiades of poetry. Without defending Aristophanes’ profound instincts against such attacks here, I will continue to demonstrate the close kinship of Socrates and Euripides as antiquity felt it. In this connection we should recall in particular that Socrates, as an opponent of tragic art, refrained from attending tragedies and appeared among the spectators only when a new play by Euripides was being performed. Most famous of all, however, is the close conjunction of their names in the pronouncement of the Delphic oracle, which declared Socrates the wisest of human beings but also judged that Euripides deserved second prize in the contest of wisdom.
Sophocles was named third in this ranking: he could boast, in contrast to Aeschylus, that he did what was right, and did it because he knew what was right. Clearly it is precisely the degree of clarity in this knowledge that singles out the three men together as the three “knowing ones” of their time.
But Socrates gave the sharpest expression to this new, unprecedented esteem for knowledge and insight when he found himself the only person who admitted to knowing nothing, whereas on his critical wanderings through Athens, calling on the greatest statesmen, orators, poets, and artists, he everywhere encountered the conceit of knowledge. To his astonishment, he recognized that all these celebrated men lacked sound and certain insight even into their own professions and practiced them only by instinct. “Only by instinct”: with this expression we touch the heart and center of the Socratic tendency. With it, Socratism condemns existing art and existing ethics alike: wherever it turns its scrutinizing gaze, it sees a lack of insight and the power of delusion, and from this lack concludes that what exists is inwardly perverse and reprehensible. From this one point Socrates believed he must correct existence: he, a solitary individual, enters with an air of disdain and superiority, as the forerunner of an entirely different kind of culture, art, and morality, into a world whose merest fringe we would count it our greatest good fortune to grasp in reverence.
This is the immense misgiving that seizes us whenever we confront Socrates, urging us again and again to discover the meaning and intention of this most questionable figure of antiquity. Who is this who dares, as a single individual, to negate the Greek spirit, which in Homer, Pindar, and Aeschylus, in Phidias, in Pericles, in the Pythia and Dionysus, is assured of our astonished adoration as both the deepest abyss and the loftiest height? What demonic power dares to pour this magic potion into the dust? What demigod is this to whom the spirit chorus of humanity’s noblest must cry: “Woe! Woe! You have destroyed it, the beautiful world, with a mighty fist; it falls, it crumbles!”
A key to the nature of Socrates is offered by that marvelous phenomenon called the “daimonion of Socrates.” In particular situations, when his immense intellect began to waver, he found firm support in a divine voice that made itself heard at such moments. Whenever this voice comes, it always warns him away. In this wholly abnormal nature, instinctive wisdom appears only to obstruct conscious knowledge here and there. In all productive people, instinct is precisely the creative, affirmative force, while consciousness behaves critically and dissuasively; in Socrates, by contrast, instinct becomes the critic, consciousness the creator—a true monstrosity born of deficiency! What we perceive here is a monstrous absence of any mystical disposition, so that Socrates might be described as the specific non-mystic, in whom the logical nature has developed through a second conception as excessively as instinctive wisdom has in the mystic. On the other hand, the logical drive manifesting itself in Socrates was utterly incapable of turning against itself; in its unrestrained onward flow it displays an elemental force such as we encounter, to our shuddering astonishment, only in the very greatest instinctive powers. Anyone who has felt even a breath of the divine naivety and certainty of Socrates’ way of life in Plato’s writings also senses how the immense driving wheel of logical Socratism is moving, as it were, behind Socrates, and how we must look through Socrates as through a shadow to see it. That he himself had some inkling of this relation is expressed in the dignified gravity with which he asserted his divine calling everywhere, even before his judges. To refute him on this point was fundamentally as impossible as to approve his influence, which dissolved the instincts. Given this insoluble conflict, once he had been brought before the tribunal of the Greek state, only one form of condemnation was appropriate: exile. As something utterly enigmatic, unclassifiable, inexplicable, he might have been sent across the border without any posterity having the right to accuse the Athenians of a disgraceful deed. But that death rather than mere exile was pronounced upon him seems to have been brought about by Socrates himself, with complete lucidity and without the natural horror of death. He went to his death with the same calm with which, in Plato’s account, he leaves the symposium at the first light of dawn, the last of the drinkers, to begin a new day, while behind him his drowsy companions remain on the benches and the ground, dreaming of Socrates, the true lover. The dying Socrates became the new ideal, never before beheld, of noble Greek youth: above all, the quintessential Hellenic youth, Plato, cast himself before this image with all the fervent devotion of his rapturous soul.
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.
People in antiquity already noticed that Socrates and Euripides were moving in closely related directions. The clearest expression of this sound instinct was the story circulating in Athens that Socrates regularly helped Euripides write his plays. Supporters of the “good old days” named the two in the same breath when listing the people who were misleading the public in their own time. They blamed their influence for the way the old, solid strength of body and mind, the strength of the men of Marathon, was increasingly sacrificed to a questionable enlightenment. Meanwhile, physical and mental powers continued to waste away. Aristophanes’ comedy generally speaks of these men in this tone, half indignant and half contemptuous. This horrifies modern readers. They are happy enough to give up Euripides, but cannot get over their amazement that Aristophanes presents Socrates as the first and foremost Sophist, the mirror and embodiment of every sophistic ambition. Their only comfort is to pillory Aristophanes himself as a dissolute, lying Alcibiades of poetry. I will not defend Aristophanes’ deep instincts against these attacks here. Instead, I will continue to demonstrate how closely Socrates and Euripides belonged together in the feelings of the ancient world. We should remember, in particular, that Socrates opposed tragic art and stayed away from performances of tragedy. He appeared in the audience only when a new play by Euripides was being performed. But the most famous close pairing of their names occurs in the pronouncement of the Delphic oracle. It called Socrates the wisest of human beings, but also ruled that Euripides deserved second prize in the contest of wisdom.
Sophocles was named third in this ranking. Compared with Aeschylus, he could boast that he did what was right because he knew what was right. Clearly, what sets these three men apart together as the three “knowing men” of their time is precisely the degree of clarity in this knowledge.
Socrates gave the sharpest expression to this new and unprecedented high regard for knowledge and insight. He discovered that he was the only person who admitted to himself that he knew nothing. On his critical journey through Athens, he visited its greatest statesmen, speakers, poets, and artists. Everywhere he found people imagining that they knew. To his amazement, he realized that all these celebrities lacked sound and reliable insight even into their own occupation. They practiced it only by instinct. “Only by instinct”: this phrase brings us to the heart and center of the Socratic tendency. With it, Socratism condemns existing art and existing ethics alike. Wherever it turns its examining gaze, it sees a lack of insight and the power of delusion. From that lack it concludes that what exists is inwardly wrong and worthless. Starting from this one point, Socrates believed he had to correct existence. He, a single individual, enters a world with a look of disdain and superiority, as the forerunner of a wholly different kind of culture, art, and morality. Yet we would count ourselves supremely fortunate if we could reverently catch hold of even a corner of that world’s robe.
This is the enormous misgiving that takes hold of us every time we face Socrates. Again and again it drives us to understand the meaning and purpose of this most questionable figure of antiquity. Who is this person who can dare, all alone, to reject the Greek spirit? In Homer, Pindar, and Aeschylus, in Phidias, in Pericles, in the Pythia and Dionysus, that spirit is assured of our astonished worship, as both its deepest abyss and its greatest height. What demonic power can dare to pour this magic drink into the dust? What demigod is this, whom the chorus of the spirits of humanity’s noblest people must address in these words: “Woe! Woe! You have destroyed it, the beautiful world, with your mighty fist; it falls, it breaks apart!”
The extraordinary phenomenon called the “daimonion of Socrates” gives us a key to his nature. In certain situations, when his immense intellect began to waver, he found firm support in a divine voice that spoke at such moments. Whenever this voice comes, it always warns him off. In this completely abnormal nature, instinctive wisdom appears only to obstruct conscious knowledge here and there. In all productive people, instinct is precisely the creative, affirmative force, while consciousness acts critically and gives warnings. But in Socrates instinct becomes the critic and consciousness the creator—a genuine monstrosity caused by a deficiency! What we see here is a monstrous lack of any mystical capacity. Socrates could therefore be called the distinctive non-mystic. His logical nature has grown as excessively, through a kind of additional conception, as instinctive wisdom has in the mystic. On the other hand, the logical drive appearing in Socrates was completely unable to turn against itself. In its unchecked flow it displays a natural force of the kind we encounter, with startled amazement, only in the very greatest instinctive powers. Anyone who has felt even a breath of the divine innocence and certainty of Socrates’ approach to life in Plato’s writings also feels something else. The enormous driving wheel of logical Socratism is moving, as it were, behind Socrates. We must look through him as through a shadow to see it. Yet he himself had some inkling of this relationship. This shows in the dignified seriousness with which he asserted his divine calling everywhere, even before his judges. It was basically as impossible to refute him on this point as it was to approve of his influence, which dissolved the instincts. In this conflict, which could not be resolved, only one form of condemnation was appropriate once he had been brought before the tribunal of the Greek state: exile. They could have sent him across the border as something wholly puzzling, impossible to classify or explain. No later generation would then have had the right to accuse the Athenians of a shameful act. But Socrates himself seems to have made sure that the sentence was death, not merely exile. He did so with complete clarity and without the natural horror of death. He went to his death with the same calm with which, in Plato’s account, he leaves the drinking party at first light, the last of the drinkers to depart, and begins a new day. Behind him, on the benches and the floor, his sleepy drinking companions remain to dream of Socrates, the true man of love. The dying Socrates became a new ideal for noble Greek youth, one never seen before. Above all, Plato, the typical young Greek, threw himself before this image with all the passionate devotion of his enthusiastic soul.
About this section
Section 13 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 21 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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