No More Learning

87
form of tragedy lived on as a monument of the
most painful and violent death of tragedy proper.
This connection between the two serves to
explain the passionate attachment to Euripides
evinced by the poets of the New Comedy, and
hence we are no longer surprised at the wish of
Philemon, who would have got himself hanged at
once, with the sole design of being able to visit
Euripides in the lower regions: if only he could
be assured generally that the deceased still had
his wits. But if we desire, as briefly as possible,
and without professing to say aught exhaustive on
the subject, to characterise what Euripides has in
common with Menander and Philemon, and what
appealed to them so strongly as worthy of imita-
tion: it will suffice to say that the_ spectator <
was brought upon the stage by Euripides. He
who has perceived- the material of which the
Promethean tragic writers prior to Euripides
formed their heroes, and how remote from their
jmrpose it was to bring the true mask of j l^
reality on the stage, will also know what to make
of the wholly divergent tendency of Euripides.
Through him the commonplace individual forced
his way Trom~ the spectators' benches to the stage
itself; the mirror in which formerly only great
and bold traits found expression now showed the
painful exactness that conscientiously reproduces
even the abortive lines of nature. Odysseus, the
typical Hellene of the Old Art, sank, in the hands
of the new poets, to the figure of the Graeculus,
who, as the good-naturedly cunning domestic
slave, stands henceforth in the centre of dramatic


## p. 88 (#130) #############################################

88 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
interest. What Euripides takes credit for in the
Aristophanean "Frogs," namely, that by his
household remedies he freed tragic art from its
pompous corpulency, is apparent above all in his
tragic heroes. The spectator now virtually saw
and heard his double on the Euripidean stage, and
rejoiced that he could talk so well. But this joy
was not all: one even learned of Euripides how
to speak: he prides himself upon this in his
contest with ^Eschylus: how the people have
learned from him how to observe, debate, and
draw conclusions according to the rules of art and
with the cleverest sophistications. In general it
may be said that through this revolution of the
popular language he made the New Comedy
possible. For it was henceforth no longer a
secret, how—and with what saws—the common-
place could represent and express itself on the
stage. Civic mediocrity, on which Euripides
built all his political hopes, was now suffered to
speak, while heretofore the demigod in tragedy
and the drunken satyr, or demiman, in comedy,
had determined the character of the language.
And so the Aristophanean Euripides prides him-
self on having portrayed the common, familiar,
everyday life and dealings of the people, concern-
ing which all are qualified to pass judgment. If
now the entire populace philosophises, manages
land and goods with unheard-of circumspection,
and conducts law-suits, he takes all the credit to
himself, and glories in the splendid results of the
wisdom with which he inoculated the rabble.
It was to a populace prepared and enlightened


## p. 89 (#131) #############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
in this manner that the New Comedy could now
address itself, of which Euripides had become as
it were the chorus-master; only that in this case
the chorus of spectators had to be trained. As
soon as this chorus was trained to sing in the
Euripidean key, there arose that chesslike variety
of the drama, the New Comedy, with its perpetual
triumphs of cunning and artfulness. But Eurip-
ides — the chorus-master — was praised inces-
santly: indeed, people would have killed them-
selves in order to learn yet more from him, had
they not known that tragic poets were quite as
dead as tragedy. But with it the Hellene had
surrendered the belief in his immortality; not only
the belief in an ideal past, but also the belief in an
ideal future. The saying taken from the well-
known epitaph, “as an old man, frivolous and
capricious," applies also to aged Hellenism. The
passing moment, wit, levity, and caprice, are its
highest deities; the fifth class, that of the slaves,
now attains to power, at least in sentiment: and if
we can still speak at all of “ Greek cheerfulness," it
is the cheerfulness of the slave who has nothing of
consequence to answer for, nothing great to strive
for, and cannot value anything of the past or future
higher than the present. It was this semblance of
“Greek cheerfulness” which so revolted the deep-
minded and formidable natures of the first four
centuries of Christianity: this womanish Alight
from earnestness and terror, this cowardly con.
tentedness with easy pleasure, was not only con-
temptible to them, but seemed to be a specifically
anti-Christian sentiment. And we must ascribe


## p. 90 (#132) #############################################

90 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
it to its influence that the conception of Greek
antiquity, which lived on for centuries, preserved
with almost enduring persistency that peculiar
hectic colour of cheerfulness—as if there had never
been a Sixth Century with its birth of tragedy, its
Mysteries, its Pythagoras and Heraclitus, indeed
as if the art-works of that great period did not at
all exist, which in fact—each by itself—can in no
wise be explained as having sprung from the soil
of such a decrepit and slavish love of existence
and cheerfulness, and point to an altogether differ-
ent conception of things as their source.
The assertion made a moment ago, that Eurip-
ides introduced the spectator on the stage to
qualify him the better to pass judgment on the
drama^will make It appear as if the old tragic art
was always in a false relation to the spectator:
and one would be tempted to extol the radical
tendency of Euripides to bring about an adequate
relation between art-work and public as an advance
on Sophocles. But, as things are, "public" is
merely a word, and not at all a homogeneous and
constant quantity. Why should the artist be under
obligations to accommodate himself to a power
whose strength is merely in numbers? And if by
virtue of his endowments and aspirations he feels
himself superior to every one of these spectators,
how could he feel greater respect for the collect-
ive expression of all these subordinate capacities
than for the relatively highest-endowed individual
spectator? In truth, if ever a Greek artist treated
his public throughout a long life with presumptuous-
ness and self. sufficiency, it was Euripides, who,




## p. 91 (#133) #############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. 91
even when the masses threw themselves at his feet,
with sublime defiance made an open assault on his
own tendency, the very tendency with which he
had triumphed over the masses. If this genius
had had the slightest reverence for the pande-
monium of the public, he would have broken down
long before the middle of his career beneath the
weighty blows of his own failures. These con-
siderations here make it obvious that our formula
—namely, that Euripides brought the spectator
upon the stage in order to make him truly com-
petent to pass judgment—was but a provisional
one, and that we must seek for a deeper under-
standing of his tendency. Conversely, it is un-
doubtedly well known that. /Eschylus and Sophocles
during all their lives, indeed, far beyond their
lives, enjoyed the full favour of the people, and
that therefore in the case of these predecessors of
Euripides the idea of a false relation between art-
work and public was altogether excluded. What
was it that thus forcibly diverted this highly gifted
artist, so incessantly impelled to production, from
the path over which shone the sun of the greatest
names in poetry and the cloudless heaven of
popular favour? What strange consideration for
the spectator led him to defy the spectator? How
could he, owing to too much respect for the public
—dis-respect the public?
. Euripjdes—and this is the solution of the riddle
just propounded—felt himself, as a poet, un- 1
flnnhtprHy si]pprinr tr» \hp masses, but not to two /
of his spectators: he brought the masses upon
the stage; these two spectators he revered as the


## p. 92 (#134) #############################################

92 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
only competent judges and masters of his art: in
compliance with their directions and admonitions,
he transferred the entire world of sentiments,
passions, and experiences, hitherto present at every
festival representation as the invisible chorus on
the spectators' benches, into the souls of his stage-
heroes; he yielded to their demands when he also
sought for these new characters the new word and
the new tone; in their voices alone he heard the
conclusive verdict on his work, as also the cheering
promise of triumph when he found himself con-
demned as usual by the justice of the public.
Of these two spectators the one is—Euripides
himself, Euripides as thinker, not as poet. It
might be said of him, that his unusually large fund
of critical ability, as in the case of Lessing, if it did
not create, at least constantly fructified a product-
ively artistic collateral impulse. With this faculty,
with all the clearness and dexterity of his critical
thought, Euripides had sat in the theatre and
striven to recognise in the masterpieces of his great
predecessors, as in faded paintings, feature and
feature, line and line. And here had happened to
him what one initiated in the deeper arcana of
^Eschylean tragedy must needs have expected:
he observed something incommensurable in every
feature and in every line, a certain deceptive dis-
tinctness and at the same time an enigmatic pro-
fundity, yea an infinitude, of background. Even
the clearest figure had always a comet's tail attached
to it, which seemed to suggest the uncertain and
the inexplicable. The same twilight shrouded the
structure of the drama, especially the significance


## p. 93 (#135) #############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. 93
of the chorus. And how doubtful seemed the
solution of the ethical problems to his mind!
How questionable the treatment of the myths!
How unequal the distribution of happiness and
misfortune! Even in the language of the Old
Tragedy there was much that was objectionable to
him, or at least enigmatical; he found especially
too much pomp for simple affairs, too many tropes
and immense things for the plainness of the
characters. Thus he sat restlessly pondering in
the theatre, and as a spectator he acknowledged
to himself that he did not understand his great
predecessors. If, however, he thought the under-
standing the root proper of all enjoyment and
productivity, he had to inquire and look about to
see whether any one else thought as he did, and
also acknowledged this incommensurability. But
most people, and among them the best individuals,
had only a distrustful smile for him, while none
could explain why the great masters were still in
the right in face of his scruples and objections.
And in this painful condition he found that other
spectator, who did not comprehend, and therefore
did not esteem, tragedy. In alliance with him he
could venture, from amid his lonesomeness, to begin
the prodigious struggle against the art of ^Eschylus
and Sophocles—not with polemic writings, but as
a dramatic poet, who opposed his own conception
of tragedy to the traditional one.



## p. 94 (#136) #############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
12.
Before we name this other spectator, let us
pause here a moment in order to recall our own
impression, as previously described, of the dis-
cordant and incommensurable elements in the
nature of Æschylean tragedy. Let us think of
our own astonishment at the chorus and the tragic
hero of that type of tragedy, neither of which
we could reconcile with our practices any more
than with tradition — till we rediscovered this
duplexity itself as the origin and essence of Greek
tragedy, as the expression of two interwoven artistic
impulses, the Apollonian and the Dionysian.
To separate this primitive and all-powerful
Dionysian element from tragedy, and to build up
a new and purified form of tragedy on the basis
of a non-Dionysian art, morality, and conception
of things—such is the tendency of Euripides
which now reveals itself to us in a clear light.
In a myth composed in the eve of his life,
Euripides himself most urgently propounded to
his contemporaries the question as to the value
and signification of this tendency. Is the
Dionysian entitled to exist at all ? Should it not
be forcibly rooted out of the Hellenic soil ?
Certainly, the poet tells us, if only it were possible:
but the god Dionysus is too powerful; his most
intelligent adversary — like Pentheus in the
“ Bacchæ "—is unwittingly enchanted by him,
and in this enchantment meets his fate. The
judgment of the two old sages, Cadmus and
Tiresias, seems to be also the judgment of the



## p. 95 (#137) #############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
95
aged poet: that the reflection of the wisest indi-
viduals does not overthrow old popular traditions,
nor the perpetually propagating worship of
Dionysus, that in fact it behoves us to display
at least a diplomatically cautious concern in the
presence of such strange forces: where however it
is always possible that the god may take offence
at such lukewarm participation, and finally change
the diplomat — in this case Cadmus — into a
dragon. This is what a poet tells us, who opposed
Dionysus with heroic valour throughout a long
life—in order finally to wind up his career with
a glorification of his adversary, and with suicide,
like one staggering from giddiness, who, in order
to escape the horrible vertigo he can no longer
endure, casts himself from a tower. This tragedy
—the Bacchae—is a protest against the practic-
ability of his own tendency; alas, and it has already
been put into practice! The surprising thing had
happened: when the poet recanted, his tendency
had already conquered. Dionysus had already
been scared from the tragic stage, and in fact by
a demonic power which spoke through Euripides.
Even Euripides was, in a certain sense, only a
mask: the deity that spnke through him was
neither Dionysus nor Apollo, but an altogether
new-born demon, called Socrates. This is the
new antithesis: the Dionysian and the Socratic,
and the art-work of Greek tragedy was wrecked
on it^ What if even Euripides now seeks to
comfort us by his recantation? It is of no avail:
the most magnificent temple lies in ruins. What
avails the lamentation of the destroyer, and his
V



## p. 96 (#138) #############################################

96
THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
confession that it was the most beautiful of all
temples ? And even that Euripides has been
changed into a dragon as a punishment by the
art-critics of all ages—who could be content with
this wretched compensation ?
Let us now approach this Socratic tendency
with which Euripides combated and vanquished
Æschylean tragedy.
We must now ask ourselves, what could be
the ulterior aim of the Euripidean design, which,
in the highest ideality of its execution, would
found drama exclusively on the non-Dionysian ?
What other form of drama could there be, if it
was not to be born of the womb of music, in the
mysterious twilight of the Dionysian? Only the
dramatised epos : in which Apollonian domain of
art the tragic effect is of course unattainable. It
does not depend on the subject-matter of the
events here represented ; indeed, I venture to assert
that it would have been impossible for Goethe
in his projected “Nausikaa” to have rendered
tragically effective the suicide of the idyllic being
with which he intended to complete the fifth act;
so extraordinary is the power of the epic-Apol-
lonian representation, that it charms, before our
eyes, the most terrible things by the joy in
appearance and in redemption through appearance.
The poet of the dramatised epos cannot completely
blend with his pictures any more than the epic
rhapsodist. He is still just the calm, unmoved em-
bodiment of Contemplation whose wide eyes see the
picture before them. The actor in this dramatised
epos still remains intrinsically rhapsodist : the con-




## p. 97 (#139) #############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. QJ
secration of inner dreaming is on all his actions,
so that he is never wholly an actor.
How, then, is the Euripidean play related to
this ideal of the Apollonian drama? Just as the
younger rhapsodist is related to the solemn
rhapsodist of the old time. The former describes
his own character in the Platonic "Ion" as
follows: "When I am saying anything sad, my
eyes fill with tears; when, however, what I am
saying is awful and terrible, then my hair stands,
on end through fear, and my heart leaps. " Herd
we no longer observe anything of the epic absorp-
tion in appearance, or of the unemotional coolness
of the true actor, who precisely in his highest
activity is wholly appearance and joy in appear-
ance. Euripides is the actor with leaping heart,
with hair standing on end; as Socratic thinker I
he designs the plan, as passionate actor he I
executes it. Neither in the designing nor in the .
execution is he an artist pure and simple. And
so the Euripidean drama is a thing both cool and
fiery, equally capable of freezing and burning; it is
impossible for it to attain the Apollonian effect of
the epos, while, on the other hand,it has severed itself
as much as possible from Dionysian elements, and
now, in order to act at all, it requires new stimu-
lants, which can no longer lie within the sphere of
the two unique art-impulses, the Apollonian and
the Dionysian. The stimulants are cool, para-
^doxical thoughts, in place of Apollonian infiiit. inng— ,
anS hery passions—in place of Dionysian ecstasies;
and in fact, thoughts and passions very realistically
copied, and not at all steeped in the ether of art.
G
I

:.


## p. 98 (#140) #############################################

§8 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
Accordingly, if we have perceived this much, that
Euripides did not succeed in establishing the drama
exclusively on the Apollonian, but that rather his
non-Dionysian inclinations deviated into a natural-
istic and inartistic tendency, we shall now be able
to approach nearer tothe character of asthetic.
_ Snrrathm^ the supreme law ot which reads about
as follows: "to be beautiful everything must be
intelligible," as the parallel to the Socratic proposi-
tion, " only the kfTowingone^is_virtuous. " With this
canon in his hands Euripides measured all the
separate elements of the drama, and rectified them
according to his principle: the language, the char-
acters, the dramaturgic structure, and the choric
music. The poetic deficiency and retrogression,
which we are so often wont to impute to Euripides
in comparison with Sophoclean tragedy, is for the
most part the product of this penetrating critical
process, this daring intelligibility. The Euripidean
prologue may serve us as an example of the pro-
ductivity of this rationalistic method. Nothing
could be more opposed to the technique of our stage
than the prologue in the drama of Euripides. For
a single person to appear at the outset of the play
telling us who he is, what precedes the action, what
has happened thus far, yea, what will happen in the
course of the play, would be designated by a modern
playwright as a wanton and unpardonable abandon-
ment of the effect of suspense. Everything that is
about to happen is known beforehand; who then
cares to wait for it actually to happen ? —consider-
ing, moreover, that here there is not byanymeans the
exciting relation of a predicting dream to a reality
•v


## p. 99 (#141) #############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
99
taking place later on. Euripides speculated quite
differently. The effect of tragedy never depended
on epic suspense, on the fascinating uncertainty as
to what is to happen now and afterwards: but
rather on the great rhetoro-lyric scenes in which
the passion and dialectics of the chief hero swelled
to a broad and mighty stream. Everything was
arranged for pathos, not for action: and whatever
was not arranged for pathos was regarded as
objectionable. But what interferes most with the
hearer's pleasurable satisfaction in such scenes is a
missing link, a gap in the texture of the previous
history. So long as the spectator has to divine the
meaning of this or that person, or the presupposi-
tions of this or that conflict of inclinations and
intentions, his complete absorption in the doings
and sufferings of the chief persons is impossible,
as is likewise breathless fellow-feeling and fellow-
fearing. The Æschyleo-Sophoclean tragedy em-
ployed the most ingenious devices in the first scenes
to place in the hands of the spectator as if by
chance all the threads requisite for understanding
the whole: a trait in which that noble artistry is,
approved, which as it were masks the inevitably
formal, and causes it to appear as something acci-
dental. But nevertheless Euripides thought he
observed that during these first scenes the spectator
was in a strange state of anxiety to make out the
problem of the previous history, so that the poetic
beauties and pathos of the exposition were lost to
him. Accordingly he placed the prologue even
before the exposition, and put it in the mouth of a
person who could be trusted: some deity had often



## p. 100 (#142) ############################################

IOO THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
•V
as it were to guarantee the particulars of the
tragedy to the public and remove every doubt as
to the reality of the myth: as in the case of
Descartes, who could only prove the reality of the
empiric world by an appeal to the truthfulness of
God and His inability to utter falsehood. Euripides
makes use of the same divine truthfulness once
more at the close of his drama, in order to ensure
to the public the future of his heroes; this is the
task of the notorious deus ex machina. Between
the preliminary and the additional epic spectacle
there is the dramatico-lyric present, the " drama"
proper.
Thus Euripides as a poet echoes above all his
own conscious knowledge; and it is precisely on
this account that he occupies such a notable position
in the history of Greek art. With reference to his
critico-productive activity, he must often have felt
that he ought to actualise in the drama the words
at the beginning of the essay of Anaxagoras: "In
the beginning all things were mixed together; then
came the understanding and created order. " And
if Anaxagoras with his " vov<s" seemed like the first
sober person among nothing but drunken philoso-
phers, Euripides may also have conceived his rela-
tion to the other tragic poets under a similar figure.
As long as the sole ruler and disposer of the universe,
the vov<;, was still excluded from artistic activity,
things were all mixed together in a chaotic, primi-
tive mess;—it is thus Euripides was obliged to think,
it is thus he was obliged to condemn the " drunken"
poets as the first " sober " one among them. What
Sophocles said of ^Eschylus, that he did what was
"V


## p. 101 (#143) ############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. IOI
right, though unconsciously, was surely not in the
mind of Euripides: who would have admitted only
thus much, that ^Eschylus, because he wrought
unconsciously, did what was wrong. So also the
divine Plato speaks for the most part only ironically
of the creative faculty of the poet, in so far as it is
not conscious insight, and places it on a par with
the gift of the soothsayer and dream-interpreter;
insinuating that the poet is incapable of composing
until he has become unconscious and reason has
deserted him. Like Plato, Euripides undertook to
show to the world the reverse of the " unintelligent"
poet; his aesthetic principle that "to be beautiful
everything must be known" is, as I have said, the
parallel to the Socratic " to be good everything must
be known. " Accordingly we may regard Euripides
as the poet of aesthetic Socratism. Socrates, how-
ever, was that second spectator who did not compre-
hend and therefore did not esteem the Old Tragedy;
in alliance with him Euripides ventured to be the
herald of a new artistic activity. If, then, the Old
Tragedy was here destroyed, it follows that aesthetic
Socratism was the murderous principle; but in so
far as the struggle is directed against the Dionysian
element in the old art, we recognise in Socrates the
opponent of Dionysus, the new Orpheus who rebels
against Dionysus; and although destined to be
torn to pieces by the Maenads of the Athenian
court, yet puts to flight the overpowerful god him-
self, who, when he fled from Lycurgus, the king
of Edoni, sought refuge in the depths of the ocean
—namely, in the mystical flood of a secret cult
which gradually overspread the earth.


## p. 102 (#144) ############################################

102 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
13.
That Socrates stood in close relationship to
Euripides in the tendency of his teaching, did
not escape the notice of contemporaneous
antiquity; the most eloquent expression of this
felicitous insight being the tale current in Athens,
that Socrates was accustomed to help Euripides
in poetising. Both names were mentioned in one
breath by the adherents of the " good old time,"
whenever they came to enumerating the popular
agitators of the day: to whose influence they
attributed the fact that the old Marathonian
stalwart capacity of body and soul was more and
more being sacrificed to a dubious enlightenment,
involving progressive degeneration of the physical
and mental powers. It is in this tone, half
indignantly and half contemptuously, that Aristo-
phanic comedy is wont to speak of both of
them—to the consternation of modern men, who
would indeed be willing enough to give up
Euripides, but cannot suppress their amazement
that Socrates should appear in Aristophanes as
the first and head sophist, as the mirror and
epitome of all sophistical tendencies; in connec-
tion with which it offers the single consolation ot
putting Aristophanes himself in the pillory, as a
rakish, lying Alcibiades of poetry. Without here
defending the profound instincts of Aristophanes
against such attacks, I shall now indicate, by
means of the sentiments of the time, the close__
^connection between Socrates anrj Fiiripjdfts.
With this purpose in view, it is especially to be


## p. 103 (#145) ############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
103
remembered that Socrates, as an opponent of
tragic art, did not ordinarily patronise tragedy, but
only appeared among the spectators when a new
play of Euripides was performed. The most
noted thing, however, is the close juxtaposition
of the two names in the Delphic oracle, which
designated Socrates as the wisest of men, but at
the same time decided that the second prize in
the contest of wisdom was due to Euripides.
Sophocles was designated as the third in this
scale of rank; he who could pride himself that,
in comparison with Æschylus, he did what was
right, and did it, moreover, because he knew what
was right. It is evidently just the degree of
clearness of this knowledge, which distinguishes
these three men in common as the three “knowing
ones” of their age.
The most decisive word, however, for this
new and unprecedented esteem of knowledge and
insight was spoken by Socrates when he found
that he was the only one who acknowledged to
himself that he knew nothing; while in his critical
pilgrimage through Athens, and calling on the
greatest statesmen, orators, poets, and artists, he
discovered everywhere the conceit of knowledge.
He perceived, to his astonishment, that all these
celebrities were without a proper and accurate
insight, even with regard to their own callings,
and practised them only by instinct. “Only by
instinct”: with this phrase we touch upon the
heart and core of the Socratic tendency. Socrat. . .
ism condemns therewith existing art as well as
existing ethics; wherever Socratism turns its


## p. 104 (#146) ############################################

104 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
searching eyes it beholds the lack of insight and
the power of illusion; and from this lack infers
the inner perversity and objectionableness of
existing conditions. From this point onwards,
Socrates believed that he was called upon to
correct existence; and, with an air of disregard
and superiority, as the precursor of an altogether
different culture, art, and morality, he enters
single-handed into a world, of which, if we
reverently touched the hem, we should count it
our greatest happiness.
Here is the extraordinary hesitancy which
always seizes upon us with regard to Socrates,
and again and again invites us to ascertain
the sense and purpose of this most question-
able phenomenon of antiquity. Who is it that
ventures single-handed to disown the Greek char-
acter, which, as Homer, Pindar, and Æschylus,
as Phidias, as Pericles, as Pythia and Dionysus,
as the deepest abyss and the highest height, is
sure of our wondering admiration? What de-
moniac power is it which would presume to spill
this magic draught in the dust? What demigod
is it to whom the chorus of spirits of the noblest
of mankind must call out: “Weh! Weh! Du
hast sie zerstört, die schöne Welt, mit mächtiger
Faust; sie stürzt, sie zerfällt! "*

troyed,
* Woe! Woe!
Thou has
The be
With p
In ruin
Faust
ard Ta


## p. 105 (#147) ############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. 105
A key to the character of Socrates is presented
to us by the surprising phenomenon designated
as the "daimonion" of Socrates. In special
circumstances, when his gigantic intellect began
to stagger, he got a secure support in the utter-
ances of a divine voice which then spake to him.
This voice, whenever it comes, always dissuades.
In this totally abnormal nature instinctive wisdom
only appears in order to hinder the progress of
conscious perception here and there. While in
all productive men it is instinct which is the
creatively affirmative force, consciousness only
comporting itself critically and dissuasively; jvith
Socrates it is instinct which becomes critic, it is
_ consciousness which becomes creator—a perfect
monstrosity per defectum! And we do indeed
observe here a monstrous defectus of all mystical
aptitude, so that Socrates might be designated as
. the spsciSiQjlli^mysii^ in whom the logical nature
is developed, through a superfoetation, to the
same excess as instinctive wisdom is developed
in the mvstic. On the other hand, however, the
logical instinct which appeared in Socrates was
absolutely prohibited from turning against itself;
in its unchecked flow it manifests a native power
such as we meet with, to our shocking surprise,
only among the very greatest instinctive forces.
He who has experienced even a breath of the
divine naivete and security of the Socratic course
of life in the Platonic writings, will also feel that
the enormous driving-wheel of logical Socratism
is in motion, as it were, behind Socrates, and that
it must be viewed through Socrates as through a


## p. 106 (#148) ############################################

106
THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
shadow. And that he himself had a boding of
this relation is apparent from the dignified earnest-
ness with which be everywhere, and even before
his judges, insisted on his divine calling. To
refute him here was really as impossible as to
approve of his instinct-disintegrating influence.
In view of this indissoluble conflict, when he had
at last been brought before the forum of the Greek
state, there was only one punishment demanded,
namely exile; he might have been sped across
the borders as something thoroughly enigmatical,
irrubricable and inexplicable, and so posterity would
have been quite unjustified in charging the Athenians
with a deed of ignominy. But that the sentence of
death, and not mere exile, was pronounced upon
him, seems to have been brought about by Socrates
himself, with perfect knowledge of the circum-
stances, and without the natural fear of death: he
met his death with the calmness with which,
according to the description of Plato, he leaves
the symposium at break of day, as the last of the
revellers, to begin a new day; while the sleepy
companions remain behind on the benches and
the floor, to dream of Socrates, the true eroticist.
The dying Socrates became the new ideal of the
noble Greek youths, -an ideal they had never
yet beheld,—and above all, the typical Hellenic
youth, Plato, prostrated himself before this scene
with all the fervent devotion of his visionary
soul.


## p. 107 (#149) ############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. 10?
14.
Let us now imagine the one great Cyclopean
eye of Socrates fixed on tragedy, that eye in which
the fine frenzy of artistic enthusiasm had never
glowed—let us think how it was denied to this
eye to gaze with pleasure into the Dionysian
abysses—what could it not but see in the " sublime
and greatly lauded" tragic art, as Plato called it?
Something very absurd, with causes that seemed
to be without effects, and effects apparently with-
out causes; the whole, moreover, so motley and
diversified that it could not but be repugnant to a
thoughtful mind, a dangerous incentive, however,
to sensitive and irritable souls. We know what
was the sole kind of poetry which he compre-
hended: the Aisopian fable: and he did this no
doubt with that smiling complaisance with which
the good honest Gellert sings the praise of poetry
in the fable of the bee and the hen :—
"Du siehst an mir, wozu sie nutzt,
Dem, der nicht viel Verstand besitzt,
Die Wahrheit durch ein Bild zu sagen. " *
But then it seemed to Socrates that tragic art did
not eveaJitell the trutli": not to mention the
fact that it addresses itself to him who " hath but

little wit"; consequently not to the philosopher:
a twofold reason why it should be avoided. Like
* In me thou seest its benefit,—
To him who hath but little wit,
Through parables to tell the truth.


## p. 108 (#150) ############################################

108,
THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
Plato, he reckoned it among the seductive arts
which only represent the agreeable, not the useful,
and hence he required of his disciples abstinence
and strict separation from such unphilosophical
allurements; with such success that the youthful
tragic poet Plato first of all burned his poems to
be able to become a scholar of Socrates. But
where unconquerable native capacities bore up
against the Socratic maxims, their power, to-
gether with the momentum of his mighty character,
still sufficed to force poetry itself into new and
hitherto unknown channels.
An instance of this is the aforesaid Plato: he,
who in the condemnation of tragedy and of art
in general certainly did not fall short of the naïve
cynicism of his master, was nevertheless constrained
by sheer artistic necessity to create a form of art
which is inwardly related even to the then exist-
ing forms of art which he repudiated. Plato's
main objection to the old art—that it is the
imitation of a phantom,* and hence belongs to
a sphere still lower than the empiric world—could
not at all apply to the new art: and so we find
Plato endeavouring to go beyond reality and
attempting to represent the idea which underlies
this pseudo-reality. But Plato, the thinker,
thereby arrived by a roundabout road just at
the point where he had always been at home as
poet, and from which Sophocles and all the old
artists had solemnly protested against that objec-
tion. If tragedy absorbed into itself all the
* Scheinbild=Eldodov. -TR.


## p. 109 (#151) ############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
109

earlier varieties of art, the same could again be
said in an unusual sense of Platonic dialogue,
which, engendered by a mixture of all the
then existing forms and styles, hovers midway
between narrative, lyric and drama, between prose ---
and poetry, and has also thereby broken loose
from the older strict law of unity of linguistic
form; a movement which was carried still farther
by the cynic writers, who in the most promiscuous
style, oscillating to and fro betwixt prose and
metrical forms, realised also the literary picture
of the “ raving Socrates” whom they were wont
to represent in life. Platonic dialogue was as it
were the boat in which the shipwrecked ancient
poetry saved herself together with all her children:
crowded into a narrow space and timidly obse-
quious to the one steersman, Socrates, they now
launched into a new world, which never tired of
looking at the fantastic spectacle of this procession.
In very truth, Plato has given to all posterity
the prototype of a new form of art, the prototype bas
of the novel : which must be designated as the
infinitely evolved Æsopian fable, in which poetry
holds the same rank with reference to dialectic
philosophy as this same philosophy held for many
centuries with reference to theology : namely, the
rank of ancilla. This was the new position of
poetry into which Plato forced it under the
pressure of the demon-inspired Socrates.
Here philosophic thought overgrows art and
compels it to cling close to the trunk of dialectics.
The Apollonian tendency has chrysalised in the
logical schematism ; just as something analogous


## p. 110 (#152) ############################################

110
THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
in the case of Euripides (and moreover a trans-
lation of the Dionysian into the naturalistic
emotion) was forced upon our attention. Socrates,
the dialectical hero in Platonic drama, reminds us
of the kindred nature of the Euripidean hero, who
has to defend his actions by arguments and
counter-arguments, and thereby so often runs the
risk of forfeiting our tragic pity; for who could
mistake the optimistic element in the essence of
dialectics, which celebrates a jubilee in every con-
clusion, and can breathe only in cool clearness
and consciousness: the optimistic element, which,
having once forced its way into tragedy, must
gradually overgrow its Dionysian regions, and
necessarily impel it to self-destruction—even to
the death-leap into the bourgeois drama. Let us
but realise the consequences of the Socratic
maxims: “Virtue is knowledge; man only sins
from ignorance; he who is virtuous is happy":
these three fundamental forms of optimism involve
the death of tragedy. For the virtuous hero
must now be a dialectician; there must now be
a necessary, visible connection between virtue and
knowledge, between belief and morality; the
transcendental justice of the plot in Æschylus is
now degraded to the superficial and audacious
principle of “poetic justice” with its usual deus ex
machina.
How does the chorus, and, in general, the
entire Dionyso-musical substratum of tragedy,
now appear in the light of this new Socrato-
optimistic stage-world? As something accidental,
as a readily dispensable reminiscence of the origin



## p. 111 (#153) ############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
III
of tragedy; while we have in fact seen that the
chorus can be understood only as the cause of
tragedy, and of the tragic generally. This per-
plexity with respect to the chorus first manifests
itself in Sophocles—an important sign that the
Dionysian basis of tragedy already begins to
disintegrate with him. He no longer ventures
to entrust to the chorus the main share of the
effect, but limits its sphere to such an extent
that it now appears almost co-ordinate with the
actors, just as if it were elevated from the orchestra
into the scene: whereby of course its character
is completely destroyed, notwithstanding that
Aristotle countenances this very theory of the
chorus. This alteration of the position of the
chorus, which Sophocles at any rate recommended
by his practice, and, according to tradition, even
by a treatise, is the first step towards the annihila-
tion of the chorus, the phases of which follow one
another with alarming rapidity in Euripides,
Agathon, and the New Comedy. Optimistic
dialectics drives music out of tragedy with the
scourge of its syllogisms: that is, it destroys the
essence of tragedy, which can be explained only
as a manifestation and illustration of Dionysian
states, as the visible symbolisation of music, as
the dream-world of Dionysian ecstasy.
If, therefore, we are to assume an anti-Diony-
sian tendency operating even before Socrates,
which received in him only an unprecedentedly
grand expression, we must not shrink from the
question as to what a phenomenon like that
of Socrates indicates : whom in view of the


## p. 112 (#154) ############################################

112 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
Platonic dialogues we are certainly not entitled
to regard as a purely disintegrating, negative
power. And though there can be no doubt
whatever that the most immediate effect of the
Socratic impulse tended to the dissolution of
Dionysian tragedy, yet a profound experience of
Socrates' own life compels us to ask whether
there is necessarily only an antipodal relation
between Socratism and art, and whether the birth
of an " artistic Socrates" is in general something
contradictory in itself.
For that despotic logician had now and then
the feeling of a gap, or void, a sentiment of semi-
reproach, as of a possibly neglected duty with
respect to art. There often came to him, as he
tells his friends in prison, one and the same
dream-apparition, which kept constantly repeating
to him: "Socrates, practise music. " Up to his
very last days he solaces himself with the opinion
that his philosophising is the highest form of
poetry, and finds it hard to believe that a deity
will remind him of the "common, popular music. "
Finally, when in prison, he consents to practise
also this despised music, in order thoroughly to
unburden his conscience. And in this frame of
mind he composes a poem on Apollo and turns
a few . <Esopian fables into verse. It was some-
thing similar to the demonian warning voice which
urged him to these practices ; it was because of his
Apollonian insight that, like a barbaric king, he
did not understand the noble image of a god and
was in danger of sinning against a deity—through
ignorance. The prompting voice of the Socratic


## p. 113 (#155) ############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. H$
dream-vision is the only sign of doubtfulness as
to the limits of logical nature. "Perhaps "—thus
he had to ask himself—" what is not intelligible
to me is not therefore unreasonable? Perhaps
there is a realm of wisdom from which the logician
is banished? Perhaps art is even a necessary
correlative of and supplement to science? "
IS.
In the sense of these last portentous questions
it must now be indicated how the influence of . .
Socrates (extending to the present moment, indeed,
to all futurity) has spread over posterity like an
ever-increasing shadow in the evening sun, and
how this influence again and again necessitates a i
regeneration of art,—yea, of art already with meta-
physical, broadest and profoundest sense,—and
its own eternity guarantees also the eternity of art.
Before this could be perceived, before the in-
trinsic dependence of every art on the Greeks,
the Greeks from Homer to Socrates, was con-
clusively demonstrated, it had to happen to us
with regard to these Greeks as it happened to
the Athenians with regard to Socrates. Nearly
every age and stage of culture has at some time
or other sought with deep displeasure to free u
itself from the Greeks, because in their presence |
everything self-achieved, sincerely admired and
apparently quite original, seemed all of a sudden
to lose life and colour and shrink to an abortive
copy, even to caricature. And so hearty in-
dignation breaks forth time after time against
H


## p. 114 (#156) ############################################

\\4 THE BIRTH Of TRAGEDY.
;' this presumptuous little nation, which dared to
designate as "barbaric" for all time everything
hot native: who are they, one asks one's self,
who, though they possessed only an ephemeral
historical splendour, ridiculously restricted institu-
tions, a dubious excellence in their customs, and
were even branded with ugly vices, yet lay claim
to the dignity and singular position among the
peoples to which genius is entitled among the
masses. What a pity one has not been so fortunate
as to find the cup of hemlock with which such an
affair could be disposed of without ado: for
all the poison which envy, calumny, and rankling
resentment engendered within themselves have
not sufficed to destroy that self-sufficient grandeur!
And so one feels ashamed and afraid in the
presence of the Greeks: unless one prize truth
above all things, and dare also to acknowledge to
one's self this truth, that the. Greeks, as charioteers,
hold in their hands the reins of our own and_pf—
every culture, but that almost always chariot and
horses are of too poor material and incom-
mensurate with the glory of their guides, who
then will deem it sport to run such a team into
an abyss: which they themselves clear with the
leap of Achilles.
^ In order to assign alsojto Socrates the dignity
of such a leading position, it will suffice to recog-
nise in him the type of an unheard-of form of
v existence, . the type of the theoretical man, with
regard to whose meaning and purpose it will be
our next task to attain an insight. Like the artist,
y, . the theorist also finds an infinite satisfaction in


## p. 115 (#157) ############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. 115
whfit tir-and, like the former, he is shielded by this
satisfaction from the practical ethics of pessimism
with its lynx eyes which shine only in the dark.
For if the artist in every unveiling of truth always
cleaves with raptured eyes only to that which still
remains veiled after the unveiling, the theoretical
man, nn the other hand, enjoys and contents
himself with the cast-off veil, and finds the con-
summation of his pleasure in the process of a
. continuously successful unveiling through his
own unaided efforts. There would have been no
science it it had only been concerned about that
one naked goddess and nothing else. For then
its disciples would have been obliged to feel like
those who purposed to dig a hole straight through
the earth: each one of whom perceives that with
the utmost lifelong exertion he is able to excavate
only a very little of the enormous depth, which is
again filled up before his eyes by the labours of
his successor, so that a third man seems to do
well when on his own account he selects a new
spot for his attempts at tunnelling. If now some
one proves conclusively that the antipodal goal
cannot be attained in this direct way, who will
still care to toil on in the old depths, unless he
has learned to content himself in the meantime
with finding precious stones or discovering natural
laws? For that reason Lessing, the most honest
theoretical man, ventured to say that he cared
more for the search after truth than for truth
itself: in saying which he revealed the funda-
mental secret of science, to the astonishment, and
indeed, to the vexation of scientific men. Well,


## p. 116 (#158) ############################################

116
THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
to be sure, there stands alongside of this detached
perception, as an excess of honesty, if not of
presumption, a profound illusion which first came
to the world in the person of Socrates, the im-
perturbable belief that, by means of the clue of
causality, thinking reaches to the deepest abysses
of being, and that thinking is able not only to
perceive being but even to correct it. This sublime
metaphysical illusion is added as an instinct to
science and again and again leads the latter to
its limits, where it must change into art; which is
really the end to be attained by this mechanism.
If we now look at Socrates in the light of this
thought, he appears to us as the first who could
not only live, but—what is far more—also die
under the guidance of this instinct of science:
and hence the picture of the dying Socrates, as
the man delivered from the fear of death by
knowledge and argument, is the escutcheon above
the entrance to science which reminds every one
of its mission, namely, to make existence appear
to be comprehensible, and therefore to be justified:
for which purpose, if arguments do not suffice,
myth also must be used, which I just now desig-
nated even as the necessary consequence, yea,
as the end of science.
He who once makes intelligible to himself how,
after the death of Socrates, the mystagogue of
science, one philosophical school succeeds another,
like wave upon wave,-how an entirely unfore-
shadowed universal development of the thirst for
knowledge in the widest compass of the cultured
world (and as the specific task for every one






## p. 117 (#159) ############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. 117
highly gifted) led science on to the high sea from
which since then it has never again been able to
be completely ousted; how through the universality
of this movement a common net of thought was
first stretched over the entire globe, with prospects,
moreover, of conformity to law in an entire solar
system;—he who realises all this, together with
the amazingly high pyramid of our present-day
knowledge, cannot fail to see in Socrates the
turning-point and vortex of so-called universal
history. For if one were to imagine the whole
incalculable sum of energy which has been used
up by that universal tendency,—employed, not in
the service of knowledge, but for the practical, i. e. ,
egoistical ends of individuals and peoples,—then
probably the instinctive love of life would be so
much weakened in universal wars of destruction
and incessant migrations of peoples, that, owing
to the practice of suicide, the individual would
perhaps feel the last remnant of a sense of duty,
when, like the native of the Fiji Islands, as son
he strangles his parents and, as friend, his friend:
a practical pessimism which might even give rise I . . .
to a horrible ethics of general slaughter out of
pity—which, for the rest, exists and has existed
wherever art in one form or another, especially as
science and religion, has not appeared as a remedy
and preventive of that pestilential breath.
In view of this practical pessimism, Socrates is
the archetype of the theoretical optimist, who in
the above-indicated belief in the fathomableness of
the nature of things, attributes to knowledge and
perception the power of a universal medicine, and


## p. 118 (#160) ############################################

Il8 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
sees in error evil in itself. To penetrate into the
depths of the nature of things, and to separate
true perception from error and illusion, appeared
to the Socratic man the noblest and even the only
truly human calling: just as from the time of
Socrates onwards the mechanism of concepts, judg-
ments, and inferences was prized above all other
capacities as the highest activity and the most
admirable gift of nature. Even the sublimest
moral acts, the stirrings of pity, of self-sacrifice, of
heroism, and that tranquillity of soul, so difficult
of attainment, which the Apollonian Greek called
Sophrosyne, were derived by Socrates, and his
like-minded successors up to the present day, from
the dialectics of knowledge, and were accordingly
designated as teachable. He who has experienced
in himself the joy of a Socratic perception, and
felt how it seeks to embrace, in constantly widening
circles, the entire world of phenomena, will thence-
forth find no stimulus which could urge him to
existence more forcible than the desire to complete
that conquest and to knit the net impenetrably
close. To a person thus minded the Platonic
Socrates then appears as the teacher of an entirely
new form of "Greek cheerfulness" and felicity of
existence, which seeks to discharge itself in actions,
and will find its discharge for the most part in
maieutic and pedagogic influences on noble youths,
with a view to the ultimate production of genius.
But now science, spurred on by its powerful
illusion, hastens irresistibly to its limits, on which
its optimism, hidden in the essence of logic, is
wrecked. For the periphery of the circle of


## p. 119 (#161) ############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. 110,
science has an infinite number of points, and
while there is still no telling how this circle can
ever be completely measured, yet the noble and
gifted man, even before the middle of his career,
inevitably comes into contact with those extreme
points of the periphery where he stares at the
inexplicable. . When he here sees to his dismay
how logic coils round jfir1f Qf these limitr nnA
^finally hires its own tail—then the new form of
perception discloses itself, namely tragic perception,
which, IrTorder even to be endured, requires art as
a safeguard and remedy.
If, with eyes strengthened and refreshed at the
sight of the Greeks, we look upon the highest
spheres of the world that surrounds us, we behold
the avidity of the insatiate optimistic knowledge,
of which Socrates is the typical representative,
transformed into tragic resignation and the need
s>{ art: while, to be sure, this same avidity, in its
lower stages, has to exhibit itself as antagonistic to
art, and must especially have an inward detestation
of Dionyso-tragic art, as was exemplified in the
opposition of Socratism to ^Eschylean tragedy.
Here then with agitated spirit we knock at
the gates of the present and the future: will that
"transforming" lead to ever new configurations
of genius, and especially of the music-practising
Socrates} Will the net of art which is spread
over existence, whether under the name of religion
or of science, be knit always more closely and
delicately, or is it destined to be torn to shreds
under the restlessly barbaric activity and whirl
which is called "the present day" ? —Anxious,


## p. 120 (#162) ############################################

120 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
yet not disconsolate, we stand aloof for a little
while, as the spectators who are permitted
to be witnesses of these tremendous struggles
and transitions. Alas! It is the charm of these
struggles that he who beholds them must also
fight them!
16.
By this elaborate historical example we have
endeavoured to make it clear that . tragedy perishes
as surely by the evanescence of the spirit of music. .
as it can be. born only out of this spirit. In order
to qualifythe singularity ol this assertion, and,
on the other hand, to disclose the source of this
insight of ours, we must now confront with clear
vision the analogous phenomena of the present
time; we must enter into the midst of these
struggles, which, as I said just now, are being
carried on in the highest spheres of our present
world between the insatiate optimistic perception
and the tragic need of art. In so doing I shall
leave out of consideration all other antagonistic
tendencies which at all times oppose art, especially
tragedy, and which at present again extend their
sway triumphantly, to such an extent that of the
theatrical arts only the farce and the ballet, for
example, put forth their blossoms, which perhaps
not every one cares to smell, in tolerably rich
luxuriance. I will speak only of the Most Illus-
trious Opposition to the tragic conception of things and by this I mean essentially optimistic
. science, with its ancestor Socrates at the head of
it Presently also the forces will be designated
,


## p. 121 (#163) ############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. 121
which seem to me to guarantee a re-birth of
tragedy—and who knows what other blessed hopes
for the German genius!
Before we plunge into the midst of these
struggles, let us array ourselves in the armour of
our hitherto acquired knowledge. In contrast to
all those who are intent on deriving the arts from
one exclusive principle, as the necessary vital
source of every work of art, I keep my eyes fixed
on the two artistic deities of the Greeks, Apollo
and Dionysus, and recognise in them the living
and conspicuous representatives of two worlds of
art which differ in their intrinsic essence and in
their highest aims. Apollo stands before me as
the transfiguring genius of the principium indi-
viduationis through which alone the redemption
in appearance is to be truly attained, while by the
mystical cheer of Dionysus the spell of individua-
tion is broken, and the way lies open to the
Mothers of Being,* to the innermost heart of
things. This extraordinary antithesis, which
"Opens up yawningly between plastic art as the
Apollonian and music as the Dionysian art, has
become manifest to only one of the great thinkers,
to such an extent that, even without this key
to the symbolism of the Hellenic divinities, he
allowed to Tmusic a different character and origin
,in advance, of all the . ather arts, because, unlike
them, it is not a copy of the phenomenon, but a
_direct_co2y_pT the wilt itself, and therefore. repre-
sents the metaphysical of everything physical in the
* Cf. Faust, Part II. Act. I. —Tr.



## p. 122 (#164) ############################################

122 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
world, the thing-in-itself of every phenomenon.
(Schopenhauer, Welt als Wille und Vorstellung,
I. 310. ) To this most important perception of
aesthetics (with which, taken in a serious sense,
aesthetics properly commences), Richard Wagner,
by way of confirmation of its eternal truth, affixed
his seal, when he asserted in his Beethoven that
music must be judged according to aesthetic prin-
ciples quite different from those which apply to
the plastic arts, and not, in general, according to~
. the category ot beauty": although" ah erroneous
aesthetics, inspired by a misled and degenerate art,
has by virtue of the concept of beauty prevailing
in the plastic domain accustomed itself to demand
of music an effect analogous to that of the works
of plastic art, namely the suscitating of delight
in beautiful forms. Upon perceiving this extra-
ordinary antithesis, I felt a strong inducement to
approach the essence of Greek tragedy, and, by
means of it, the profoundest revelation of Hellenic
genius: for I at last thought myself to be in posses-
sion of a charm to enable me—far beyond the
phraseology of our usual aesthetics—to represent
vividly to my mind the primitive problem of
tragedy: whereby such an astounding insight into
the Hellenic character was afforded me that it
necessarily seemed as if our proudly comporting
classico-Hellenic science had thus far contrived
to subsist almost exclusively on phantasmagoria
and externalities.
Perhaps we may lead up to this primitive
problem with the question: what aesthetic effect
results when the intrinsically separate art-powers,


## p. 123 (#165) ############################################

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. 123
the Apollonian and the Dionysian, enter into con-
current actions? Or, in briefer form: how is
music related to image and concept? —Schopen-
hauer, whom Richard Wagner, with especial
reference to this point, accredits with an unsur-
passable clearness and perspicuity of exposition,
expresses himself most copiously on the subject
in the following passage which I shall cite here at
full length * (Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, I.
p. 309): "According to all this, we may regard
the phenomenal world, or nature, and music as
two different eyprp^inns nf the same thing. f which
is therefore itself the only medium of the analogy
between these two expressions, so that a know-
ledge of this medium is required in order to
understand that analogy. Music, therefore, if
regarded as an expression of the world, is in
the highest degree a universal language, which
is related indeed to the universality of concepts,
much as these are related to the particular things.
Its universality, however, is by no means the
empty universality of abstraction, but of quite a
different kind, and is united with thorough and
distinct definiteness. In this respect it resembles
geometrical figures and numbers, which are the
universal forms of all possible objects of experience
and applicable to them all a priori, and yet are
not abstract but perceptible and thoroughly
determinate. All possible efforts, excitements
* Cf. World and Will as Idea, 1. p. 339, trans, by Haldane
and Kemp.
+ That is " the will" as understood by Schopenhauer. —
Tr.



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124
THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
and manifestations of will, all that goes on in the
heart of man and that reason includes in the wide,
negative concept of feeling, may be expressed
by the infinite number of possible melodies, but
always in the universality of mere form, without
the material, always according to the thing-in-
itself, not the phenomenon, of which they repro-
duce the very soul and essence as it were, without
the body. This deep relation which music bears
to the true nature of all things also explains the .
fact that suitable music played to any scene,
action, event, or surrounding seems to disclose
to us its most secret meaning, and appears as
the most accurate and distinct commentary upon
it; as also the fact that whoever gives himself
up entirely to the impression of a symphony
seems to see all the possible events of life and
the world take place in himself: nevertheless
upon reflection he can find no likeness between
the music and the things that passed before his
mind. For, as we have said, music is distinguished
from all the other arts by the fact that it is not
a copy of the phenomenon, or, more accurately,
the adequate objectivity of the will, but is the
direct copy of the will itself, and therefore
represents the metaphysical of everything physical
in the world, and the thing-in-itself of every
phenomenon. We might, therefore, just as well
call the world embodied music as embodied will:
and this is the reason why music makes every
picture, and indeed every scene of real life and of
the world, at once appear with higher significance;
all the more so, to be sure, in proportion as its



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THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
125
melody is analogous to the inner spirit of the
given phenomenon. It rests upon this that we
are able to set a poem to music as a song, or a
perceptible representation as a pantomime, or both
as an opera. Such particular pictures of human
life, set to the universal language of music, are
never bound to it or correspond to it with
stringent necessity, but stand to it only in the
relation of an example chosen at will to a general
concept. In the determinateness of the real
they represent that which music expresses in the
universality of mere form. For melodies are to
a certain extent, like general concepts, an abstrac-
tion from the actual. This actual world, then,
the world of particular things, affords the object
of perception, the special and the individual, the
particular case, both to the universality of con-
cepts and to the universality of the melodies.
But these two universalities are in a certain respect
opposed to each other; for the concepts contain
only the forms, which are first of all abstracted
from perception,—the separated outward shell of
things, as it were,—and hence they are, in the
strictest sense of the term, abstracta; music, on
the other hand, gives the inmost kernel which
precedes all forms, or the heart of things. This
relation may be very well expressed in the
language of the schoolmen, by saying: the con-
cepts are the universalia post rem, but music gives
the universalia ante rem, and the real world the
universalia in re. But that in general a relation
is possible between a composition and a perceptible
representation rests, as we have said, upon the


## p. 126 (#168) ############################################

126 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
fact that both are simply different expressions of
the same inner being of the world. When now,
in the particular case, such a relation is actually
given, that is to say, when the composer has been
able to express in the universal language of music
the emotions of will which constitute the heart of
an event, then the melody of the song, the music
'of the opera, is expressive. . But__the analogy
, , discovered by the composer bet weentruftwo must
1 _>(c have proceeded from the direct TaibwTecTge ot the
'"i . j^ature of the world unknown to his reason, and
must not be an imitation proaucea with conscious
intention by means ot conceptions j otherwise the
music does not express the inner nature of the
will itself, but merely gives an inadequate imita-
tion of its phenomenon: all specially imitative
music does this. "
We have therefore, according to the doctrine of
Schopenhauer, an immediate understanding of
music as the language of the will, and feel our
imagination stimulated to give form to this
invisible and yet so actively stirred spirit-world
which speaks to us, and prompted to embody it
in an analogous example. On the other hand,
image and concept, under the influence of a truly
conformable music, acquire a higher significance.
. Dionysian art therefore is wont to exercise two
kinds of influences on the Apollonian art-faculty:
music firstly incites to the symbolic intuition of
Dionysian universality, and, secondly, it causes the
symbolic image to stand forth in its fullest signific-
ance. From these facts, intelligible in themselves
and not inaccessible to profounder observation,



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THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. 127
I infer the capacity of music to give birth to myth, *"'
that is to say, the most significant exemplar, and
precisely tragic myth: the myth which speaks of . | ^
Dionysian knowledge in symbols. In the pheno-'
menon of the lyrist, I have set forth that in him
music strives to express itself with regard to its
nature in Apollonian images. If now we reflect
that music in its highest potency must seek to
attain also to its highest symbolisation, we must
deem it possible that it also knows how to find
the symbolic expression of its inherent Dionysian
wisdom; and where shall we have to seek for this
expression if not in tragedy and, in general, in the
conception of the tragic?
From the nature of art, as it is ordinarily con-
ceived according to the single category of appear-
ance and beauty, the tragic cannot be honestly
deduced at all; it is only through the spirit of
music that we understand the joy in the annihila-
tion of the individual. For in the particular
examples of such annihilation only is the eternal
phenomenon of Dionysian art made clear to us,
which gives expression to the will in its omnipo-
tence, as it were, behind the principium individua-
tions, the eternal life beyond all phenomena, and
in spite of all annihilation. The metaphysical
delight in the tragic is a translation of the instinct-
ively unconscious Dionysian wisdom into the
language of the scene: the hero, the highest
manifestation of the will, is disavowed for our
pleasure, because he is only phenomenon, and
because the eternal life of the will is not affected
by his annihilation. "We believe in eternal life. "


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128
THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY.
tragedy exclaims; while music is the proximate
idea of this life. Plastic art has an altogether
different object : here Apollo vanquishes the
suffering of the individual by the radiant glorifica-
tion of the eternity of the phenomenon; here beauty
triumphs over the suffering inherent in life; pain
is in a manner surreptitiously obliterated from the
features of nature. In Dionysian art and its tragic
symbolism the same nature speaks to us with its
true undissembled voice: “Be as I am! Amidst
the ceaseless change of phenomena the eternally
creative primordial mother, eternally impelling to
existence, self-satisfying eternally with this change
of phenomena! ”
17.