Section 14
Original German
Denken wir uns jetzt das eine grosse Cyklopenauge des Sokrates auf die Tragödie gewandt, jenes Auge, in dem nie der holde Wahnsinn künstlerischer Begeisterung geglüht hat—denken wir uns, wie es jenem Auge versagt war, in die dionysischen Abgründe mit Wohlgefallen zu schauen—was eigentlich musste es in der „erhabenen und hochgepriesenen“ tragischen Kunst, wie sie Plato nennt, erblicken? Etwas recht Unvernünftiges, mit Ursachen, die ohne Wirkungen, und mit Wirkungen, die ohne Ursachen zu sein schienen, dazu das Ganze so bunt und mannichfaltig, dass es einer besonnenen Gemüthsart widerstreben müsse, für reizbare und empfindliche Seelen aber ein gefährlicher Zunder sei. Wir wissen, welche einzige Gattung der Dichtkunst von ihm begriffen wurde, die aesopische Fabel: und dies geschah gewiss mit jener lächelnden Anbequemung, mit welcher der ehrliche gute Gellert in der Fabel von der Biene und der Henne das Lob der Poesie singt:
„Du siehst an mir, wozu sie nützt,Dem, der nicht viel Verstand besitztDie Wahrheit durch ein Bild zu sagen“.
Nun aber schien Sokrates die tragische Kunst nicht einmal „die Wahrheit zu sagen“: abgesehen davon, dass sie sich an den wendet, der „nicht viel Verstand besitzt“, also nicht an den Philosophen: ein zweifacher Grund, von ihr fern zu bleiben. Wie Plato, rechnete er sie zu den schmeichlerischen Künsten, die nur das Angenehme, nicht das Nützliche darstellen und verlangte deshalb bei seinen Jüngern Enthaltsamkeit und strenge Absonderung von solchen unphilosophischen Reizungen; mit solchem Erfolge, dass der jugendliche Tragödiendichter Plato zu allererst seine Dichtungen verbrannte, um Schüler des Sokrates werden zu können. Wo aber unbesiegbare Anlagen gegen die sokratischen Maximen ankämpften, war die Kraft derselben, sammt der Wucht jenes ungeheuren Charakters, immer noch gross genug, um die Poesie selbst in neue und bis dahin unbekannte Stellungen zu drängen.
Ein Beispiel dafür ist der eben genannte Plato: er, der in der Verurtheilung der Tragödie und der Kunst überhaupt gewiss nicht hinter dem naiven Cynismus seines Meisters zurückgeblieben ist, hat doch aus voller künstlerischer Nothwendigkeit eine Kunstform schaffen müssen, die gerade mit den vorhandenen und von ihm abgewiesenen Kunstformen innerlich verwandt ist. Der Hauptvorwurf, den Plato der älteren Kunst zu machen hatte,—dass sie Nachahmung eines Scheinbildes sei, also noch einer niedrigeren Sphäre als die empirische Welt ist, angehöre—durfte vor allem nicht gegen das neue Kunstwerk gerichtet werden: und so sehen wir denn Plato bestrebt über die Wirklichkeit hinaus zu gehn und die jener Pseudo-Wirklichkeit zu Grunde liegende Idee darzustellen. Damit aber war der Denker Plato auf einem Umwege ebendahin gelangt, wo er als Dichter stets heimisch gewesen war und von wo aus Sophokles und die ganze ältere Kunst feierlich gegen jenen Vorwurf protestirten. Wenn die Tragödie alle früheren Kunstgattungen in sich aufgesaugt hatte, so darf dasselbe wiederum in einem excentrischen Sinne vom platonischen Dialoge gelten, der, durch Mischung aller vorhandenen Stile und Formen erzeugt, zwischen Erzählung, Lyrik, Drama, zwischen Prosa und Poesie in der Mitte schwebt und damit auch das strenge ältere Gesetz der einheitlichen sprachlichen Form durchbrochen hat; auf welchem Wege die cynischen Schriftsteller noch weiter gegangen sind, die in der grössten Buntscheckigkeit des Stils, im Hin- und Herschwanken zwischen prosaischen und metrischen Formen auch das litterarische Bild des „rasenden Sokrates“, den sie im Leben darzustellen pflegten, erreicht haben. Der platonische Dialog war gleichsam der Kahn, auf dem sich die schiffbrüchige ältere Poesie sammt allen ihren Kindern rettete: auf einen engen Raum zusammengedrängt und dem einen Steuermann Sokrates ängstlich unterthänig fuhren sie jetzt in eine neue Welt hinein, die an dem phantastischen Bilde dieses Aufzugs sich nie satt sehen konnte. Wirklich hat für die ganze Nachwelt Plato das Vorbild einer neuen Kunstform gegeben, das Vorbild des Roman's: der als die unendlich gesteigerte aesopische Fabel zu bezeichnen ist, in der die Poesie in einer ähnlichen Rangordnung zur dialektischen Philosophie lebt, wie viele Jahrhunderte hindurch dieselbe Philosophie zur Theologie: nämlich als ancilla. Dies war die neue Stellung der Poesie, in die sie Plato unter dem Drucke des dämonischen Sokrates drängte.
Hier überwächst der philosophische Gedanke die Kunst und zwingt sie zu einem engen Sich-Anklammern an den Stamm der Dialektik. In dem logischen Schematismus hat sich die apollinische Tendenz verpuppt: wie wir bei Euripides etwas Entsprechendes und ausserdem eine Uebersetzung des Dionysischen in den naturalistischen Affect wahrzunehmen hatten. Sokrates, der dialektische Held im platonischen Drama, erinnert uns an die verwandte Natur des euripideischen Helden, der durch Grund und Gegengrund seine Handlungen vertheidigen muss und dadurch so oft in Gefahr geräth, unser tragisches Mitleiden einzubüssen: denn wer vermöchte das optimistische Element im Wesen der Dialektik zu verkennen, das in jedem Schlusse sein Jubelfest feiert und allein in kühler Helle und Bewusstheit athmen kann: das optimistische Element, das, einmal in die Tragödie eingedrungen, ihre dionysischen Regionen allmählich überwuchern und sie nothwendig zur Selbstvernichtung treiben muss—bis zum Todessprunge in's bürgerliche Schauspiel. Man vergegenwärtige sich nur die Consequenzen der sokratischen Sätze: „Tugend ist Wissen; es wird nur gesündigt aus Unwissenheit; der Tugendhafte ist der Glückliche“: in diesen drei Grundformen des Optimismus liegt der Tod der Tragödie. Denn jetzt muss der tugendhafte Held Dialektiker sein, jetzt muss zwischen Tugend und Wissen, Glaube und Moral ein nothwendiger sichtbarer Verband sein, jetzt ist die transscendentale Gerechtigkeitslösung des Aeschylus zu dem flachen und frechen Princip der „poetischen Gerechtigkeit“ mit seinem üblichen deus ex machina erniedrigt.
Wie erscheint dieser neuen sokratisch-optimistischen Bühnenwelt gegenüber jetzt der Chor und überhaupt der ganze musikalisch-dionysische Untergrund der Tragödie? Als etwas Zufälliges, als eine auch wohl zu missende Reminiscenz an den Ursprung der Tragödie; während wir doch eingesehen haben, dass der Chor nur als Ursache der Tragödie und des Tragischen überhaupt verstanden werden kann. Schon bei Sophokles zeigt sich jene Verlegenheit in Betreff des Chors—ein wichtiges Zeichen, dass schon bei ihm der dionysische Boden der Tragödie zu zerbröckeln beginnt. Er wagt es nicht mehr, dem Chor den Hauptantheil der Wirkung anzuvertrauen, sondern schränkt sein Bereich dermaassen ein, dass er jetzt fast den Schauspielern coordinirt erscheint, gleich als ob er aus der Orchestra in die Scene hineingehoben würde: womit freilich sein Wesen völlig zerstört ist, mag auch Aristoteles gerade dieser Auffassung des Chors seine Beistimmung geben. Jene Verrückung der Chorposition, welche Sophokles jedenfalls durch seine Praxis und, der Ueberlieferung nach, sogar durch eine Schrift anempfohlen hat, ist der erste Schritt zur Vernichtung des Chors, deren Phasen in Euripides, Agathon und der neueren Komödie mit erschreckender Schnelligkeit auf einander folgen. Die optimistische Dialektik treibt mit der Geissel ihrer Syllogismen die Musik aus der Tragödie: d.h. sie zerstört das Wesen der Tragödie, welches sich einzig als eine Manifestation und Verbildlichung dionysischer Zustände, als sichtbare Symbolisirung der Musik, als die Traumwelt eines dionysischen Rausches interpretiren lässt.
Haben wir also sogar eine schon vor Sokrates wirkende antidionysische Tendenz anzunehmen, die nur in ihm einen unerhört grossartigen Ausdruck gewinnt: so müssen wir nicht vor der Frage zurückschrecken, wohin denn eine solche Erscheinung wie die des Sokrates deute: die wir doch nicht im Stande sind, Angesichts der platonischen Dialoge, als eine nur auflösende negative Macht zu begreifen. Und so gewiss die allernächste Wirkung des sokratischen Triebes auf eine Zersetzung der dionysischen Tragödie ausging, so zwingt uns eine tiefsinnige Lebenserfahrung des Sokrates selbst zu der Frage, ob denn zwischen dem Sokratismus und der Kunst nothwendig nur ein antipodisches Verhältniss bestehe und ob die Geburt eines „künstlerischen Sokrates“ überhaupt etwas in sich Widerspruchsvolles sei.
Jener despotische Logiker hatte nämlich hier und da der Kunst gegenüber das Gefühl einer Lücke, einer Leere, eines halben Vorwurfs, einer vielleicht versäumten Pflicht. Oefters kam ihm, wie er im Gefängniss seinen Freunden erzählt, ein und dieselbe Traumerscheinung, die immer dasselbe sagte: „Sokrates, treibe Musik!“ Er beruhigt sich bis zu seinen letzten Tagen mit der Meinung, sein Philosophieren sei die höchste Musenkunst, und glaubt nicht recht, dass eine Gottheit ihn an jene „gemeine, populäre Musik“ erinnern werde. Endlich im Gefängniss versteht er sich, um sein Gewissen gänzlich zu entlasten, auch dazu, jene von ihm gering geachtete Musik zu treiben. Und in dieser Gesinnung dichtet er ein Proömium auf Apollo und bringt einige aesopische Fabeln in Verse. Das war etwas der dämonischen warnenden Stimme Aehnliches, was ihn zu diesen Uebungen drängte, es war seine apollinische Einsicht, dass er wie ein Barbarenkönig ein edles Götterbild nicht verstehe und in der Gefahr sei, sich an einer Gottheit zu versündigen—durch sein Nichtsverstehn. Jenes Wort der sokratischen Traumerscheinung ist das einzige Zeichen einer Bedenklichkeit über die Grenzen der logischen Natur: vielleicht—so musste er sich fragen—ist das mir Nichtverständliche doch nicht auch sofort das Unverständige? Vielleicht giebt es ein Reich der Weisheit, aus dem der Logiker verbannt ist? Vielleicht ist die Kunst sogar ein nothwendiges Correlativum und Supplement der Wissenschaft?
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.
Let us now imagine Socrates’ single great Cyclops eye turned upon tragedy, that eye in which the gracious madness of artistic inspiration never glowed—let us imagine how incapable that eye was of gazing with pleasure into the Dionysian abysses—what, after all, must it have seen in the “sublime and highly praised” art of tragedy, as Plato calls it? Something quite irrational, with causes that seemed to have no effects and effects that seemed to have no causes, the whole so colorful and manifold that it must repel a sober temperament, while providing dangerous tinder for excitable, sensitive souls. We know the only genre of poetry he understood: the Aesopian fable. And surely he understood it with that smiling condescension with which honest, good Gellert sings the praises of poetry in his fable of the bee and the hen:
“You see in me what use it serves:To tell someone of little senseThe truth by means of an image.”
But to Socrates tragic art did not seem even to “tell the truth,” quite apart from its addressing someone “of little sense,” and thus not the philosopher: a twofold reason to keep away from it. Like Plato, he counted it among the flattering arts, which present only what is pleasant, not what is useful, and therefore demanded of his disciples abstinence and strict separation from such unphilosophical enticements—with such success that the young tragic poet Plato first of all burned his poems so that he could become Socrates’ pupil. But where unconquerable gifts fought against the Socratic maxims, the force of those maxims, combined with the weight of that tremendous character, was still great enough to drive poetry itself into new and hitherto unknown positions.
One example is Plato himself, just mentioned. In condemning tragedy and art in general, he certainly did not lag behind his master’s naive cynicism; yet sheer artistic necessity compelled him to create an art form inwardly akin to the very existing forms he had rejected. Above all, the chief reproach Plato had to make against the older art—that it was the imitation of an illusory image and therefore belonged to a sphere still lower than the empirical world—must not be leveled at the new artwork. And so we see Plato striving to go beyond reality and represent the Idea underlying that pseudo-reality. Yet by this detour Plato the thinker had arrived at the very place where he had always been at home as a poet, and from which Sophocles and all the older art solemnly protested against that reproach. If tragedy had absorbed all earlier genres of art, the same may in turn be said, in an eccentric sense, of the Platonic dialogue: produced by mixing every existing style and form, it hovers midway between narrative, lyric, and drama, between prose and poetry, and thereby breaks through the older strict law of a unified linguistic form. The Cynic writers went still further along this path: with the utmost motley of styles, swaying back and forth between prose and metrical forms, they also achieved the literary image of the “raving Socrates” whom they habitually embodied in life. The Platonic dialogue was, as it were, the boat in which the shipwrecked older poetry saved itself along with all its children. Crowded into a narrow space and fearfully subject to the one helmsman, Socrates, they now sailed into a new world that could never tire of looking at the fantastic spectacle of this procession. Plato truly provided all posterity with the model of a new art form, the model of the novel: it may be described as the Aesopian fable raised to an infinite power, in which poetry stands in much the same subordinate relation to dialectical philosophy as that same philosophy stood to theology for many centuries—as its handmaid. This was the new position into which Plato forced poetry under the pressure of the demonic Socrates.
Here philosophical thought overgrows art and forces it to cling tightly to the trunk of dialectic. The Apollonian tendency has enclosed itself in the chrysalis of logical schematism, just as we found something corresponding to this in Euripides, and in addition a translation of the Dionysian into naturalistic emotion. Socrates, the dialectical hero of the Platonic drama, recalls the kindred nature of the Euripidean hero, who must defend his actions with argument and counterargument, and thereby so often risks forfeiting our tragic pity. For who could fail to recognize the optimistic element in the nature of dialectic, which celebrates its triumph in every inference and can breathe only in cool clarity and consciousness? Once this optimistic element has penetrated tragedy, it must gradually overgrow its Dionysian regions and necessarily drive it to self-destruction—ending in the death leap into bourgeois drama. We need only consider the consequences of the Socratic propositions: “Virtue is knowledge; one sins only out of ignorance; the virtuous person is the happy person.” These three basic forms of optimism contain the death of tragedy. For now the virtuous hero must be a dialectician; now there must be a necessary, visible bond between virtue and knowledge, faith and morality; now Aeschylus’ transcendental resolution of justice has been debased into the shallow, impudent principle of “poetic justice,” with its customary god from the machine.
Against this new Socratic-optimistic stage world, how does the chorus now appear, and with it the entire musical-Dionysian foundation of tragedy? As something incidental, a reminder of tragedy’s origin that might well be dispensed with, whereas we have understood that the chorus can be grasped only as the cause of tragedy and of the tragic in general. Even in Sophocles this embarrassment over the chorus becomes apparent—an important sign that the Dionysian ground of tragedy is already beginning to crumble in his work. He no longer dares entrust the principal share of the effect to the chorus, but so restricts its sphere that it now appears almost on the same level as the actors, as though it had been lifted out of the orchestra and onto the stage. This, of course, utterly destroys its nature, even if Aristotle endorses precisely this conception of the chorus. This displacement of the chorus, which Sophocles recommended at any rate through his practice and, according to tradition, even in a written treatise, is the first step toward its annihilation, whose successive phases follow one another with terrifying speed in Euripides, Agathon, and the newer comedy. With the scourge of its syllogisms, optimistic dialectic drives music out of tragedy: that is, it destroys the essence of tragedy, which can be interpreted only as a manifestation and embodiment in images of Dionysian states, as a visible symbolization of music, as the dream world of a Dionysian intoxication.
If we must therefore assume an anti-Dionysian tendency at work even before Socrates, one that merely gains an expression of unprecedented grandeur in him, we must not shrink from asking what a phenomenon such as Socrates points toward. For in the face of the Platonic dialogues we are unable to understand him as a merely dissolving, negative power. And however certain it is that the most immediate effect of the Socratic drive tended toward the disintegration of Dionysian tragedy, a profound experience in Socrates’ own life compels us to ask whether Socratism and art necessarily stand only at opposite poles, and whether the birth of an “artistic Socrates” is really something inherently contradictory.
For this despotic logician did occasionally feel, in relation to art, a gap, an emptiness, a half-reproach, a duty perhaps left unfulfilled. As he tells his friends in prison, the same dream apparition often came to him, always saying the same thing: “Socrates, practice music!” Until his last days he reassures himself with the belief that his philosophizing is the highest art of the Muses, and cannot quite believe that a divinity would be reminding him of that “common, popular music.” At last, in prison, to relieve his conscience entirely, he agrees to practice even the music he holds in such low esteem. In this spirit he composes a prelude to Apollo and puts some Aesopian fables into verse. What drove him to these exercises resembled the daimonion’s warning voice: it was his Apollonian insight that, like a barbarian king, he did not understand a noble image of a god and was in danger of offending a divinity—through his failure to understand. Those words of the Socratic dream apparition are the sole sign of a misgiving about the limits of the logical nature. Perhaps—so he must have asked himself—what is unintelligible to me is not, for that reason, unintelligent? Perhaps there is a realm of wisdom from which the logician is banished? Perhaps art is even a necessary correlative and supplement to science?
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.
Now imagine Socrates turning his single great Cyclops’ eye toward tragedy. The lovely madness of artistic inspiration had never glowed in that eye. Imagine how it was unable to look with pleasure into the Dionysian depths. What could it actually have seen in the “sublime and highly praised” art of tragedy, as Plato calls it? Something thoroughly unreasonable, with causes that seemed to have no effects and effects that seemed to have no causes. Moreover, the whole thing was so colorful and varied that it must repel a levelheaded person, while providing dangerous tinder for excitable and sensitive souls. We know the only kind of poetry he understood: the Aesopian fable. Surely he understood it with the same smiling indulgence with which honest, good Gellert praises poetry in the fable of the bee and the hen:
“You see in me what use it has:To tell someone who has little senseThe truth by means of an image.”
But tragic art did not even seem to Socrates to “tell the truth.” Quite apart from that, it addressed people who had “little sense,” not philosophers. This gave him two reasons to keep away. Like Plato, he counted it among the flattering arts, which present only what is pleasant, not what is useful. He therefore demanded that his followers abstain and keep strictly apart from such unphilosophical attractions. He was so successful that the young writer of tragedies, Plato, first burned his poems so that he could become Socrates’ student. But where unconquerable talents fought against Socrates’ principles, those principles, together with the force of his enormous personality, were still strong enough to push poetry itself into new and previously unknown positions.
Plato himself is an example. In condemning tragedy and art in general, he certainly went no less far than his teacher’s naive cynicism. Yet an irresistible artistic need forced him to create an art form inwardly related to the existing forms he had rejected. Above all, the new artwork must not be open to Plato’s main objection to the older art: that it imitated an illusory image and so belonged to a sphere even lower than the world of experience. We therefore see Plato trying to go beyond reality and present the idea underlying that pseudo-reality. But by this roundabout route Plato the thinker had reached exactly the place where he had always been at home as a poet, and from which Sophocles and all the older art solemnly protested against his objection. Tragedy had absorbed all the earlier kinds of art. In an unusual sense, the same can be said of the Platonic dialogue. Made by mixing all the existing styles and forms, it hovers between narrative, lyric, and drama, between prose and poetry. In doing so, it also broke the strict older rule requiring a single linguistic form. The Cynic writers went still further along this path. With the greatest mixture of styles, shifting back and forth between prose and metrical forms, they also produced a literary image of the “Socrates gone mad” whom they regularly portrayed in their lives. The Platonic dialogue was, so to speak, the boat in which the shipwrecked older poetry escaped with all its children. Crowded into a narrow space and fearfully obedient to their one helmsman, Socrates, they now sailed into a new world. That world could never get enough of the fantastic spectacle of this procession. In fact, Plato gave all later generations the model of a new art form: the novel. It can be described as the Aesopian fable raised to an infinitely higher power. In it, poetry lives under dialectical philosophy in a hierarchy like the one that placed this same philosophy under theology for many centuries: as a servant. This was the new position into which Plato pushed poetry under the pressure of the demonic Socrates.
Here philosophical thought grows over art and forces it to cling tightly to the trunk of dialectic. The Apollonian tendency has enclosed itself in a cocoon of logical schematism. We noticed something similar in Euripides, as well as a translation of the Dionysian into naturalistic emotion. Socrates, the dialectical hero of Plato’s drama, reminds us of the related nature of Euripides’ hero. That hero must defend his actions with arguments and counterarguments, and so often risks losing our tragic sympathy. For who could fail to recognize the optimistic element in the nature of dialectic? It holds its festival of rejoicing in every inference and can breathe only in cool clarity and consciousness. Once this optimistic element has entered tragedy, it must gradually overgrow its Dionysian regions and necessarily drive tragedy to destroy itself—ending in its fatal leap into bourgeois drama. Just consider the consequences of these Socratic propositions: “Virtue is knowledge; one sins only out of ignorance; the virtuous person is the happy person.” These three basic forms of optimism contain the death of tragedy. Now the virtuous hero must be a dialectician. Now there must be a necessary, visible connection between virtue and knowledge, belief and morality. Now Aeschylus’ transcendental resolution of justice is degraded into the shallow, brazen principle of “poetic justice,” with its usual god from the machine.
In relation to this new Socratic, optimistic world of the stage, how does the chorus now appear—and with it the whole musical, Dionysian foundation of tragedy? As something incidental, a reminder of tragedy’s origin that could easily be done without. Yet we have seen that the chorus can be understood only as the cause of tragedy and of the tragic in general. The awkwardness about the chorus already appears in Sophocles. This is an important sign that tragedy’s Dionysian ground is already beginning to crumble in his work. He no longer dares to entrust the main effect to the chorus. Instead, he limits its scope so much that it now seems almost on the same level as the actors, as though it had been lifted out of the orchestra and onto the stage. This completely destroys its nature, even if Aristotle approves precisely this conception of the chorus. Sophocles recommended this shift in the chorus’ position through his practice, at any rate, and, according to tradition, even in a written work. It is the first step toward the chorus’ destruction. The stages of this destruction follow one another with frightening speed in Euripides, Agathon, and the newer comedy. Optimistic dialectic uses its chains of inference as a whip to drive music out of tragedy. In other words, it destroys tragedy’s nature. That nature can be understood only as the manifestation and translation into images of Dionysian states, as the visible symbolization of music, as the dream world of Dionysian intoxication.
We therefore have to assume that an anti-Dionysian tendency was at work even before Socrates, and merely found an expression of unprecedented power in him. If so, we must not shrink from asking what a phenomenon like Socrates points toward. After all, in the face of Plato’s dialogues we cannot understand him as a merely destructive, negative power. The immediate effect of the Socratic drive certainly tended toward the breakdown of Dionysian tragedy. Yet a profound experience in Socrates’ own life forces us to ask whether Socratism and art necessarily stand only at opposite poles, and whether the birth of an “artistic Socrates” would really be self-contradictory.
For this tyrannical logician did sometimes feel, in relation to art, a gap, an emptiness, a half reproach, a duty he might have neglected. As he tells his friends in prison, the same dream vision often came to him, always saying the same thing: “Socrates, practice music!” Until his last days, he reassures himself with the thought that his philosophy is the highest art of the Muses. He does not really believe that a deity would remind him to practice that “common, popular music.” Finally, in prison, to relieve his conscience completely, he agrees to practice even this music he thinks so little of. In this spirit he writes a hymn of introduction to Apollo and puts some Aesopian fables into verse. Something like his warning divine voice drove him to these exercises. It was his Apollonian insight that, like a barbarian king, he did not understand a noble image of a god and risked offending a deity—through his failure to understand. Those words from Socrates’ dream vision are the only sign of a misgiving about the limits of the logical nature. Perhaps, he must have asked himself, what I cannot understand is not necessarily unreasonable? Perhaps there is a realm of wisdom from which the logician is excluded? Perhaps art is even a necessary counterpart and supplement to science?
About this section
Section 14 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 22 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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