An Attempt at Self-Criticism, Section 3
Original German
Nochmals gesagt, heute ist es mir ein unmögliches Buch,—ich heisse es schlecht geschrieben, schwerfällig, peinlich, bilderwüthig und bilderwirrig, gefühlsam, hier und da verzuckert bis zum Femininischen, ungleich im Tempo, ohne Willen zur logischen Sauberkeit, sehr überzeugt und deshalb des Beweisens sich überhebend, misstrauisch selbst gegen die Schicklichkeit des Beweisens, als Buch für Eingeweihte, als „Musik“ für Solche, die auf Musik getauft, die auf gemeinsame und seltene Kunst-Erfahrungen hin von Anfang der Dinge an verbunden sind, als Erkennungszeichen für Blutsverwandte in artibus,—ein hochmüthiges und schwärmerisches Buch, das sich gegen das profanum vulgus der „Gebildeten“ von vornherein noch mehr als gegen das „Volk“ abschliesst, welches aber, wie seine Wirkung bewies und beweist, sich gut genug auch darauf verstehen muss, sich seine Mitschwärmer zu suchen und sie auf neue Schleichwege und Tanzplätze zu locken. Hier redete jedenfalls—das gestand man sich mit Neugierde ebenso als mit Abneigung ein—eine fremde Stimme, der Jünger eines noch „unbekannten Gottes“, der sich einstweilen unter die Kapuze des Gelehrten, unter die Schwere und dialektische Unlustigkeit des Deutschen, selbst unter die schlechten Manieren des Wagnerianers versteckt hat; hier war ein Geist mit fremden, noch namenlosen Bedürfnissen, ein Gedächtniss strotzend von Fragen, Erfahrungen, Verborgenheiten, welchen der Name Dionysos wie ein Fragezeichen mehr beigeschrieben war; hier sprach—so sagte man sich mit Argwohn—etwas wie eine mystische und beinahe mänadische Seele, die mit Mühsal und willkürlich, fast unschlüssig darüber, ob sie sich mittheilen oder verbergen wolle, gleichsam in einer fremden Zunge stammelt. Sie hätte singen sollen, diese „neue Seele“—und nicht reden! Wie schade, dass ich, was ich damals zu sagen hatte, es nicht als Dichter zu sagen wagte: ich hätte es vielleicht gekonnt! Oder mindestens als Philologe:—bleibt doch auch heute noch für den Philologen auf diesem Gebiete beinahe Alles zu entdecken und auszugraben! Vor allem das Problem, dass hier ein Problem vorliegt,—und dass die Griechen, so lange wir keine Antwort auf die Frage „was ist dionysisch?“ haben, nach wie vor gänzlich unerkannt und unvorstellbar sind…
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.
To say it once more: today it is an impossible book to me—I call it badly written, ponderous, embarrassing, image-mad and image-muddled, sentimental, here and there sweetened to the point of femininity, uneven in tempo, without any will to logical precision, thoroughly convinced and therefore above offering proof, distrustful even of the propriety of offering proof: a book for the initiated, “music” for those baptized in music, those bound together from the beginning of things by shared and rare experiences of art, a sign of recognition for blood relations in the arts—a haughty and rapturous book that shuts itself off from the outset even more against the profane rabble of the “educated” than against “the people,” yet must also, as its effect proved and proves, know well enough how to find fellow enthusiasts and lure them onto new secret paths and dancing grounds. Here, in any case—people admitted this to themselves with as much curiosity as aversion—a strange voice was speaking, the disciple of a still “unknown god,” who had temporarily hidden himself beneath the scholar’s hood, beneath the heaviness and dialectical dreariness of the German, even beneath the bad manners of the Wagnerian; here was a spirit with strange, still nameless needs, a memory brimming with questions, experiences, hidden things, with the name Dionysus inscribed beside them like one more question mark; here there spoke—so people told themselves suspiciously—something like a mystical and almost maenadic soul, stammering, as if in a foreign tongue, laboriously and capriciously, almost undecided whether to communicate or conceal itself. This “new soul” should have sung—not spoken! What a pity that I did not dare to say as a poet what I had to say then: perhaps I could have done it! Or at least as a philologist—for even today, in this field, almost everything remains for the philologist to discover and unearth! Above all, the problem that there is a problem here—and that until we have an answer to the question “what is Dionysian?” the Greeks remain, as before, utterly unknown and beyond imagining…
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.
To say it again, today I find it an impossible book. I call it badly written, clumsy, embarrassing, wild about images and confused by them, emotional, here and there sugary to the point of femininity, uneven in pace, with no desire for clean logic. It is very sure of itself and therefore considers proof beneath it; it even distrusts the propriety of proving things. It is a book for the initiated, “music” for people baptized into music, people joined together from the beginning of things by shared and rare experiences of art. It is a badge of recognition for blood relatives in the arts. It is an arrogant, overenthusiastic book. From the start it shuts itself off from the uninitiated mass of the “educated” even more than from “the people.” Yet, as its effect proved and still proves, it must also know well enough how to seek out fellow enthusiasts and lure them onto new hidden paths and dancing grounds. In any case, a foreign voice was speaking here. People admitted that to themselves with both curiosity and dislike. It was the voice of a disciple of a still “unknown god,” who had temporarily hidden under a scholar’s hood, under German heaviness and humorless dialectic, even under a Wagnerian’s bad manners. Here was a mind with foreign needs that still had no name, a memory bursting with questions, experiences, and hidden things, beside which the name Dionysus had been written like one more question mark. Here, people suspiciously told themselves, something like a mystical, almost maenad-like soul was speaking. Painfully and arbitrarily, almost unable to decide whether it wanted to reveal or hide itself, it stammered as if in a foreign language. This “new soul” should have sung, not spoken! What a pity I did not dare to say as a poet what I had to say then. Perhaps I could have done it! Or at least as a scholar of ancient language and literature. Even today, almost everything in this field remains for such a scholar to discover and dig up! Above all, the problem that there is a problem here. And that, as long as we have no answer to the question “what is Dionysian?”, the Greeks remain completely unknown and impossible to imagine…
About this section
An Attempt at Self-Criticism, Section 3 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 3 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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