Section 24
Original German
Wir hatten unter den eigenthümlichen Kunstwirkungen der musikalischen Tragödie eine apollinische Täuschung hervorzuheben, durch die wir vor dem unmittelbaren Einssein mit der dionysischen Musik gerettet werden sollen, während unsre musikalische Erregung sich auf einem apollinischen Gebiete und an einer dazwischengeschobenen sichtbaren Mittelwelt entladen kann. Dabei glaubten wir beobachtet zu haben, wie eben durch diese Entladung jene Mittelwelt des scenischen Vorgangs, überhaupt das Drama, in einem Grade von innen heraus sichtbar und verständlich wurde, der in aller sonstigen, apollinischen Kunst unerreichbar ist: so dass wir hier, wo diese gleichsam durch den Geist der Musik beschwingt und emporgetragen war, die höchste Steigerung ihrer Kräfte und somit in jenem Bruderbunde des Apollo und des Dionysus die Spitze ebensowohl der apollinischen als der dionysischen Kunstabsichten anerkennen mussten.
Freilich erreichte das apollinische Lichtbild gerade bei der inneren Beleuchtung durch die Musik nicht die eigenthümliche Wirkung der schwächeren Grade apollinischer Kunst; was das Epos oder der beseelte Stein vermögen, das anschauende Auge zu jenem ruhigen Entzücken an der Welt der individuatio zu zwingen, das wollte sich hier, trotz einer höheren Beseeltheit und Deutlichkeit, nicht erreichen lassen. Wir schauten das Drama an und drangen mit bohrendem Blick in seine innere bewegte Welt der Motive—und doch war uns, als ob nur ein Gleichnissbild an uns vorüberzöge, dessen tiefsten Sinn wir fast zu errathen glaubten und das wir, wie einen Vorhang, fortzuziehen wünschten, um hinter ihm das Urbild zu erblicken. Die hellste Deutlichkeit des Bildes genügte uns nicht: denn dieses schien eben sowohl Etwas zu offenbaren als zu verhüllen; und während es mit seiner gleichnissartigen Offenbarung zum Zerreissen des Schleiers, zur Enthüllung des geheimnissvollen Hintergrundes aufzufordern schien, hielt wiederum gerade jene durchleuchtete Allsichtbarkeit das Auge gebannt und wehrte ihm, tiefer zu dringen.
Wer dies nicht erlebt hat, zugleich schauen zu müssen und zugleich über das Schauen hinaus sich zu sehnen, wird sich schwerlich vorstellen, wie bestimmt und klar diese beiden Prozesse bei der Betrachtung des tragischen Mythus nebeneinander bestehen und nebeneinander empfunden werden: während die wahrhaft aesthetischen Zuschauer mir bestätigen werden, dass unter den eigenthümlichen Wirkungen der Tragödie jenes Nebeneinander die merkwürdigste sei. Man übertrage sich nun dieses Phänomen des aesthetischen Zuschauers in einen analogen Process im tragischen Künstler, und man wird die Genesis des tragischen Mythus verstanden haben. Er theilt mit der apollinischen Kunstsphäre die volle Lust am Schein und am Schauen und zugleich verneint er diese Lust und hat eine noch höhere Befriedigung an der Vernichtung der sichtbaren Scheinwelt. Der Inhalt des tragischen Mythus ist zunächst ein episches Ereigniss mit der Verherrlichung des kämpfenden Helden: woher stammt aber jener an sich räthselhafte Zug, dass das Leiden im Schicksale des Helden, die schmerzlichsten Ueberwindungen, die qualvollsten Gegensätze der Motive, kurz die Exemplification jener Weisheit des Silen, oder, aesthetisch ausgedrückt, das Hässliche und Disharmonische, in so zahllosen Formen, mit solcher Vorliebe immer von Neuem dargestellt wird und gerade in dem üppigsten und jugendlichsten Alter eines Volkes, wenn nicht gerade an diesem Allen eine höhere Lust percipirt wird?
Denn dass es im Leben wirklich so tragisch zugeht, würde am wenigsten die Entstehung einer Kunstform erklären; wenn anders die Kunst nicht nur Nachahmung der Naturwirklichkeit, sondern gerade ein metaphysisches Supplement der Naturwirklichkeit ist, zu deren Ueberwindung neben sie gestellt. Der tragische Mythus, sofern er überhaupt zur Kunst gehört, nimmt auch vollen Antheil an dieser metaphysischen Verklärungsabsicht der Kunst überhaupt: was verklärt er aber, wenn er die Erscheinungswelt unter dem Bilde des leidenden Helden vorführt; die „Realität“ dieser Erscheinungswelt am wenigsten, denn er sagt uns gerade: „Seht hin! Seht genau hin! Dies ist euer Leben! Dies ist der Stundenzeiger an eurer Daseinsuhr!“
Und dieses Leben zeigte der Mythus, um es vor uns damit zu verklären? Wenn aber nicht, worin liegt dann die aesthetische Lust, mit der wir auch jene Bilder an uns vorüberziehen lassen? Ich frage nach der aesthetischen Lust und weiss recht wohl, dass viele dieser Bilder ausserdem mitunter noch eine moralische Ergetzung, etwa unter der Form des Mitleides oder eines sittlichen Triumphes, erzeugen können. Wer die Wirkung des Tragischen aber allein aus diesen moralischen Quellen ableiten wollte, wie es freilich in der Aesthetik nur allzu lange üblich war, der mag nur nicht glauben, etwas für die Kunst damit gethan zu haben: die vor Allem Reinheit in ihrem Bereiche verlangen muss. Für die Erklärung des tragischen Mythus ist es gerade die erste Forderung, die ihm eigenthümliche Lust in der rein aesthetischen Sphäre zu suchen, ohne in das Gebiet des Mitleids, der Furcht, des Sittlich-Erhabenen überzugreifen. Wie kann das Hässliche und das Disharmonische, der Inhalt des tragischen Mythus, eine aesthetische Lust erregen?
Hier nun wird es nöthig, uns mit einem kühnen Anlauf in eine Metaphysik der Kunst hinein zu schwingen, indem ich den früheren Satz wiederhole, dass nur als ein aesthetisches Phänomen das Dasein und die Welt gerechtfertigt erscheint: in welchem Sinne uns gerade der tragische Mythus zu überzeugen hat, dass selbst das Hässliche und Disharmonische ein künstlerisches Spiel ist, welches der Wille, in der ewigen Fülle seiner Lust, mit sich selbst spielt. Dieses schwer zu fassende Urphänomen der dionysischen Kunst wird aber auf directem Wege einzig verständlich und unmittelbar erfasst in der wunderbaren Bedeutung der musikalischen Dissonanz: wie überhaupt die Musik, neben die Welt hingestellt, allein einen Begriff davon geben kann, was unter der Rechtfertigung der Welt als eines aesthetischen Phänomens zu verstehen ist. Die Lust, die der tragische Mythus erzeugt, hat eine gleiche Heimat, wie die lustvolle Empfindung der Dissonanz in der Musik. Das Dionysische, mit seiner selbst am Schmerz percipirten Urlust, ist der gemeinsame Geburtsschooss der Musik und des tragischen Mythus.
Sollte sich nicht inzwischen dadurch, dass wir die Musikrelation der Dissonanz zu Hülfe nahmen, jenes schwierige Problem der tragischen Wirkung wesentlich erleichtert haben? Verstehen wir doch jetzt, was es heissen will, in der Tragödie zugleich schauen zu wollen und sich über das Schauen hinaus zu sehnen: welchen Zustand wir in Betreff der künstlerisch verwendeten Dissonanz eben so zu charakterisiren hätten, dass wir hören wollen und über das Hören uns zugleich hinaussehnen. Jenes Streben in's Unendliche, der Flügelschlag der Sehnsucht, bei der höchsten Lust an der deutlich percipirten Wirklichkeit, erinnern daran, dass wir in beiden Zuständen ein dionysisches Phänomen zu erkennen haben, das uns immer von Neuem wieder das spielende Aufbauen und Zertrümmern der Individualwelt als den Ausfluss einer Urlust offenbart, in einer ähnlichen Weise, wie wenn von Heraklit dem Dunklen die weltbildende Kraft einem Kinde verglichen wird, das spielend Steine hin und her setzt und Sandhaufen aufbaut und wieder einwirft.
Um also die dionysische Befähigung eines Volkes richtig abzuschätzen, dürften wir nicht nur an die Musik des Volkes, sondern eben so nothwendig an den tragischen Mythus dieses Volkes als den zweiten Zeugen jener Befähigung zu denken haben. Es ist nun, bei dieser engsten Verwandtschaft zwischen Musik und Mythus, in gleicher Weise zu vermuthen, dass mit einer Entartung und Depravation des Einen eine Verkümmerung der Anderen verbunden sein wird: wenn anders in der Schwächung des Mythus überhaupt eine Abschwächung des dionysischen Vermögens zum Ausdruck kommt. Ueber Beides dürfte uns aber ein Blick auf die Entwicklung des deutschen Wesens nicht in Zweifel lassen: in der Oper wie in dem abstracten Charakter unseres mythenlosen Daseins, in einer zur Ergetzlichkeit herabgesunkenen Kunst, wie in einem vom Begriff geleiteten Leben, hatte sich uns jene gleich unkünstlerische, als am Leben zehrende Natur des sokratischen Optimismus enthüllt. Zu unserem Troste aber gab es Anzeichen dafür, dass trotzdem der deutsche Geist in herrlicher Gesundheit, Tiefe und dionysischer Kraft unzerstört, gleich einem zum Schlummer niedergesunknen Ritter, in einem unzugänglichen Abgrunde ruhe und träume: aus welchem Abgrunde zu uns das dionysische Lied emporsteigt, um uns zu verstehen zu geben, dass dieser deutsche Ritter auch jetzt noch seinen uralten dionysischen Mythus in selig-ernsten Visionen träumt. Glaube Niemand, dass der deutsche Geist seine mythische Heimat auf ewig verloren habe, wenn er so deutlich noch die Vogelstimmen versteht, die von jener Heimat erzählen. Eines Tages wird er sich wach finden, in aller Morgenfrische eines ungeheuren Schlafes: dann wird er Drachen tödten, die tückischen Zwerge vernichten und Brünnhilde erwecken—und Wotan's Speer selbst wird seinen Weg nicht hemmen können!
Meine Freunde, ihr, die ihr an die dionysische Musik glaubt, ihr wisst auch, was für uns die Tragödie bedeutet. In ihr haben wir, wiedergeboren aus der Musik, den tragischen Mythus—und in ihm dürft ihr Alles hoffen und das Schmerzlichste vergessen! Das Schmerzlichste aber ist für uns alle—die lange Entwürdigung, unter der der deutsche Genius, entfremdet von Haus und Heimat, im Dienst tückischer Zwerge lebte. Ihr versteht das Wort—wie ihr auch, zum Schluss, meine Hoffnungen verstehen werdet.
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.
Among the distinctive artistic effects of musical tragedy, we had to single out an Apollonian illusion intended to save us from immediate oneness with Dionysian music, while allowing our musical excitement to discharge itself in an Apollonian realm, upon an intervening, visible intermediate world. In this we believed we had observed how, precisely through this discharge, that intermediate world of events onstage—the drama as a whole—became visible and intelligible from within to a degree unattainable in all other Apollonian art. Thus here, where this art was, as it were, given wings and borne aloft by the spirit of music, we had to recognize the highest intensification of its powers, and therefore, in that fraternal alliance of Apollo and Dionysus, the summit of both Apollonian and Dionysian artistic aims.
Yet precisely in being illuminated from within by music, the luminous Apollonian image did not attain the distinctive effect of the lesser degrees of Apollonian art. What the epic or the animated stone can accomplish—compelling the contemplating eye to that calm rapture in the world of individuation—could not be achieved here, despite a greater animation and clarity. We watched the drama and penetrated with a probing gaze into its inner, moving world of motives—and yet we felt as though only a figurative image were passing before us, whose deepest meaning we believed we could almost divine, and which we wished to draw aside like a curtain, to see the original image behind it. The brightest clarity of the image did not satisfy us, for it seemed to reveal something and conceal it in equal measure. And while its figurative revelation seemed to invite us to tear the veil apart and uncover the mysterious background, that very illuminated visibility of everything held the eye spellbound in turn and prevented it from penetrating deeper.
Anyone who has not experienced this simultaneous necessity to behold and longing to go beyond beholding will scarcely imagine how distinctly and clearly these two processes coexist and are felt side by side in contemplating tragic myth; whereas truly aesthetic spectators will confirm for me that, among the distinctive effects of tragedy, this coexistence is the most remarkable. Now transpose this phenomenon of the aesthetic spectator into an analogous process in the tragic artist, and the genesis of tragic myth will be understood. It shares with the Apollonian artistic sphere the full delight in semblance and beholding, and at the same time negates this delight and finds a still higher satisfaction in annihilating the visible world of semblance. The content of tragic myth is, first of all, an epic event glorifying the hero in his struggle. But what is the source of that intrinsically puzzling trait: that the suffering in the hero’s fate, the most painful acts of overcoming, the most tormenting conflicts of motives—in short, the exemplification of that wisdom of Silenus, or, in aesthetic terms, the ugly and disharmonious—are represented in such countless forms, with such fondness, again and again, and precisely in a people’s most luxuriant and youthful age, unless a higher delight is perceived in all these very things?
For the fact that life really does proceed so tragically would be the least adequate explanation for the genesis of an art form—if art is not merely an imitation of natural reality, but precisely a metaphysical supplement to natural reality, set beside it for its overcoming. Insofar as tragic myth belongs to art at all, it also shares fully in this metaphysical aim of transfiguration that belongs to art as a whole. But what does it transfigure when it presents the world of appearance in the image of the suffering hero? Least of all the “reality” of this world of appearance, for it tells us precisely: “Look! Look closely! This is your life! This is the hour hand on the clock of your existence!”
And did myth show us this life in order thereby to transfigure it before us? But if not, where does the aesthetic delight lie with which we let these images, too, pass before us? I am asking about aesthetic delight, and I know very well that many of these images can sometimes also produce a moral gratification, perhaps in the form of pity or a moral triumph. But anyone who would derive the effect of the tragic solely from these moral sources, as has indeed been customary in aesthetics for all too long, should not imagine that he has thereby done anything for art, which must demand purity in its domain above all. In explaining tragic myth, the very first requirement is to seek its distinctive delight in the purely aesthetic sphere, without encroaching on the territory of pity, fear, or the morally sublime. How can the ugly and the disharmonious, the content of tragic myth, arouse an aesthetic delight?
Here it becomes necessary to take a bold running leap into a metaphysics of art, as I repeat the earlier proposition that only as an aesthetic phenomenon do existence and the world appear justified. In this sense, tragic myth in particular must convince us that even the ugly and disharmonious are an artistic game the will plays with itself in the eternal fullness of its delight. Yet this elusive primordial phenomenon of Dionysian art becomes intelligible by a direct route, and is immediately grasped, only in the wondrous significance of musical dissonance: just as music in general, set beside the world, alone can give a conception of what is meant by the justification of the world as an aesthetic phenomenon. The delight produced by tragic myth has the same home as the pleasurable sensation of dissonance in music. The Dionysian, with its primordial delight perceived even in pain, is the common womb from which music and tragic myth are born.
Might we not meanwhile have substantially eased that difficult problem of the tragic effect by enlisting the help of dissonance as a musical relation? For we now understand what it means, in tragedy, to wish at once to behold and to long to go beyond beholding. With regard to dissonance used artistically, we would have to characterize this same state by saying that we wish to hear and at the same time long to go beyond hearing. That striving into the infinite, the wingbeat of longing, amid the highest delight in clearly perceived reality, reminds us that in both states we must recognize a Dionysian phenomenon, which reveals to us again and again the playful building and shattering of the individual world as the outflow of a primordial delight—much as when Heraclitus the Obscure compares the world-forming power to a child who, at play, sets stones here and there and builds up heaps of sand only to knock them down again.
To assess a people’s Dionysian capacity correctly, then, we would have to consider not only its music but, just as necessarily, its tragic myth as the second witness to that capacity. Given this closest kinship between music and myth, we may likewise suppose that a degeneration and debasement of the one will be accompanied by a withering of the other—if indeed a weakening of myth expresses a weakening of Dionysian power at all. Yet a glance at the development of the German nature should leave us in no doubt about either: in opera as in the abstract character of our mythless existence, in an art sunk to mere amusement as in a life guided by concepts, that nature of Socratic optimism, as inartistic as it is corrosive of life, had revealed itself to us. To console us, however, there were signs that despite all this the German spirit rests and dreams in an inaccessible abyss, undestroyed in its magnificent health, depth, and Dionysian strength, like a knight who has sunk into slumber. From this abyss the Dionysian song rises to us, to let us understand that even now this German knight still dreams his age-old Dionysian myth in blissfully solemn visions. Let no one believe that the German spirit has lost its mythical home forever, when it still understands so clearly the birds’ voices that tell of that home. One day it will find itself awake, in all the morning freshness of an immense sleep: then it will kill dragons, annihilate the treacherous dwarfs, and awaken Brünnhilde—and even Wotan’s spear will be powerless to bar its way!
My friends, you who believe in Dionysian music, you also know what tragedy means for us. In it we have tragic myth, reborn from music—and in that myth you may hope for everything and forget what is most painful! But what is most painful for all of us is—the long degradation under which the German genius lived, estranged from house and home, in the service of treacherous dwarfs. You understand these words—as, in the end, you will also understand my hopes.
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.
Among musical tragedy’s distinctive artistic effects, we had to emphasize an Apollonian illusion. It is meant to save us from becoming directly one with Dionysian music, while allowing our musical excitement to discharge itself in an Apollonian realm, through a visible intermediate world placed between us and the music. We thought we had observed that this very discharge made that intermediate world of the action onstage—the drama altogether—visible and understandable from within to a degree unattainable in any other Apollonian art. Here that art seemed to have been given wings and raised up by the spirit of music. We therefore had to recognize the highest intensification of its powers, and see in that brotherly alliance of Apollo and Dionysus the summit of both Apollonian and Dionysian artistic aims.
Yet precisely when music illuminated the Apollonian image from within, the image failed to produce the distinctive effect of weaker degrees of Apollonian art. An epic or a stone brought to life can compel the watching eye toward calm delight in the world of individual existence. Here that result could not be achieved, despite greater vitality and clarity. We watched the drama and penetrated its moving inner world of motives with a searching gaze. Yet we felt as though only a symbolic image were passing before us, whose deepest meaning we thought we could almost guess. We wanted to pull it aside like a curtain to see the original image behind it. The picture’s greatest clarity did not satisfy us, because it seemed to reveal something and conceal something at the same time. Its revelation through images seemed to invite us to tear the veil and uncover the mysterious background. But that very complete, illuminated visibility held our eyes spellbound and stopped them from penetrating deeper.
Someone who has never experienced this need to look and at the same time long to go beyond looking will hardly be able to imagine how distinctly and clearly these two processes coexist, and are felt together, in contemplating tragic myth. Genuinely aesthetic spectators will confirm that this coexistence is the most remarkable of tragedy’s distinctive effects. Now transfer this experience of the aesthetic spectator to an analogous process in the tragic artist, and you will understand the origin of tragic myth. It shares with the Apollonian artistic realm the full pleasure of seeming and looking. At the same time it denies that pleasure and finds still higher satisfaction in destroying the visible world of seeming. Tragic myth’s immediate content is an epic event glorifying a struggling hero. But where does its puzzling characteristic come from? Why are the sufferings in the hero’s fate, the most painful acts of overcoming, the most agonizing conflicts between motives—in short, examples of Silenus’s wisdom, or, in aesthetic terms, the ugly and the disharmonious—repeatedly represented in countless forms with such fondness, precisely during a people’s most flourishing and youthful age? Must it not be because a higher pleasure is perceived in all this?
That life really is so tragic would do very little to explain the origin of an art form. After all, art is not merely an imitation of natural reality. It is a metaphysical addition to natural reality, placed beside it in order to overcome it. Insofar as tragic myth belongs to art at all, it fully shares this metaphysical aim of transfiguration that belongs to art as a whole. But what does it transfigure when it presents the world of appearances through the image of a suffering hero? Least of all the “reality” of that world of appearances, since it tells us precisely: “Look! Look closely! This is your life! This is the hour hand on the clock of your existence!”
Did myth show this life in order to transfigure it for us by doing so? If not, where does the aesthetic pleasure lie with which we let these images too pass before us? I am asking about aesthetic pleasure. I know very well that many of these images can sometimes also produce moral enjoyment, perhaps in the form of compassion or a moral triumph. But anyone wanting to derive the tragic effect solely from these moral sources, as has been customary in aesthetics for far too long, should not imagine that he has thereby done something for art. Art must demand purity in its own realm above all. The first requirement in explaining tragic myth is precisely to seek its distinctive pleasure within the purely aesthetic sphere, without straying into compassion, fear, or moral sublimity. How can the ugly and the disharmonious, the content of tragic myth, awaken aesthetic pleasure?
Here we need to make a bold leap into a metaphysics of art. I repeat the earlier proposition that existence and the world appear justified only as an aesthetic phenomenon. In this sense, tragic myth in particular must convince us that even the ugly and the disharmonious are an artistic game the will plays with itself in the eternal fullness of its pleasure. This original phenomenon of Dionysian art is difficult to grasp. It becomes directly understandable and immediately accessible only through the remarkable significance of musical dissonance. More generally, music placed beside the world can alone give us an idea of what it means to justify the world as an aesthetic phenomenon. The pleasure produced by tragic myth comes from the same home as the pleasurable feeling of dissonance in music. The Dionysian, with its primal pleasure perceived even in pain, is the common womb from which music and tragic myth are born.
Have we not now made the difficult problem of the tragic effect much easier by bringing in the musical relationship of dissonance? We now understand what it means, in tragedy, to want to look and at the same time long to go beyond looking. With dissonance used artistically, we would have to describe the same state by saying that we want to hear and at the same time long to go beyond hearing. That reaching toward infinity, that beating of longing’s wings amid the greatest pleasure in clearly perceived reality, reminds us that in both states we must recognize a Dionysian phenomenon. Again and again it reveals the playful building and smashing of the world of individuals as an outpouring of primal pleasure. It is much like Heraclitus the Obscure’s comparison of the world-forming power to a child who moves stones back and forth in play, builds piles of sand, and knocks them down again.
To judge a people’s Dionysian capacity correctly, we therefore must think not only of its music. We must just as necessarily consider its tragic myth as the second witness to that capacity. Given this extremely close relationship between music and myth, we can likewise suppose that the degeneration and corruption of one will be linked to the withering of the other, if a weakening of myth expresses a weakening of Dionysian power at all. A look at the development of German life should leave us in no doubt about either. In opera and in the abstract character of our existence without myth, in art degraded to mere amusement and in a life guided by concepts, we discovered the nature of Socratic optimism: equally unartistic and destructive of life. For our comfort, however, there were signs that the German mind nevertheless rests and dreams in an inaccessible depth, undestroyed in its splendid health, depth, and Dionysian strength, like a knight who has sunk into sleep. From that depth the Dionysian song rises to us, letting us understand that this German knight still dreams his ancient Dionysian myth in visions both blessed and solemn. Let no one believe that the German mind has lost its mythical home forever, when it still understands so clearly the birds’ voices telling of that home. One day it will find itself awake, with all the freshness of morning after an immense sleep. Then it will kill dragons, destroy the treacherous dwarfs, and awaken Brünnhilde. Even Wotan’s spear will not be able to block its way!
My friends, you who believe in Dionysian music also know what tragedy means for us. In it we have tragic myth, reborn from music. In that myth you may hope for everything and forget what is most painful! What is most painful for us all is the long degradation in which German genius lived, estranged from house and home, serving treacherous dwarfs. You understand these words, just as you will understand my hopes in the end.
About this section
Section 24 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 32 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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