Section 25

Music and tragic myth are equally expressions of a people’s Dionysian capacity, and are inseparable from each other. Both spring from a realm of art that lies beyond the Apollonian; both transfigure a region in whose chords of delight dissonance, like the terrifying image of the world, dies away enchantingly; both play with the sting of distress, trusting in their overwhelmingly powerful magic arts; both, through this play, justify the existence of even the “worst world.” Here the Dionysian, measured against the Apollonian, reveals itself as the eternal and original artistic power that calls the entire world of appearance into existence. In its midst a new transfiguring semblance becomes necessary to hold the animated world of individuation fast in life. If we could imagine dissonance becoming human—and what else is the human being?—then, in order to live, this dissonance would need a magnificent illusion to spread a veil of beauty over its own nature. This is the true artistic aim of Apollo, under whose name we gather all those countless illusions of beautiful semblance that at every moment make existence itself worth living and urge us to experience the next moment.

At the same time, of that foundation of all existence, that Dionysian ground of the world, precisely only so much may enter the human individual’s consciousness as can in turn be overcome by that Apollonian power of transfiguration. Thus these two artistic drives are compelled to unfold their powers in strict mutual proportion, according to the law of eternal justice. Where the Dionysian powers rise as impetuously as we are experiencing them, Apollo too must already have descended to us, veiled in a cloud; his most luxuriant effects of beauty will probably be seen by a coming generation.

But anyone would most surely feel, through intuition, that this effect is necessary if he once felt himself transported back, even if only in a dream, into an ancient Hellenic existence: walking beneath tall Ionic colonnades, looking up toward a horizon bounded by pure and noble lines, beside him reflections of his transfigured form in gleaming marble, all around him people striding solemnly or moving delicately, with harmoniously sounding voices and a rhythmic language of gesture—amid this ceaseless influx of beauty, would he not have to raise his hand to Apollo and cry: “Blessed people of the Hellenes! How great Dionysus must be among you, if the Delian god considers such enchantments necessary to heal your dithyrambic madness!”—But an aged Athenian, looking up at him with the sublime eye of Aeschylus, might reply to someone in this mood: “But say this too, you curious stranger: how much this people must have suffered to be able to become so beautiful! Now, though, follow me to the tragedy, and sacrifice with me in the temple of both divinities!”

Music and tragic myth equally express a people’s Dionysian capacity and cannot be separated. Both come from an artistic realm beyond the Apollonian. Both transfigure a region in whose chords of pleasure dissonance, like the terrifying picture of the world, fades away with a seductive sound. Both play with the sting of distress, trusting their extraordinarily powerful magic. Through this play, both justify the existence even of the “worst world.” Here, measured against the Apollonian, the Dionysian reveals itself as the eternal and original artistic power that calls the whole world of appearances into existence. Within that world a new, transfiguring semblance becomes necessary to keep the living world of individual existence attached to life. If we could imagine dissonance becoming human—and what else is a human being?—that dissonance would need a splendid illusion in order to live, an illusion covering its own nature with a veil of beauty. This is Apollo’s true artistic purpose. Under his name we gather all those countless illusions of beautiful seeming that make existence worth living at every moment and urge us to experience the next one.

Yet only so much of that foundation of all existence, the world’s Dionysian ground, may enter an individual’s consciousness as the Apollonian power of transfiguration can overcome again. These two artistic drives are therefore forced to develop their strengths in strict proportion to each other, according to the law of eternal justice. Where the Dionysian powers rise as violently as we are witnessing, Apollo must already have descended to us wrapped in a cloud. A coming generation will probably see the richest effects of his beauty.

Anyone could feel most surely, through intuition, why that effect is necessary if he once felt himself transported back into ancient Greek life, even in a dream. Imagine walking beneath tall Ionic colonnades, looking up toward a horizon cut off by pure and noble lines, with reflections of your transfigured figure beside you in shining marble. All around are people walking solemnly or moving gently, their voices sounding harmoniously and their gestures moving in rhythm. With beauty continually pouring in like this, would you not have to raise your hand to Apollo and cry: “How fortunate you Greek people are! How great Dionysus must be among you, if the Delian god thinks such spells necessary to heal your dithyrambic madness!” But an old Athenian, looking up at someone in this mood with Aeschylus’s sublime gaze, might reply: “But say this too, strange visitor: how much this people must have suffered to become so beautiful! Now follow me to tragedy, and sacrifice with me in the temple of both gods!”