Section 22
Original German
Mag der aufmerksame Freund sich die Wirkung einer wahren musikalischen Tragödie rein und unvermischt, nach seinen Erfahrungen vergegenwärtigen. Ich denke das Phänomen dieser Wirkung nach beiden Seiten hin so beschrieben zu haben, dass er sich seine eignen Erfahrungen jetzt zu deuten wissen wird. Er wird sich nämlich erinnern, wie er, im Hinblick auf den vor ihm sich bewegenden Mythus, zu einer Art von Allwissenheit sich gesteigert fühlte, als ob jetzt die Sehkraft seiner Augen nicht nur eine Flächenkraft sei, sondern in's Innere zu dringen vermöge, und als ob er die Wallungen des Willens, den Kampf der Motive, den anschwellenden Strom der Leidenschaften, jetzt, mit Hülfe der Musik, gleichsam sinnlich sichtbar, wie eine Fülle lebendig bewegter Linien und Figuren vor sich sehe und damit bis in die zartesten Geheimnisse unbewusster Regungen hinabtauchen könne. Während er so einer höchsten Steigerung seiner auf Sichtbarkeit und Verklärung gerichteten Triebe bewusst wird, fühlt er doch eben so bestimmt, dass diese lange Reihe apollinischer Kunstwirkungen doch nicht jenes beglückte Verharren in willenlosem Anschauen erzeugt, das der Plastiker und der epische Dichter, also die eigentlich apollinischen Künstler, durch ihre Kunstwerke bei ihm hervorbringen: das heisst die in jenem Anschauen erreichte Rechtfertigung der Welt der individuatio, als welche die Spitze und der Inbegriff der apollinischen Kunst ist. Er schaut die verklärte Welt der Bühne und verneint sie doch. Er sieht den tragischen Helden vor sich in epischer Deutlichkeit und Schönheit und erfreut sich doch an seiner Vernichtung. Er begreift bis in's Innerste den Vorgang der Scene und flüchtet sich gern in's Unbegreifliche. Er fühlt die Handlungen des Helden als gerechtfertigt und ist doch noch mehr erhoben, wenn diese Handlungen den Urheber vernichten. Er schaudert vor den Leiden, die den Helden treffen werden und ahnt doch bei ihnen eine höhere, viel übermächtigere Lust. Er schaut mehr und tiefer als je und wünscht sich doch erblindet. Woher werden wir diese wunderbare Selbstentzweiung, dies Umbrechen der apollinischen Spitze, abzuleiten haben, wenn nicht aus dem dionysischen Zauber, der, zum Schein die apollinischen Regungen auf's Höchste reizend, doch noch diesen Ueberschwang der apollinischen Kraft in seinen Dienst zu zwingen vermag. Der tragische Mythus ist nur zu verstehen als eine Verbildlichung dionysischer Weisheit durch apollinische Kunstmittel; er führt die Welt der Erscheinung an die Grenzen, wo sie sich selbst verneint und wieder in den Schooss der wahren und einzigen Realität zurückzuflüchten sucht; wo sie dann, mit Isolden, ihren metaphysischen Schwanengesang also anzustimmen scheint:
In des Wonnemeereswogendem Schwall,in der Duft-Wellentönenden Schall,in des Weltathmenswehendem All—ertrinken—versinken—unbewusst—höchste Lust!
So vergegenwärtigen wir uns, an den Erfahrungen des wahrhaft aesthetischen Zuhörers, den tragischen Künstler selbst, wie er, gleich einer üppigen Gottheit der individuatio, seine Gestalten schafft, in welchem Sinne sein Werk kaum als „Nachahmung der Natur“ zu begreifen wäre—wie dann aber sein ungeheurer dionysischer Trieb diese ganze Welt der Erscheinungen verschlingt, um hinter ihr und durch ihre Vernichtung eine höchste künstlerische Urfreude im Schoosse des Ur-Einen ahnen zu lassen. Freilich wissen von dieser Rückkehr zur Urheimat, von dem Bruderbunde der beiden Kunstgottheiten in der Tragödie und von der sowohl apollinischen als dionysischen Erregung des Zuhörers unsere Aesthetiker nichts zu berichten, während sie nicht müde werden, den Kampf des Helden mit dem Schicksal, den Sieg der sittlichen Weltordnung oder eine durch die Tragödie bewirkte Entladung von Affecten als das eigentlich Tragische zu charakterisiren: welche Unverdrossenheit mich auf den Gedanken bringt, sie möchten überhaupt keine aesthetisch erregbaren Menschen sein und beim Anhören der Tragödie vielleicht nur als moralische Wesen in Betracht kommen. Noch nie, seit Aristoteles, ist eine Erklärung der tragischen Wirkung gegeben worden, aus der auf künstlerische Zustände, auf eine aesthetische Thätigkeit der Zuhörer geschlossen werden dürfte. Bald soll Mitleid und Furchtsamkeit durch die ernsten Vorgänge zu einer erleichternden Entladung gedrängt werden, bald sollen wir uns bei dem Sieg guter und edler Principien, bei der Aufopferung des Helden im Sinne einer sittlichen Weltbetrachtung erhoben und begeistert fühlen; und so gewiss ich glaube, dass für zahlreiche Menschen gerade das und nur das die Wirkung der Tragödie ist, so deutlich ergiebt sich daraus, dass diese alle, sammt ihren interpretirenden Aesthetikern, von der Tragödie als einer höchsten Kunst nichts erfahren haben. Jene pathologische Entladung, die Katharsis des Aristoteles, von der die Philologen nicht recht wissen, ob sie unter die medicinischen oder die moralischen Phänomene zu rechnen sei, erinnert an eine merkwürdige Ahnung Goethe's. „Ohne ein lebhaftes pathologisches Interesse“, sagt er, „ist es auch mir niemals gelungen, irgend eine tragische Situation zu bearbeiten, und ich habe sie daher lieber vermieden als aufgesucht. Sollte es wohl auch einer von den Vorzügen der Alten gewesen sein, dass das höchste Pathetische auch nur aesthetisches Spiel bei ihnen gewesen wäre, da bei uns die Naturwahrheit mitwirken muss, um ein solches Werk hervorzubringen?“ Diese so tiefsinnige letzte Frage dürfen wir jetzt, nach unseren herrlichen Erfahrungen, bejahen, nachdem wir gerade an der musikalischen Tragödie mit Staunen erlebt haben, wie wirklich das höchste Pathetische doch nur ein aesthetisches Spiel sein kann: weshalb wir glauben dürfen, dass erst jetzt das Urphänomen des Tragischen mit einigem Erfolg zu beschreiben ist. Wer jetzt noch nur von jenen stellvertretenden Wirkungen aus ausseraesthetischen Sphären zu erzählen hat und über den pathologisch-moralischen Prozess sich nicht hinausgehoben fühlt, mag nur an seiner aesthetischen Natur verzweifeln: wogegen wir ihm die Interpretation Shakespeare's nach der Manier des Gervinus und das fleissige Aufspüren der „poetischen Gerechtigkeit“ als unschuldigen Ersatz anempfehlen.
So ist mit der Wiedergeburt der Tragödie auch der aesthetische Zuhörer wieder geboren, an dessen Stelle bisher in den Theaterräumen ein seltsames Quidproquo, mit halb moralischen und halb gelehrten Ansprüchen, zu sitzen pflegte, der „Kritiker“. In seiner bisherigen Sphäre war Alles künstlich und nur mit einem Scheine des Lebens übertüncht. Der darstellende Künstler wusste in der That nicht mehr, was er mit einem solchen, kritisch sich gebärdenden Zuhörer zu beginnen habe und spähte daher, sammt dem ihn inspirirenden Dramatiker oder Operncomponisten, unruhig nach den letzten Resten des Lebens in diesem anspruchsvoll öden und zum Geniessen unfähigen Wesen. Aus derartigen „Kritikern“ bestand aber bisher das Publicum; der Student, der Schulknabe, ja selbst das harmloseste weibliche Geschöpf war wider sein Wissen bereits durch Erziehung und Journale zu einer gleichen Perception eines Kunstwerks vorbereitet. Die edleren Naturen unter den Künstlern rechneten bei einem solchen Publicum auf die Erregung moralisch-religiöser Kräfte, und der Anruf der „sittlichen Weltordnung“ trat vikarirend ein, wo eigentlich ein gewaltiger Kunstzauber den ächten Zuhörer entzücken sollte. Oder es wurde vom Dramatiker eine grossartigere, mindestens aufregende Tendenz der politischen und socialen Gegenwart so deutlich vorgetragen, dass der Zuhörer seine kritische Erschöpfung vergessen und sich ähnlichen Affecten überlassen konnte, wie in patriotischen oder kriegerischen Momenten, oder vor der Rednerbühne des Parlaments oder bei der Verurtheilung des Verbrechens und des Lasters: welche Entfremdung der eigentlichen Kunstabsichten hier und da geradezu zu einem Cultus der Tendenz führen musste. Doch hier trat ein, was bei allen erkünstelten Künsten von jeher eingetreten ist, eine reissend schnelle Depravation jener Tendenzen, so dass zum Beispiel die Tendenz, das Theater als Veranstaltung zur moralischen Volksbildung zu verwenden, die zu Schiller's Zeit ernsthaft genommen wurde, bereits unter die unglaubwürdigen Antiquitäten einer überwundenen Bildung gerechnet wird. Während der Kritiker in Theater und Concert, der Journalist in der Schule, die Presse in der Gesellschaft zur Herrschaft gekommen war, entartete die Kunst zu einem Unterhaltungsobject der niedrigsten Art, und die aesthetische Kritik wurde als das Bindemittel einer eiteln, zerstreuten, selbstsüchtigen und überdies ärmlich-unoriginalen Geselligkeit benutzt, deren Sinn jene Schopenhauerische Parabel von den Stachelschweinen zu verstehen giebt; so dass zu keiner Zeit so viel über Kunst geschwatzt und so wenig von der Kunst gehalten worden ist. Kann man aber mit einem Menschen noch verkehren, der im Stande ist, sich über Beethoven und Shakespeare zu unterhalten? Mag Jeder nach seinem Gefühl diese Frage beantworten: er wird mit der Antwort jedenfalls beweisen, was er sich unter „Bildung“ vorstellt, vorausgesetzt dass er die Frage überhaupt zu beantworten sucht und nicht vor Ueberraschung bereits verstummt ist.
Dagegen dürfte mancher edler und zarter von der Natur Befähigte, ob er gleich in der geschilderten Weise allmählich zum kritischen Barbaren geworden war, von einer eben so unerwarteten als gänzlich unverständlichen Wirkung zu erzählen haben, die etwa eine glücklich gelungene Lohengrinaufführung auf ihn ausübte: nur dass ihm vielleicht jede Hand fehlte, die ihn mahnend und deutend anfasste, so dass auch jene unbegreiflich verschiedenartige und durchaus unvergleichliche Empfindung, die ihn damals erschütterte, vereinzelt blieb und wie ein räthselhaftes Gestirn nach kurzem Leuchten erlosch. Damals hatte er geahnt, was der aesthetische Zuhörer ist.
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 the attentive friend call to mind, from his own experience, the effect of a true musical tragedy, pure and unmixed. I believe I have described both sides of this effect in such a way that he will now know how to interpret his own experiences. For he will remember how, as he watched the myth unfolding before him, he felt himself raised to a kind of omniscience, as though the power of his eyes were now not merely confined to surfaces but could penetrate within, and as though, with the help of music, he now saw the surges of the will, the struggle of motives, the swelling current of the passions before him, almost visibly embodied for the senses, as a wealth of lines and figures in living motion, and could thereby plunge down into the most delicate secrets of unconscious impulses. While he thus becomes conscious of the highest intensification of his drives toward visibility and transfiguration, he feels just as certainly that this long series of Apollonian artistic effects does not, after all, produce that blissful lingering in will-less contemplation which the sculptor and the epic poet, the properly Apollonian artists, bring about in him through their works: that is, the justification of the world of individuation attained in that contemplation, which is the summit and sum of Apollonian art. He beholds the transfigured world of the stage, and yet negates it. He sees the tragic hero before him in epic clarity and beauty, and yet delights in his annihilation. He understands the action onstage to its innermost depths, and gladly takes refuge in the incomprehensible. He feels the hero’s actions to be justified, and yet is still more uplifted when those actions destroy their author. He shudders at the sufferings that will befall the hero, and yet senses in them a higher, far more overpowering delight. He sees more, and more deeply, than ever, and yet wishes himself blind. From what are we to derive this marvelous self-division, this breaking off of the Apollonian summit, if not from Dionysian magic, which, while seeming to excite Apollonian impulses to the highest pitch, can nevertheless force even this overflowing of Apollonian power into its service? Tragic myth can be understood only as an embodiment of Dionysian wisdom in images through Apollonian artistic means; it leads the world of appearance to the limits where it negates itself and seeks to flee back into the womb of the true and only reality; where it then seems, with Isolde, to intone its metaphysical swan song in these words:
In the sea of rapture’ssurging swell,in the fragrant waves’resonant sound,in the world-breath’sbillowing universe—to drown—to sink—unconscious—highest delight!
Thus, through the experiences of the truly aesthetic listener, we picture the tragic artist himself: how, like a luxuriant deity of individuation, he creates his figures—in which sense his work could scarcely be understood as an “imitation of nature”—but how his enormous Dionysian drive then devours this entire world of appearances, so that behind it, and through its annihilation, we may sense a supreme primordial joy of art in the womb of the primordial One. Our aestheticians, of course, have nothing to tell us about this return to the primordial home, about the fraternal alliance of the two artistic divinities in tragedy, or about the listener’s simultaneously Apollonian and Dionysian excitement. Instead, they never tire of characterizing the hero’s struggle with fate, the victory of the moral world order, or a discharge of emotions brought about by tragedy as the truly tragic element. This tirelessness makes me suspect that they may not be people capable of aesthetic excitement at all, and that in listening to tragedy they may count only as moral beings. Never, since Aristotle, has an explanation of the tragic effect been given from which one could infer artistic states, an aesthetic activity on the listeners’ part. Sometimes the grave events are supposed to drive pity and fear toward a relieving discharge; sometimes we are supposed to feel uplifted and inspired by the victory of good and noble principles, by the hero’s sacrifice in the spirit of a moral view of the world. And as surely as I believe that for many people precisely this, and only this, is the effect of tragedy, it follows just as clearly that all of them, together with their interpreting aestheticians, have experienced nothing of tragedy as a supreme art. That pathological discharge, Aristotle’s catharsis, which philologists do not quite know whether to class among medical or moral phenomena, recalls a remarkable intuition of Goethe’s. “Without a lively interest in the passions,” he says, “I too have never succeeded in treating any tragic situation, and have therefore preferred to avoid rather than seek them out. Might it also have been one of the ancients’ advantages that even the highest pathos was only aesthetic play for them, whereas with us fidelity to nature must contribute to the production of such a work?” After our magnificent experiences, we may now answer this deeply searching final question in the affirmative, since precisely in musical tragedy we have experienced with amazement how even the highest pathos can really be only aesthetic play. We may therefore believe that only now can the primordial phenomenon of the tragic be described with some success. Anyone who still has nothing to report but those surrogate effects from nonaesthetic spheres, and does not feel himself raised above the pathological-moral process, may simply despair of his aesthetic nature; to him we recommend, as an innocent substitute, interpreting Shakespeare in the manner of Gervinus and diligently hunting down “poetic justice.”
Thus, with the rebirth of tragedy, the aesthetic listener too is reborn. Until now his seat in the theater had generally been occupied by a strange substitute, with half-moral, half-scholarly pretensions: the “critic.” Within the critic’s former sphere everything was artificial, merely whitewashed with a semblance of life. The performing artist truly no longer knew what to do with a listener who struck such critical poses, and therefore, together with the dramatist or opera composer who inspired him, searched anxiously for the last remnants of life in this pretentiously barren creature, incapable of enjoyment. Yet until now the audience consisted of such “critics”; the university student, the schoolboy, even the most harmless female creature had, without knowing it, already been prepared by education and newspapers to perceive a work of art in the same way. The nobler natures among artists counted on arousing moral and religious forces in such an audience, and the invocation of the “moral world order” served as a substitute where a mighty artistic enchantment should properly have enraptured the genuine listener. Or the dramatist presented some grander, or at least exciting, tendency of contemporary politics and society so clearly that the listener could forget his critical exhaustion and surrender to emotions like those felt in patriotic or warlike moments, or before the parliamentary speaker’s platform, or in the condemnation of crime and vice. This estrangement from the true purposes of art was bound, here and there, to lead outright to a cult of tendentiousness. Yet here there occurred what has always occurred with all contrived arts: those tendencies deteriorated with headlong speed, so that, for example, the aim of using the theater as an institution for the people’s moral education, taken seriously in Schiller’s time, is already counted among the discredited antiquities of an outgrown culture. While the critic had come to rule the theater and concert hall, the journalist the school, and the press society, art degenerated into an object of entertainment of the lowest kind, and aesthetic criticism was used as the binding agent of a vain, distracted, selfish, and moreover wretchedly unoriginal social life, whose meaning Schopenhauer’s parable of the porcupines helps us understand. Thus no age has chattered so much about art and thought so little of it. But can one still associate with a person capable of making conversation about Beethoven and Shakespeare? Let each answer this question as he feels: his answer will in any case reveal what he understands by “culture,” provided he attempts to answer the question at all and has not already fallen silent in astonishment.
On the other hand, many a person endowed by nature with nobler and more delicate gifts, even though he had gradually become a critical barbarian in the manner described, may have an effect to recount, as unexpected as it was utterly incomprehensible, which a felicitously successful performance of Lohengrin, for example, exerted upon him. Only perhaps there was no hand to take hold of him, admonishing and interpreting, so that even that sensation, incomprehensibly different and altogether beyond comparison, which shook him then, remained isolated, and went out like a mysterious star after a brief gleam. At that moment he had sensed what the aesthetic listener is.
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.
Let an attentive friend recall, from his own experience, the effect of a genuine musical tragedy in its pure, unmixed form. I think I have described both sides of that effect in a way that will now allow him to interpret his own experiences. He will remember that, as he watched the myth moving before him, he felt himself raised toward a kind of complete knowledge. His eyes seemed no longer limited to surfaces but able to penetrate within. With music’s help, he seemed to see the movements of the will, the struggle of motives, and the swelling stream of passions made visible to the senses, like a wealth of vividly moving lines and figures. Through them he could dive into the subtlest secrets of unconscious impulses. He becomes aware that the drives directing him toward visibility and transfiguration have been intensified to their highest degree. Yet he feels just as clearly that this long series of Apollonian artistic effects does not produce the happy lingering in contemplation free from willing that a sculptor or epic poet—the truly Apollonian artists—produces in him through art. In other words, it means the justification of the world of individual existence achieved in that contemplation, which is the summit and essence of Apollonian art. He looks at the transfigured world onstage and nevertheless denies it. He sees the tragic hero before him in epic clarity and beauty, yet takes pleasure in his destruction. He understands the action onstage to its depths, yet gladly takes refuge in what cannot be understood. He feels that the hero’s actions are justified, yet is even more uplifted when those actions destroy the person responsible for them. He shudders at the sufferings that will strike the hero, yet senses in them a higher, far more powerful pleasure. He sees more, and more deeply, than ever, yet wishes he were blind. Where should we trace this remarkable division within him, this breaking of the Apollonian summit, if not to Dionysian magic? While apparently exciting Apollonian impulses to their highest pitch, that magic can still force this overflowing Apollonian power to serve it. Tragic myth can only be understood as Dionysian wisdom put into images through Apollonian artistic means. It leads the world of appearances to the boundaries where it denies itself and tries to take refuge again in the womb of the one true reality. There it seems to join Isolde in singing this metaphysical swan song:
In the sea of delight’ssurging swell,in the waves of fragrance’sringing sound,in the world breath’sall-embracing flow—to drown—to sink—unconscious—supreme pleasure!
Through the genuinely aesthetic listener’s experiences, we thus bring the tragic artist himself before our minds. Like a richly productive god of individual existence, he creates his figures, in a sense that hardly allows us to understand his work as an “imitation of nature.” But then his immense Dionysian drive swallows this whole world of appearances. Behind that world, and through its destruction, it lets us sense a supreme original artistic joy in the womb of the primal unity. Our aesthetic thinkers have nothing to report about this return to our original home, the brotherly alliance of the two artistic gods in tragedy, or the listener’s simultaneous Apollonian and Dionysian excitement. Instead, they tirelessly describe what is truly tragic as the hero’s struggle against fate, the victory of a moral order in the world, or a release of emotions brought about by tragedy. Their persistence makes me think that they may not be people open to aesthetic excitement at all, and that perhaps they count only as moral beings when they listen to tragedy. Since Aristotle, there has never been an explanation of the tragic effect from which we could infer artistic states or aesthetic activity in listeners. Sometimes the account says that serious events drive compassion and fear toward a relieving release. Sometimes we are supposed to feel uplifted and inspired by the victory of good and noble principles, or by the hero’s sacrifice in the spirit of a moral view of the world. I certainly believe that this, and only this, is tragedy’s effect on many people. But it follows just as clearly that all these people, along with the aesthetic thinkers interpreting for them, have experienced nothing of tragedy as a supreme art. That release of troubled feelings, Aristotle’s catharsis, which philologists cannot quite decide whether to classify as a medical or a moral phenomenon, recalls a remarkable insight of Goethe’s. “Without a lively interest in suffering,” he says, “I too have never managed to work on any tragic situation, so I have preferred to avoid such situations rather than seek them out. Might one of the ancients’ advantages also have been that even the greatest emotional intensity was only aesthetic play for them, whereas for us the truth of nature must contribute to the creation of such a work?” After our splendid experiences, we can now answer this deeply thoughtful final question with yes. Musical tragedy in particular has astonished us by showing how even the greatest emotional intensity can truly be only aesthetic play. We may therefore believe that only now can the original phenomenon of the tragic be described with some success. Anyone who can still speak only of those substitute effects from outside aesthetics, and feels unable to rise above the process of suffering and moral feeling, may well despair of his aesthetic nature. We can recommend as a harmless alternative that he interpret Shakespeare in Gervinus’s manner and diligently hunt down “poetic justice.”
With the rebirth of tragedy, the aesthetic listener has also been reborn. Until now, a strange substitute usually occupied his seat in the theater: the “critic,” with pretensions that were half moral and half scholarly. In his previous sphere, everything was artificial, coated with only a semblance of life. The performing artist really no longer knew what to do with a listener who behaved so critically. Together with the playwright or opera composer who inspired him, he anxiously searched for the last traces of life in this demanding, empty being, incapable of enjoyment. Yet the audience had consisted of just such “critics.” Students, schoolboys, and even the most harmless female creature had already been prepared, without knowing it, by education and newspapers to perceive a work of art in the same way. Faced with such an audience, artists of a nobler nature counted on arousing moral and religious forces. An appeal to the “moral order of the world” served as a substitute where a powerful artistic spell should really have enchanted the genuine listener. Or the playwright presented a grander, or at least exciting, political or social tendency of the present so clearly that the listener could forget his critical exhaustion. He could then give himself to emotions like those felt in patriotic or warlike moments, before Parliament’s speakers’ platform, or when crime and vice are condemned. This estrangement from art’s actual aims sometimes had to lead to an outright cult of the message. But here, as has always happened in every artificially contrived art, those tendencies deteriorated with tremendous speed. For example, the aim of using theater as a means of morally educating the people, taken seriously in Schiller’s time, is already counted among the unbelievable relics of an education we have left behind. While the critic came to rule in theater and concert, the journalist in school, and the press in society, art deteriorated into entertainment of the lowest kind. Aesthetic criticism was used to bind together a vain, distracted, selfish, and also miserably unoriginal social world. Its meaning is revealed by Schopenhauer’s parable of the porcupines. Never has there been so much chatter about art, and so little respect for it. But can we still socialize with someone who can chat about Beethoven and Shakespeare? Let everyone answer according to his own feelings. His answer will in any case show what he means by “education”—provided he tries to answer at all and has not already been struck silent with surprise.
On the other hand, someone endowed by nature with nobler and more delicate gifts, even if he had gradually become a critical barbarian in the way described, might have a different story to tell. A successful performance of Lohengrin, for example, may have affected him in a way as unexpected as it was completely incomprehensible. Perhaps he simply lacked any guiding hand to take hold of him, warn him, and explain what had happened. So that feeling, incomprehensibly different and entirely beyond comparison, which shook him then, remained isolated. Like a mysterious star, it shone briefly and went out. For that moment, he had sensed what an aesthetic listener is.
About this section
Section 22 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 30 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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