Section 20
Original German
Es möchte einmal, unter den Augen eines unbestochenen Richters, abgewogen werden, in welcher Zeit und in welchen Männern bisher der deutsche Geist von den Griechen zu lernen am kräftigsten gerungen hat; und wenn wir mit Zuversicht annehmen, dass dem edelsten Bildungskampfe Goethe's, Schiller's und Winckelmann's dieses einzige Lob zugesprochen werden müsste, so wäre jedenfalls hinzuzufügen, dass seit jener Zeit und den nächsten Einwirkungen jenes Kampfes, das Streben auf einer gleichen Bahn zur Bildung und zu den Griechen zu kommen, in unbegreiflicher Weise schwächer und schwächer geworden ist. Sollten wir, um nicht ganz an dem deutschen Geist verzweifeln zu müssen, nicht daraus den Schluss ziehen dürfen, dass in irgend welchem Hauptpunkte es auch jenen Kämpfern nicht gelungen sein möchte, in den Kern des hellenischen Wesens einzudringen und einen dauernden Liebesbund zwischen der deutschen und der griechischen Cultur herzustellen? So dass vielleicht ein unbewusstes Erkennen jenes Mangels auch in den ernsteren Naturen den verzagten Zweifel erregte, ob sie, nach solchen Vorgängern, auf diesem Bildungswege noch weiter wie jene und überhaupt zum Ziele kommen würden. Deshalb sehen wir seit jener Zeit das Urtheil über den Werth der Griechen für die Bildung in der bedenklichsten Weise entarten; der Ausdruck mitleidiger Ueberlegenheit ist in den verschiedensten Feldlagern des Geistes und des Ungeistes zu hören; anderwärts tändelt eine gänzlich wirkungslose Schönrednerei mit der „griechischen Harmonie“, der „griechischen Schönheit“, der „griechischen Heiterkeit“. Und gerade in den Kreisen, deren Würde es sein könnte, aus dem griechischen Strombett unermüdet, zum Heile deutscher Bildung, zu schöpfen, in den Kreisen der Lehrer an den höheren Bildungsanstalten hat man am besten gelernt, sich mit den Griechen zeitig und in bequemer Weise abzufinden, nicht selten bis zu einem sceptischen Preisgeben des hellenischen Ideals und bis zu einer gänzlichen Verkehrung der wahren Absicht aller Alterthumsstudien. Wer überhaupt in jenen Kreisen sich nicht völlig in dem Bemühen, ein zuverlässiger Corrector von alten Texten oder ein naturhistorischer Sprachmikroskopiker zu sein, erschöpft hat, der sucht vielleicht auch das griechische Alterthum, neben anderen Alterthümern, sich „historisch“ anzueignen, aber jedenfalls nach der Methode und mit den überlegenen Mienen unserer jetzigen gebildeten Geschichtsschreibung. Wenn demnach die eigentliche Bildungskraft der höheren Lehranstalten wohl noch niemals niedriger und schwächlicher gewesen ist, wie in der Gegenwart, wenn der „Journalist“, der papierne Sclave des Tages, in jeder Rücksicht auf Bildung den Sieg über den höheren Lehrer davongetragen hat, und Letzterem nur noch die bereits oft erlebte Metamorphose übrig bleibt, sich jetzt nun auch in der Sprechweise des Journalisten, mit der „leichten Eleganz“ dieser Sphäre, als heiterer gebildeter Schmetterling zu bewegen—in welcher peinlichen Verwirrung müssen die derartig Gebildeten einer solchen Gegenwart jenes Phänomen anstarren, das nur etwa aus dem tiefsten Grunde des bisher unbegriffnen hellenischen Genius analogisch zu begreifen wäre, das Wiedererwachen des dionysischen Geistes und die Wiedergeburt der Tragödie? Es giebt keine andere Kunstperiode, in der sich die sogenannte Bildung und die eigentliche Kunst so befremdet und abgeneigt gegenübergestanden hätten, als wir das in der Gegenwart mit Augen sehn. Wir verstehen es, warum eine so schwächliche Bildung die wahre Kunst hasst; denn sie fürchtet durch sie ihren Untergang. Aber sollte nicht eine ganze Art der Cultur, nämlich jene sokratisch-alexandrinische, sich ausgelebt haben, nachdem sie in eine so zierlich-schmächtige Spitze, wie die gegenwärtige Bildung ist, auslaufen konnte! Wenn es solchen Helden, wie Schiller und Goethe, nicht gelingen durfte, jene verzauberte Pforte zu erbrechen, die in den hellenischen Zauberberg führt, wenn es bei ihrem muthigsten Ringen nicht weiter gekommen ist als bis zu jenem sehnsüchtigen Blick, den die Goethische Iphigenie vom barbarischen Tauris aus nach der Heimat über das Meer hin sendet, was bliebe den Epigonen solcher Helden zu hoffen, wenn sich ihnen nicht plötzlich, an einer ganz anderen, von allen Bemühungen der bisherigen Cultur unberührten Seite die Pforte von selbst aufthäte—unter dem mystischen Klange der wiedererweckten Tragödienmusik.
Möge uns Niemand unsern Glauben an eine noch bevorstehende Wiedergeburt des hellenischen Alterthums zu verkümmern suchen; denn in ihm finden wir allein unsre Hoffnung für eine Erneuerung und Läuterung des deutschen Geistes durch den Feuerzauber der Musik. Was wüssten wir sonst zu nennen, was in der Verödung und Ermattung der jetzigen Cultur irgend welche tröstliche Erwartung für die Zukunft erwecken könnte? Vergebens spähen wir nach einer einzigen kräftig geästeten Wurzel, nach einem Fleck fruchtbaren und gesunden Erdbodens: überall Staub, Sand, Erstarrung, Verschmachten. Da möchte sich ein trostlos Vereinsamter kein besseres Symbol wählen können, als den Ritter mit Tod und Teufel, wie ihn uns Dürer gezeichnet hat, den geharnischten Ritter mit dem erzenen, harten Blicke, der seinen Schreckensweg, unbeirrt durch seine grausen Gefährten, und doch hoffnungslos, allein mit Ross und Hund zu nehmen weiss. Ein solcher Dürerscher Ritter war unser Schopenhauer: ihm fehlte jede Hoffnung, aber er wollte die Wahrheit. Es giebt nicht Seinesgleichen.—
Aber wie verändert sich plötzlich jene eben so düster geschilderte Wildniss unserer ermüdeten Cultur, wenn sie der dionysische Zauber berührt! Ein Sturmwind packt alles Abgelebte, Morsche, Zerbrochne, Verkümmerte, hüllt es wirbelnd in eine rothe Staubwolke und trägt es wie ein Geier in die Lüfte. Verwirrt suchen unsere Blicke nach dem Entschwundenen: denn was sie sehen, ist wie aus einer Versenkung an's goldne Licht gestiegen, so voll und grün, so üppig lebendig, so sehnsuchtsvoll unermesslich. Die Tragödie sitzt inmitten dieses Ueberflusses an Leben, Leid und Lust, in erhabener Entzückung, sie horcht einem fernen schwermüthigen Gesange—er erzählt von den Müttern des Seins, deren Namen lauten: Wahn, Wille, Wehe.—Ja, meine Freunde, glaubt mit mir an das dionysische Leben und an die Wiedergeburt der Tragödie. Die Zeit des sokratischen Menschen ist vorüber: kränzt euch mit Epheu, nehmt den Thyrsusstab zur Hand und wundert euch nicht, wenn Tiger und Panther sich schmeichelnd zu euren Knien niederlegen. Jetzt wagt es nur, tragische Menschen zu sein: denn ihr sollt erlöst werden. Ihr sollt den dionysischen Festzug von Indien nach Griechenland geleiten! Rüstet euch zu hartem Streite, aber glaubt an die Wunder eures Gottes!
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 it be weighed for once, before the eyes of an incorruptible judge, in what age and in which men the German spirit has so far struggled most vigorously to learn from the Greeks; and if we confidently assume that this singular praise must be awarded to the noblest struggle for culture undertaken by Goethe, Schiller, and Winckelmann, we must certainly add that, since that age and the immediate effects of that struggle, the effort to reach culture and the Greeks along the same path has, incomprehensibly, grown weaker and weaker. To keep from despairing altogether of the German spirit, may we not conclude from this that, on some essential point, even those champions may have failed to penetrate the heart of the Hellenic nature and establish an enduring bond of love between German and Greek culture? Perhaps, then, an unconscious recognition of that failure aroused, even in more serious natures, the dispiriting doubt whether, coming after such predecessors, they could advance along this path of cultivation any farther than those men had, or indeed reach the goal at all. Thus, ever since that age, we have seen judgments of the Greeks’ value for culture degenerate in the most disturbing way; expressions of pitying superiority can be heard in the most diverse camps of spirit and of spiritlessness; elsewhere, utterly ineffectual fine talk toys with “Greek harmony,” “Greek beauty,” and “Greek serenity.” And precisely in those circles whose honorable task might be to draw tirelessly from the Greek riverbed for the good of German culture, among the teachers at our higher educational institutions, people have learned better than anywhere else to settle their accounts with the Greeks early and comfortably—not infrequently to the point of skeptically abandoning the Hellenic ideal and completely reversing the true purpose of all classical studies. Anyone in those circles who has not entirely exhausted himself in the effort to be a reliable corrector of ancient texts or a natural historian peering at language through a microscope may also seek to make Greek antiquity his own “historically,” alongside other antiquities—but in any case by the method and with the superior airs of our present-day cultivated historiography. If, then, the actual power of our higher educational institutions to cultivate people has probably never been lower or feebler than it is today; if the “journalist,” the paper slave of the day, has triumphed over the teacher of higher learning in every aspect of culture, leaving the latter only the metamorphosis we have so often witnessed already, of now flitting about in his turn in the journalist’s idiom, with the “light elegance” of that sphere, as a cheerful, cultivated butterfly—in what painful bewilderment must those educated in this fashion by such an age stare at a phenomenon that could perhaps be grasped by analogy only from the deepest ground of the still-uncomprehended Hellenic genius: the reawakening of the Dionysian spirit and the rebirth of tragedy? There is no other period in art when so-called culture and art itself have faced one another with such estrangement and aversion as we see before our eyes today. We understand why so feeble a culture hates true art: it fears that art will destroy it. But might not an entire kind of civilization, the Socratic-Alexandrian, have run its course, once it could taper to so dainty and slender a point as our present culture? If even heroes such as Schiller and Goethe were not permitted to break open the enchanted gate leading into the Hellenic magic mountain; if, in their boldest struggles, they advanced no farther than that longing gaze which Goethe’s Iphigenia sends across the sea toward her homeland from barbarian Tauris—what hope would remain for the later followers of such heroes, unless the gate suddenly opened to them of its own accord, on an entirely different side, untouched by all the efforts of culture up to now—to the mystical sound of the reawakened music of tragedy?
Let no one try to diminish our faith in a rebirth of Hellenic antiquity still to come; for in that faith alone we find our hope for a renewal and purification of the German spirit through the fiery magic of music. What else could we name that, amid the desolation and exhaustion of present-day culture, might awaken any comforting expectation for the future? In vain we search for a single root branching vigorously, for a patch of fertile, healthy soil: everywhere dust, sand, rigidity, languishing. Someone left desolately alone could scarcely choose a better symbol than the knight with Death and the Devil as Dürer has drawn him for us: the armored knight with his hard, bronze-like gaze, who knows how to travel his terrifying road, undeterred by his dreadful companions and yet without hope, alone with his horse and dog. Our Schopenhauer was such a Dürer knight: he lacked all hope, but he wanted truth. There is no one like him.—
But how suddenly that wilderness of our exhausted culture, just painted in such gloomy colors, is transformed when Dionysian magic touches it! A storm wind seizes everything outworn, rotten, broken, stunted, wraps it in a whirling cloud of red dust, and carries it into the air like a vulture. Bewildered, our eyes search for what has vanished: for what they now see seems to have risen from a hidden depth into golden light, so full and green, so luxuriantly alive, so boundless in its longing. Tragedy sits amid this abundance of life, suffering, and delight, in sublime rapture, listening to a distant, sorrowful song—it tells of the Mothers of Being, whose names are Delusion, Will, Woe.—Yes, my friends, believe with me in Dionysian life and the rebirth of tragedy. The age of the Socratic human being is over: crown yourselves with ivy, take the thyrsus in your hands, and do not be surprised when tigers and panthers lie down caressingly at your knees. Only dare, now, to be tragic human beings: for you are to be redeemed. You are to escort the Dionysian procession from India to Greece! Arm yourselves for a hard struggle, but believe in the miracles of your god!
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.
At some point an impartial judge should weigh when, and through which men, the German mind has struggled hardest to learn from the Greeks. We can confidently say that Goethe, Schiller, and Winckelmann deserve this particular praise for their noble struggle to develop themselves. But we would have to add that, since their time and the immediate effects of that struggle, efforts to follow the same path toward education and the Greeks have grown weaker and weaker, for reasons we cannot understand. To avoid losing all hope in the German mind, might we conclude that even these fighters failed at some crucial point to reach the heart of Greek life and establish a lasting bond of love between German and Greek culture? Perhaps an unconscious awareness of that failure made even more serious people doubtfully ask whether, after such predecessors, they could get any further along this path of education, or reach its goal at all. Since then, we have therefore seen judgments about the Greeks’ value for education deteriorate in a deeply troubling way. People express pitying superiority in all kinds of camps, both intellectual and anti-intellectual. Elsewhere, utterly ineffective fine words play around with “Greek harmony,” “Greek beauty,” and “Greek cheerfulness.” The very people whose honorable task could be to draw tirelessly from the Greek riverbed for the good of German education—the teachers in higher educational institutions—have become especially good at settling their accounts with the Greeks early and comfortably. They often go so far as to abandon the Greek ideal with skepticism and completely reverse the true purpose of all study of antiquity. Anyone in these circles who has not used up all his energies trying to become a reliable proofreader of ancient texts or a natural historian examining language under a microscope may also try to acquire a “historical” understanding of Greek antiquity alongside other ancient cultures. But he invariably uses the methods and superior airs of our present educated historians. The actual educational power of higher institutions has probably never been lower or weaker than it is today. The “journalist,” the day’s slave made of paper, has beaten the teacher in higher education in every aspect of education. All that remains for the teacher is a transformation we have already witnessed many times: he too must now adopt the journalist’s way of speaking and the “light elegance” of that world, fluttering about as a cheerful, educated butterfly. How painfully confused people educated in this way must be when they stare at a phenomenon such as the reawakening of the Dionysian spirit and the rebirth of tragedy! It could only be understood by analogy with the deepest reaches of Greek genius, which has so far remained beyond understanding. In no other artistic period have so-called education and actual art faced each other with such estrangement and hostility as we see today. We understand why education this weak hates true art: it fears that art will destroy it. But surely an entire kind of culture—the Socratic-Alexandrian kind—must have run its course if it could taper off into such a delicate, feeble tip as our present education! Even heroes such as Schiller and Goethe were not allowed to break open the enchanted gate leading into the Greeks’ magic mountain. Their bravest struggles took them no further than the longing gaze Goethe’s Iphigenia sends from barbarian Tauris across the sea toward home. What hope would remain for the followers of such heroes if the gate did not suddenly open by itself on a completely different side, untouched by all the efforts of earlier culture—to the mystical sound of tragedy’s reawakened music?
Let no one try to undermine our belief in a rebirth of Greek antiquity that still lies ahead. That belief alone gives us hope that the German mind can be renewed and purified through music’s fiery magic. What else could we name that might awaken any comforting expectation for the future amid the desolation and exhaustion of our present culture? We look in vain for a single root with strong branches, for a patch of fertile, healthy soil. Everywhere there is dust, sand, rigidity, and withering. Someone stranded in hopeless isolation could choose no better symbol than Dürer’s knight with Death and the Devil: the armored knight with his hard, bronze gaze who knows how to travel his terrifying road, undistracted by his dreadful companions, yet without hope, alone with his horse and dog. Our Schopenhauer was such a Dürer knight. He had no hope at all, but he wanted the truth. There is no one like him.—
But how suddenly that wilderness of our exhausted culture, described in such dark colors, changes when Dionysian magic touches it! A storm wind seizes everything that is worn out, rotten, broken, or stunted. It wraps it all in a whirling red cloud of dust and carries it into the air like a vulture. Our bewildered eyes search for what has vanished. What they see looks as though it has risen from a buried depth into golden light: so full and green, so richly alive, so immeasurably filled with longing. Tragedy sits amid this abundance of life, suffering, and pleasure, in a state of sublime delight. It listens to a distant, sorrowful song. The song tells of the Mothers of Being, whose names are Delusion, Will, and Woe.—Yes, my friends, join me in believing in Dionysian life and in the rebirth of tragedy. The time of the Socratic human being is over. Crown yourselves with ivy, take the thyrsus staff in your hands, and do not be surprised when tigers and panthers lie down affectionately at your knees. Just dare now to be tragic human beings: you are to be redeemed. You are to lead the Dionysian procession from India to Greece! Prepare yourselves for a hard fight, but believe in your god’s miracles!
About this section
Section 20 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 28 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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