Section 1
Original German
Wir werden viel für die ästhetische Wissenschaft gewonnen haben, wenn wir nicht nur zur logischen Einsicht, sondern zur unmittelbaren Sicherheit der Anschauung gekommen sind, dass die Fortentwickelung der Kunst an die Duplicität des Apollinischen und des Dionysischen gebunden ist: in ähnlicher Weise, wie die Generation von der Zweiheit der Geschlechter, bei fortwährendem Kampfe und nur periodisch eintretender Versöhnung, abhängt. Diese Namen entlehnen wir von den Griechen, welche die tiefsinnigen Geheimlehren ihrer Kunstanschauung zwar nicht in Begriffen, aber in den eindringlich deutlichen Gestalten ihrer Götterwelt dem Einsichtigen vernehmbar machen. An ihre beiden Kunstgottheiten, Apollo und Dionysus, knüpft sich unsere Erkenntniss, dass in der griechischen Welt ein ungeheurer Gegensatz, nach Ursprung und Zielen, zwischen der Kunst des Bildners, der apollinischen, und der unbildlichen Kunst der Musik, als der des Dionysus, besteht: beide so verschiedne Triebe gehen neben einander her, zumeist im offnen Zwiespalt mit einander und sich gegenseitig zu immer neuen kräftigeren Geburten reizend, um in ihnen den Kampf jenes Gegensatzes zu perpetuiren, den das gemeinsame Wort „Kunst“ nur scheinbar überbrückt; bis sie endlich, durch einen metaphysischen Wunderakt des hellenischen „Willens“, mit einander gepaart erscheinen und in dieser Paarung zuletzt das ebenso dionysische als apollinische Kunstwerk der attischen Tragödie erzeugen.
Um uns jene beiden Triebe näher zu bringen, denken wir sie uns zunächst als die getrennten Kunstwelten des Traumes und des Rausches; zwischen welchen physiologischen Erscheinungen ein entsprechender Gegensatz, wie zwischen dem Apollinischen und dem Dionysischen zu bemerken ist. Im Traume traten zuerst, nach der Vorstellung des Lucretius, die herrlichen Göttergestalten vor die Seelen der Menschen, im Traume sah der grosse Bildner den entzückenden Gliederbau übermenschlicher Wesen, und der hellenische Dichter, um die Geheimnisse der poetischen Zeugung befragt, würde ebenfalls an den Traum erinnert und eine ähnliche Belehrung gegeben haben, wie sie Hans Sachs in den Meistersingern giebt:
Mein Freund, das grad’ ist Dichters Werk,dass er sein Träumen deut’ und merk’.Glaubt mir, des Menschen wahrster Wahnwird ihm im Traume aufgethan:all’ Dichtkunst und Poëtereiist nichts als Wahrtraum-Deuterei.
Der schöne Schein der Traumwelten, in deren Erzeugung jeder Mensch voller Künstler ist, ist die Voraussetzung aller bildenden Kunst, ja auch, wie wir sehen werden, einer wichtigen Hälfte der Poesie. Wir geniessen im unmittelbaren Verständnisse der Gestalt, alle Formen sprechen zu uns, es giebt nichts Gleichgültiges und Unnöthiges. Bei dem höchsten Leben dieser Traumwirklichkeit haben wir doch noch die durchschimmernde Empfindung ihres Scheins: wenigstens ist dies meine Erfahrung, für deren Häufigkeit, ja Normalität, ich manches Zeugniss und die Aussprüche der Dichter beizubringen hätte. Der philosophische Mensch hat sogar das Vorgefühl, dass auch unter dieser Wirklichkeit, in der wir leben und sind, eine zweite ganz andre verborgen liege, dass also auch sie ein Schein sei; und Schopenhauer bezeichnet geradezu die Gabe, dass Einem zu Zeiten die Menschen und alle Dinge als blosse Phantome oder Traumbilder vorkommen, als das Kennzeichen philosophischer Befähigung. Wie nun der Philosoph zur Wirklichkeit des Daseins, so verhält sich der künstlerisch erregbare Mensch zur Wirklichkeit des Traumes; er sieht genau und gern zu: denn aus diesen Bildern deutet er sich das Leben, an diesen Vorgängen übt er sich für das Leben. Nicht etwa nur die angenehmen und freundlichen Bilder sind es, die er mit jener Allverständigkeit an sich erfährt: auch das Ernste, Trübe, Traurige, Finstere, die plötzlichen Hemmungen, die Neckereien des Zufalls, die bänglichen Erwartungen, kurz die ganze „göttliche Komödie“ des Lebens, mit dem Inferno, zieht an ihm vorbei, nicht nur wie ein Schattenspiel—denn er lebt und leidet mit in diesen Scenen—und doch auch nicht ohne jene flüchtige Empfindung des Scheins; und vielleicht erinnert sich Mancher, gleich mir, in den Gefährlichkeiten und Schrecken des Traumes sich mitunter ermuthigend und mit Erfolg zugerufen zu haben: „Es ist ein Traum! Ich will ihn weiter träumen!“ Wie man mir auch von Personen erzählt hat, die die Causalität eines und desselben Traumes über drei und mehr aufeinanderfolgende Nächte hin fortzusetzen im Stande waren: Thatsachen, welche deutlich Zeugniss dafür abgeben, dass unser innerstes Wesen, der gemeinsame Untergrund von uns allen, mit tiefer Lust und freudiger Nothwendigkeit den Traum an sich erfährt.
Diese freudige Nothwendigkeit der Traumerfahrung ist gleichfalls von den Griechen in ihrem Apollo ausgedrückt worden: Apollo, als der Gott aller bildnerischen Kräfte, ist zugleich der wahrsagende Gott. Er, der seiner Wurzel nach der „Scheinende“, die Lichtgottheit ist, beherrscht auch den schönen Schein der inneren Phantasie-Welt. Die höhere Wahrheit, die Vollkommenheit dieser Zustände im Gegensatz zu der lückenhaft verständlichen Tageswirklichkeit, sodann das tiefe Bewusstsein von der in Schlaf und Traum heilenden und helfenden Natur ist zugleich das symbolische Analogon der wahrsagenden Fähigkeit und überhaupt der Künste, durch die das Leben möglich und lebenswerth gemacht wird. Aber auch jene zarte Linie, die das Traumbild nicht überschreiten darf, um nicht pathologisch zu wirken, widrigenfalls der Schein als plumpe Wirklichkeit uns betrügen würde—darf nicht im Bilde des Apollo fehlen: jene maassvolle Begrenzung, jene Freiheit von den wilderen Regungen, jene weisheitsvolle Ruhe des Bildnergottes. Sein Auge muss „sonnenhaft“, gemäss seinem Ursprunge, sein; auch wenn es zürnt und unmuthig blickt, liegt die Weihe des schönen Scheines auf ihm. Und so möchte von Apollo in einem excentrischen Sinne das gelten, was Schopenhauer von dem im Schleier der Maja befangenen Menschen sagt. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung I S. 416: „Wie auf dem tobenden Meere, das, nach allen Seiten unbegränzt, heulend Wellenberge erhebt und senkt, auf einem Kahn ein Schiffer sitzt, dem schwachen Fahrzeug vertrauend; so sitzt, mitten in einer Welt von Qualen, ruhig der einzelne Mensch, gestützt und vertrauend auf das principium individuationis“. Ja es wäre von Apollo zu sagen, dass in ihm das unerschütterte Vertrauen auf jenes principium und das ruhige Dasitzen des in ihm Befangenen seinen erhabensten Ausdruck bekommen habe, und man möchte selbst Apollo als das herrliche Götterbild des principii individuationis bezeichnen, aus dessen Gebärden und Blicken die ganze Lust und Weisheit des „Scheines“, sammt seiner Schönheit, zu uns spräche.
An derselben Stelle hat uns Schopenhauer das ungeheure Grausen geschildert, welches den Menschen ergreift, wenn er plötzlich an den Erkenntnissformen der Erscheinung irre wird, indem der Satz vom Grunde, in irgend einer seiner Gestaltungen, eine Ausnahme zu erleiden scheint. Wenn wir zu diesem Grausen die wonnevolle Verzückung hinzunehmen, die bei demselben Zerbrechen des principii individuationis aus dem innersten Grunde des Menschen, ja der Natur emporsteigt, so thun wir einen Blick in das Wesen des Dionysischen, das uns am nächsten noch durch die Analogie des Rausches gebracht wird. Entweder durch den Einfluss des narkotischen Getränkes, von dem alle ursprünglichen Menschen und Völker in Hymnen sprechen, oder bei dem gewaltigen, die ganze Natur lustvoll durchdringenden Nahen des Frühlings erwachen jene dionysischen Regungen, in deren Steigerung das Subjective zu völliger Selbstvergessenheit hinschwindet. Auch im deutschen Mittelalter wälzten sich unter der gleichen dionysischen Gewalt immer wachsende Schaaren, singend und tanzend, von Ort zu Ort: in diesen Sanct-Johann- und Sanct-Veittänzern erkennen wir die bacchischen Chöre der Griechen wieder, mit ihrer Vorgeschichte in Kleinasien, bis hin zu Babylon und den orgiastischen Sakäen. Es giebt Menschen, die, aus Mangel an Erfahrung oder aus Stumpfsinn, sich von solchen Erscheinungen wie von „Volkskrankheiten“, spöttisch oder bedauernd im Gefühl der eigenen Gesundheit abwenden: die Armen ahnen freilich nicht, wie leichenfarbig und gespenstisch eben diese ihre „Gesundheit“ sich ausnimmt, wenn an ihnen das glühende Leben dionysischer Schwärmer vorüberbraust.
Unter dem Zauber des Dionysischen schliesst sich nicht nur der Bund zwischen Mensch und Mensch wieder zusammen: auch die entfremdete, feindliche oder unterjochte Natur feiert wieder ihr Versöhnungsfest mit ihrem verlorenen Sohne, dem Menschen. Freiwillig beut die Erde ihre Gaben, und friedfertig nahen die Raubthiere der Felsen und der Wüste. Mit Blumen und Kränzen ist der Wagen des Dionysus überschüttet: unter seinem Joche schreiten Panther und Tiger. Man verwandele das Beethoven’sche Jubellied der „Freude“ in ein Gemälde und bleibe mit seiner Einbildungskraft nicht zurück, wenn die Millionen schauervoll in den Staub sinken: so kann man sich dem Dionysischen nähern. Jetzt ist der Sclave freier Mann, jetzt zerbrechen alle die starren, feindseligen Abgrenzungen, die Noth, Willkür oder „freche Mode“ zwischen den Menschen festgesetzt haben. Jetzt, bei dem Evangelium der Weltenharmonie, fühlt sich Jeder mit seinem Nächsten nicht nur vereinigt, versöhnt, verschmolzen, sondern eins, als ob der Schleier der Maja zerrissen wäre und nur noch in Fetzen vor dem geheimnissvollen Ur-Einen herumflattere. Singend und tanzend äussert sich der Mensch als Mitglied einer höheren Gemeinsamkeit: er hat das Gehen und das Sprechen verlernt und ist auf dem Wege, tanzend in die Lüfte emporzufliegen. Aus seinen Gebärden spricht die Verzauberung. Wie jetzt die Thiere reden, und die Erde Milch und Honig giebt, so tönt auch aus ihm etwas Uebernatürliches: als Gott fühlt er sich, er selbst wandelt jetzt so verzückt und erhoben, wie er die Götter im Traume wandeln sah. Der Mensch ist nicht mehr Künstler, er ist Kunstwerk geworden: die Kunstgewalt der ganzen Natur, zur höchsten Wonnebefriedigung des Ur-Einen, offenbart sich hier unter den Schauern des Rausches. Der edelste Thon, der kostbarste Marmor wird hier geknetet und behauen, der Mensch, und zu den Meisselschlägen des dionysischen Weltenkünstlers tönt der eleusinische Mysterienruf: „Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen? Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?“—
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.
We will have gained much for the science of aesthetics when we have reached not merely a logical understanding but the immediate certainty of intuition that the continuing development of art is bound to the duality of the Apollonian and the Dionysian, much as procreation depends on the duality of the sexes, with their continuous struggle and only periodic reconciliation. We borrow these names from the Greeks, who make the profound secret teachings of their view of art intelligible to the discerning not in concepts, but in the vividly clear figures of their world of gods. With their two deities of art, Apollo and Dionysus, we associate our recognition that in the Greek world an immense opposition of origins and aims exists between the image-maker’s art, the Apollonian, and the imageless art of music, the art of Dionysus: these two very different drives run side by side, usually in open conflict, continually provoking one another to new and more powerful births, in which to perpetuate the struggle of that opposition which the shared word “art” only seemingly bridges; until at last, through a miraculous metaphysical act of the Hellenic “will,” they appear paired, and in this pairing finally produce the equally Dionysian and Apollonian artwork of Attic tragedy.
To bring these two drives closer to us, let us first imagine them as the separate art-worlds of dream and intoxication, two physiological phenomena between which an opposition corresponding to that between the Apollonian and the Dionysian can be observed. It was in dreams, according to Lucretius’s conception, that the glorious figures of the gods first appeared before human souls; in dreams the great sculptor saw the enchanting bodily forms of superhuman beings; and the Hellenic poet, if asked about the secrets of poetic procreation, would likewise have pointed to dreams and offered instruction like that given by Hans Sachs in The Mastersingers:
My friend, this is the poet’s task:To mark his dreams and read their meaning.Believe me, our truest illusionIs opened up to us in dreams:All verse and poetryIs nothing but the reading of true dreams.
The beautiful semblance of dream-worlds, in whose creation every human being is a complete artist, is the precondition of all visual art, and indeed, as we shall see, of an important half of poetry as well. We delight in an immediate understanding of form; all shapes speak to us; nothing is indifferent or unnecessary. Yet even amid the most intense life of this dream-reality we retain a glimmering sense of its semblance: at least this is my experience, and I could offer much testimony and many sayings of poets to show how common, indeed how normal, it is. The philosophical person even has a presentiment that beneath this reality in which we live and exist there lies hidden a second, quite different reality, so that this one too is a semblance; and Schopenhauer expressly describes the gift of sometimes seeing human beings and all things as mere phantoms or dream-images as the mark of a capacity for philosophy. As the philosopher relates to the reality of existence, so the artistically sensitive person relates to the reality of dreams; he looks closely and gladly, for from these images he interprets life, through these events he prepares himself for life. It is by no means only pleasant and friendly images that he experiences within himself with this all-embracing understanding: the serious, the gloomy, the sorrowful, the dark, sudden obstacles, the teasing tricks of chance, anxious expectations—in short, the whole “divine comedy” of life, including the Inferno—passes before him, not merely like a play of shadows—for he lives and suffers along with these scenes—and yet not without that fleeting sense of semblance. And perhaps some, like me, will remember sometimes calling out to themselves amid the dangers and terrors of a dream, encouragingly and with success: “It is a dream! I want to keep dreaming it!” I have also been told of people able to continue the causal sequence of one and the same dream over three or more successive nights: facts that clearly testify that our innermost being, the common foundation of us all, experiences the dream within itself with deep pleasure and joyful necessity.
This joyful necessity of the dream experience was likewise expressed by the Greeks in their Apollo: Apollo, as the god of all image-making powers, is also the god of prophecy. He who is, in the root meaning of his name, the “shining one,” the deity of light, also rules over the beautiful semblance of the inner world of fantasy. The higher truth, the perfection of these states in contrast to the only fragmentarily intelligible reality of waking life, and then the deep awareness of nature’s healing and helping power in sleep and dreams, are at the same time the symbolic analogue of the prophetic faculty and of the arts in general, through which life is made possible and worth living. But that delicate line which the dream-image must not cross if it is not to have a pathological effect—otherwise semblance would deceive us as crude reality—must also be present in the image of Apollo: that measured restraint, that freedom from the wilder impulses, that wise repose of the image-making god. His eye must be “sunlike,” in keeping with his origin; even when it looks angry and displeased, the consecration of beautiful semblance rests upon it. And so, in an eccentric sense, what Schopenhauer says of the human being caught in the veil of Maya might apply to Apollo. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung I S. 416: “Just as on the raging sea, which, boundless on every side, howling lifts and lowers mountains of waves, a boatman sits in a small boat, trusting the frail vessel; so, amid a world of torments, the individual human being sits calmly, supported by and trusting in the principle of individuation.” Indeed, one might say of Apollo that in him the unshaken trust in that principle and the calm repose of the person caught within it have found their most sublime expression; one might even describe Apollo as the glorious divine image of the principle of individuation, from whose gestures and glances the whole pleasure and wisdom of “semblance,” together with its beauty, would speak to us.
In the same passage Schopenhauer described for us the tremendous horror that seizes a person when he suddenly loses confidence in the cognitive forms of appearance, because the principle of sufficient reason, in one of its forms, seems to admit an exception. If to this horror we add the blissful rapture that rises from the innermost ground of the human being, indeed of nature, at this same shattering of the principle of individuation, we gain a glimpse into the essence of the Dionysian, brought closest to us by the analogy of intoxication. Either under the influence of the narcotic drink of which all primitive human beings and peoples speak in hymns, or at the mighty approach of spring, which pervades all nature with pleasure, those Dionysian stirrings awaken, and as they intensify, the subjective fades away into complete self-forgetfulness. In the German Middle Ages too, ever-growing throngs rolled from place to place under this same Dionysian power, singing and dancing: in these dancers of St. John and St. Vitus we recognize the Bacchic choruses of the Greeks, with their prehistory in Asia Minor, reaching back to Babylon and the orgiastic Sacaea. There are people who, from lack of experience or dullness of mind, turn away from such phenomena as from “epidemic diseases,” mockingly or pityingly, conscious of their own health: the poor creatures have no inkling how corpse-pale and ghostly this very “health” of theirs looks when the glowing life of Dionysian enthusiasts rushes past them.
Under the spell of the Dionysian, not only is the bond between human being and human being renewed: alienated, hostile, or subjugated nature too once more celebrates her festival of reconciliation with her lost son, humanity. The earth offers her gifts freely, and the beasts of prey from the rocks and the desert approach in peace. The chariot of Dionysus is heaped with flowers and garlands; beneath his yoke stride panthers and tigers. Transform Beethoven’s jubilant hymn to “Joy” into a painting, and do not let your imagination fall short when the millions sink shuddering into the dust: then you can approach the Dionysian. Now the slave is a free man; now all the rigid, hostile boundaries that need, arbitrary power, or “insolent fashion” have established between human beings break apart. Now, at the gospel of universal harmony, everyone feels himself not merely united, reconciled, fused with his neighbor, but one with him, as though the veil of Maya had been torn and fluttered only in tatters before the mysterious primordial One. In song and dance the human being expresses himself as a member of a higher community: he has forgotten how to walk and speak and is about to fly up, dancing, into the air. Enchantment speaks from his gestures. Just as the animals now speak and the earth yields milk and honey, so something supernatural also sounds forth from him: he feels himself a god, he himself now moves in the same rapture and exaltation in which he saw the gods move in his dreams. The human being is no longer an artist; he has become a work of art: the artistic power of all nature reveals itself here, amid the shudders of intoxication, for the supreme, blissful satisfaction of the primordial One. The noblest clay, the most precious marble, is kneaded and hewn here—the human being—and to the chisel strokes of the Dionysian world-artist sounds the cry of the Eleusinian mysteries: “Do you fall down, you millions? Do you sense the Creator, world?”—
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.
We will have gained a great deal for the science of aesthetics once we reach not just a logical understanding but the direct certainty of seeing this: art’s continuing development depends on the duality of the Apollonian and the Dionysian. In much the same way, reproduction depends on the two sexes, with their constant struggle and reconciliation only at intervals. We take these names from the Greeks. The Greeks made the profound secret teachings of their understanding of art accessible to anyone with insight, not through concepts, but through the strikingly clear figures of their gods. Our recognition is tied to their two gods of art, Apollo and Dionysus. In the Greek world, the image-maker’s art, the Apollonian, and the imageless art of music, the art of Dionysus, stand enormously opposed in origin and aims. These two very different drives move alongside each other, usually in open conflict. They provoke each other into ever new and more powerful creations, which carry on the struggle between these opposites. The shared word “art” only seems to bridge that struggle. At last, through a miraculous metaphysical act of the Greek “will,” they appear paired together. In that pairing they finally produce Attic tragedy, a work of art that is as Dionysian as it is Apollonian.
To bring these two drives closer to us, let us first imagine them as the separate art worlds of dreaming and intoxication. Between these physiological phenomena we can observe a contrast corresponding to the one between the Apollonian and the Dionysian. According to Lucretius, it was in dreams that the splendid figures of the gods first appeared to human souls. In dreams the great sculptor saw the delightful bodily forms of superhuman beings. Asked about the secrets of poetic creation, the Greek poet would likewise have pointed to dreams. He would have given much the same instruction as Hans Sachs gives in The Mastersingers:
My friend, that is exactly the poet’s work:To note and interpret his dreaming.Believe me, a person’s truest illusionIs revealed to him in a dream:All the art and craft of poetryIs nothing but interpreting true dreams.
The beautiful semblance of dream worlds, which every person creates as a complete artist, is the precondition of all visual art. It is also, as we will see, the precondition of an important half of poetry. We enjoy these forms through direct understanding. Every shape speaks to us; nothing is unimportant or unnecessary. Even when this dream reality is most alive, we still have a glimmering sense of its being semblance. At least that is my experience. I could offer much evidence, including statements by poets, that it is frequent, indeed normal. The philosophical person even suspects that beneath this reality in which we live and exist, a second, quite different reality is hidden, so that this reality too is a semblance. Schopenhauer actually identifies the gift of sometimes seeing people and all things as mere phantoms or dream images as the mark of philosophical ability. The person responsive to art relates to the reality of dreams as the philosopher relates to the reality of existence. He watches closely and gladly. From these images he interprets life for himself; through these events he practices for life. It is not just pleasant, friendly images that he experiences with this complete understanding. Serious, gloomy, sad, and dark things, sudden obstacles, the teasing tricks of chance, anxious expectations—in short, the whole “divine comedy” of life, including the Inferno—pass before him. And not just like a shadow play, since he lives and suffers along with these scenes. Yet that fleeting sense of semblance is still there. Perhaps some people, like me, remember that in the dangers and terrors of a dream they have sometimes called out to themselves, taking courage, and with success: “It is a dream! I want to keep dreaming it!” I have also been told of people able to continue the causal sequence of one and the same dream over three or more consecutive nights. These facts clearly show that our innermost being, the shared foundation of us all, experiences dreaming with deep pleasure and joyful necessity.
The Greeks also expressed this joyful necessity of dreaming in their Apollo. Apollo, as the god of all image-making powers, is also the god of prophecy. The root meaning of his name makes him the “shining one,” the god of light. He also rules over the beautiful semblance of the inner world of imagination. The higher truth and perfection of these states, compared with the only partly understandable reality of waking life, together with a deep awareness of nature’s healing and helpful power in sleep and dreams, are the symbolic counterpart of the gift of prophecy and of the arts in general, which make life possible and worth living. But the image of Apollo must also include that delicate line the dream image must not cross if it is not to become pathological. Otherwise its semblance would deceive us as crude reality. Apollo must have that measured restraint, that freedom from wilder impulses, that wise calm of the image-making god. His eye must be “sunlike,” in keeping with his origin. Even when it looks angry and displeased, the blessing of beautiful semblance rests on him. And so, in an unusual sense, what Schopenhauer says of the person caught in the veil of Maya might apply to Apollo. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung I S. 416: “Just as, on the raging sea, boundless in every direction, which howls as it raises and lowers mountains of waves, a sailor sits in a boat, trusting the frail vessel, so the individual person sits calmly amid a world of torments, supported by and trusting in the principle of individuation.” Indeed, we could say that Apollo gives the highest expression to unshakable trust in that principle of individuation and to the calm of a person caught in it, sitting at rest. We might even call Apollo the magnificent divine image of the principle of individuation. From his gestures and looks, all the pleasure and wisdom of “semblance,” together with its beauty, would speak to us.
In the same passage, Schopenhauer described the tremendous horror that grips a person who suddenly loses confidence in the forms through which we know appearances, when the principle of sufficient reason seems, in one of its forms, to admit an exception. Add to this horror the blissful ecstasy that rises from the deepest ground of human beings, indeed of nature, when the principle of individuation breaks down in the same way. Then we gain a glimpse into the nature of the Dionysian. The analogy of intoxication brings it closest to us. Under the influence of the intoxicating drink celebrated in hymns by all early humans and peoples, or with the mighty approach of spring, which fills all nature with pleasure, those Dionysian impulses awaken. As they grow stronger, the subjective element fades into complete self-forgetfulness. In the German Middle Ages too, ever-growing crowds driven by the same Dionysian power surged from place to place, singing and dancing. In these dancers of Saint John and Saint Vitus we recognize the Greeks’ Bacchic choruses, whose earlier history leads back through Asia Minor to Babylon and the orgiastic Sacaea festivals. Some people, through lack of experience or dullness, turn away from such phenomena as if from “epidemic diseases.” Feeling healthy themselves, they respond with mockery or pity. The poor things have no idea how corpse-pale and ghostly this very “health” of theirs looks when the glowing life of Dionysian enthusiasts rushes past them.
Under the spell of the Dionysian, the bond between one human being and another is not simply renewed. Nature too, alienated, hostile, or subjugated, once again celebrates her reconciliation with her lost son, humanity. The earth freely offers its gifts, and the beasts of prey from the rocks and deserts approach peacefully. The chariot of Dionysus is covered with flowers and garlands. Panthers and tigers walk beneath his yoke. Turn Beethoven’s jubilant song of “Joy” into a painting, and do not let your imagination fall short when the millions sink into the dust in awe: then you can approach the Dionysian. Now the slave is a free man. Now all the rigid, hostile boundaries that necessity, arbitrary power, or “impudent fashion” set up between people break apart. Now, with this gospel of universal harmony, everyone feels not merely united, reconciled, and fused with his neighbor, but one with him. It is as if the veil of Maya had been torn apart and were fluttering in shreds before the mysterious primal unity. Through singing and dancing, people express their membership in a higher community. They have forgotten how to walk and speak and are on their way to dancing up into the air. Their gestures speak of enchantment. Just as animals now speak and the earth gives milk and honey, something supernatural also sounds out from them. Each person feels like a god, and now moves in the same ecstasy and elevation as the gods he saw moving in dreams. The human being is no longer an artist, but has become a work of art. Here, in the shudders of intoxication, the artistic power of all nature reveals itself, to the highest, most blissful satisfaction of the primal unity. The noblest clay and the most precious marble, the human being, is kneaded and carved here. The cry of the Eleusinian mysteries sounds out to the chisel strokes of the Dionysian world-artist: “Do you fall to the ground, you millions? Do you sense the creator, world?”—
About this section
Section 1 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 9 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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