An Attempt at Self-Criticism, Section 4
Original German
Ja, was ist dionysisch?—In diesem Buche steht eine Antwort darauf,—ein „Wissender“ redet da, der Eingeweihte und Jünger seines Gottes. Vielleicht würde ich jetzt vorsichtiger und weniger beredt von einer so schweren psychologischen Frage reden, wie sie der Ursprung der Tragödie bei den Griechen ist. Eine Grundfrage ist das Verhältniss des Griechen zum Schmerz, sein Grad von Sensibilität,—blieb dies Verhältniss sich gleich? oder drehte es sich um?—jene Frage, ob wirklich sein immer stärkeres Verlangen nach Schönheit, nach Festen, Lustbarkeiten, neuen Culten, aus Mangel, aus Entbehrung, aus Melancholie, aus Schmerz erwachsen ist? Gesetzt nämlich, gerade dies wäre wahr—und Perikles (oder Thukydides) giebt es uns in der grossen Leichenrede zu verstehen -: woher müsste dann das entgegengesetzte Verlangen, das der Zeit nach früher hervortrat, stammen, das Verlangen nach dem Hässlichen, der gute strenge Wille des älteren Hellenen zum Pessimismus, zum tragischen Mythus, zum Bilde alles Furchtbaren, Bösen, Räthselhaften, Vernichtenden, Verhängnissvollen auf dem Grunde des Daseins,—woher müsste dann die Tragödie stammen? Vielleicht aus der Lust, aus der Kraft, aus überströmender Gesundheit, aus übergrosser Fülle? Und welche Bedeutung hat dann, physiologisch gefragt, jener Wahnsinn, aus dem die tragische wie die komische Kunst erwuchs, der dionysische Wahnsinn? Wie? Ist Wahnsinn vielleicht nicht nothwendig das Symptom der Entartung, des Niedergangs, der überspäten Cultur? Giebt es vielleicht—eine Frage für Irrenärzte—Neurosen der Gesundheit? der Volks-Jugend und -Jugendlichkeit? Worauf weist jene Synthesis von Gott und Bock im Satyr? Aus welchem Selbsterlebniss, auf welchen Drang hin musste sich der Grieche den dionysischen Schwärmer und Urmenschen als Satyr denken? Und was den Ursprung des tragischen Chors betrifft: gab es in jenen Jahrhunderten, wo der griechische Leib blühte, die griechische Seele von Leben überschäumte, vielleicht endemische Entzückungen? Visionen und Hallucinationen, welche sich ganzen Gemeinden, ganzen Cultversammlungen mittheilten? Wie? wenn die Griechen, gerade im Reichthum ihrer Jugend, den Willen zum Tragischen hatten und Pessimisten waren? wenn es gerade der Wahnsinn war, um ein Wort Plato's zu gebrauchen, der die grössten Segnungen über Hellas gebracht hat? Und wenn, andererseits und umgekehrt, die Griechen gerade in den Zeiten ihrer Auflösung und Schwäche, immer optimistischer, oberflächlicher, schauspielerischer, auch nach Logik und Logisirung der Welt brünstiger, also zugleich „heiterer“ und „wissenschaftlicher“ wurden? Wie? könnte vielleicht, allen „modernen Ideen“ und Vorurtheilen des demokratischen Geschmacks zum Trotz, der Sieg des Optimismus, die vorherrschend gewordene Vernünftigkeit, der praktische und theoretische Utilitarismus, gleich der Demokratie selbst, mit der er gleichzeitig ist,—ein Symptom der absinkenden Kraft, des nahenden Alters, der physiologischen Ermüdung sein? Und gerade nicht—der Pessimismus? War Epikur ein Optimist—gerade als Leidender?— —Man sieht, es ist ein ganzes Bündel schwerer Fragen, mit dem sich dieses Buch belastet hat,—fügen wir seine schwerste Frage noch hinzu! Was bedeutet, unter der Optik des Lebens gesehn,—die Moral?…
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.
Yes, what is Dionysian?—This book contains an answer—a “knower” speaks here, the initiate and disciple of his god. Perhaps I would now speak more cautiously and less eloquently about so difficult a psychological question as the origin of tragedy among the Greeks. One fundamental question is the Greek’s relationship to pain, his degree of sensitivity—did this relationship remain the same? Or did it reverse itself?—the question whether his ever stronger desire for beauty, for festivals, amusements, new cults, really grew out of lack, out of deprivation, out of melancholy, out of pain? For suppose this very thing were true—and Pericles (or Thucydides) gives us to understand as much in the great funeral oration—where, then, must the opposite desire, which appeared earlier in time, have come from: the desire for the ugly, the older Hellene’s good, stern will to pessimism, to tragic myth, to the image of everything terrible, evil, enigmatic, destructive, fateful at the foundation of existence—where, then, must tragedy have come from? Perhaps from pleasure, from strength, from overflowing health, from an excess of fullness? And then, to ask physiologically, what is the meaning of that madness out of which tragic as well as comic art grew—Dionysian madness? What? Is madness perhaps not necessarily a symptom of degeneration, decline, a culture grown overripe? Are there perhaps—a question for psychiatrists—neuroses of health? Of a people’s youth and youthfulness? What does that synthesis of god and goat in the satyr point to? From what experience of himself, in response to what urge, did the Greek have to imagine the Dionysian enthusiast and primordial human as a satyr? And as for the origin of the tragic chorus: in those centuries when the Greek body flourished and the Greek soul brimmed over with life, were there perhaps endemic raptures? Visions and hallucinations that spread through entire communities, entire assemblies of worshipers? What? What if the Greeks, precisely in the abundance of their youth, had a will to the tragic and were pessimists? What if it was precisely madness, to borrow a phrase from Plato, that brought the greatest blessings upon Hellas? And what if, on the other hand and conversely, it was precisely in the times of their disintegration and weakness that the Greeks grew ever more optimistic, superficial, theatrical, and also more lustful for logic and for the logicizing of the world—thus at once more “cheerful” and more “scientific”? What? Might the victory of optimism, the ascendancy of rationality, practical and theoretical utilitarianism, like democracy itself, with which it is contemporary—despite all “modern ideas” and the prejudices of democratic taste—be a symptom of declining strength, approaching age, physiological exhaustion? And precisely not—pessimism? Was Epicurus an optimist—precisely as a sufferer?— —One sees that it is a whole bundle of heavy questions with which this book has burdened itself—let us add its heaviest question as well! What, seen through the eyes of life, is the meaning of—morality?…
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.
Yes, what is Dionysian?—This book contains an answer. Someone “who knows” speaks in it, an initiate and disciple of his god. Perhaps today I would speak more cautiously and less eloquently about so difficult a psychological question as the origin of tragedy among the Greeks. One basic question is the Greek’s relationship to pain, his degree of sensitivity. Did that relationship stay the same, or did it reverse itself? Did his constantly growing desire for beauty, for festivals, entertainments, and new forms of worship really grow out of lack, deprivation, melancholy, and pain? Suppose this were true—and Pericles, or Thucydides, gives us to understand that it was, in the great funeral speech. Where, then, must the opposite desire, which appeared earlier, have come from? The desire for the ugly: the earlier Greek’s good, strict will toward pessimism, tragic myth, and the image of everything terrible, evil, mysterious, destructive, and fatal at the bottom of existence. Where, then, must tragedy have come from? Perhaps from pleasure, from strength, from overflowing health, from an excessive fullness? And what, in physiological terms, is the meaning of the madness from which both tragic and comic art grew, Dionysian madness? What? Perhaps madness is not necessarily a symptom of degeneration, decline, or an overripe culture? Could there be—here is a question for psychiatrists—neuroses of health? Of a people’s youth and youthfulness? What does the combination of god and goat in the satyr point to? What personal experience and what urge made the Greek imagine the Dionysian enthusiast and primal human being as a satyr? And as for the origin of the tragic chorus: in those centuries when the Greek body flourished and the Greek soul overflowed with life, could there have been widespread outbreaks of ecstasy? Visions and hallucinations that spread through whole communities, whole gatherings of worshipers? What if the Greeks, precisely in the richness of their youth, wanted the tragic and were pessimists? What if it was precisely madness, to use Plato’s words, that brought the greatest blessings to Greece? And what if, on the contrary, the Greeks became increasingly optimistic, superficial, and theatrical precisely in the times of their disintegration and weakness? What if they also grew more eager for logic and for making the world logical, and thus became both “more cheerful” and “more scientific”? What? Despite all “modern ideas” and the prejudices of democratic taste, could the victory of optimism, the dominance of rationality, and practical and theoretical utilitarianism be symptoms of declining strength, approaching age, and physiological exhaustion, just like democracy itself, which appears at the same time? And could pessimism be precisely what is not such a symptom? Was Epicurus an optimist precisely as a sufferer?— —You can see that this book has burdened itself with a whole bundle of difficult questions. Let us add its most difficult question! Seen from the point of view of life, what does morality mean?…
About this section
An Attempt at Self-Criticism, Section 4 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 4 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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