"The Birth of Tragedy"

In order to be fair to the Birth of Tragedy (1872) it is necessary to forget a few things. It created a sensation and even fascinated by means of its mistakes—by means of its application to Wagnerism, as if the latter were the sign of an ascending tendency. On that account alone, this treatise was an event in Wagner's life: thenceforward great hopes surrounded the name of Wagner. Even to this day, people remind me, sometimes in the middle of Parsifal, that it rests on my conscience if the opinion, that this movement is of great value to culture, at length became prevalent I have often seen the book quoted as "The Second Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music": people had ears only for new formulæ for Wagner's art, his object and his mission—and in this way the real hidden value of the book was overlooked. "Hellenism and Pessimism"—this would have been a less equivocal title, seeing that the book contains the first attempt at showing how the Greeks succeeded in disposing: of pessimism—in what manner they overcame it. ... Tragedy itself is the proof of the fact that the Greeks were not pessimists: Schopenhauer blundered here as he blundered in everything else.—Regarded impartially, The Birth of Tragedy is a book quite strange to its age: no one would dream that it was begun in the thunder of the battle of Wörth. I thought out these problems on cold September nights beneath the walls of Metz, in the midst of my duties as nurse to the wounded; it would be easier to think that it was written fifty years earlier. Its attitude towards politics is one of indifference,—"un-German,"¹ as people would say to-day,—it smells offensively of Hegel; only in one or two formulæ is it infected with the bitter odour of corpses which is peculiar to Schopenhauer. An idea—the antagonism of the two concepts Dionysian and Apollonian—is translated into metaphysics; history itself is depicted as the development of this idea; in tragedy this antithesis has become unity; from this standpoint things which theretofore had never been face to face are suddenly confronted, and understood and illuminated by each other.... Opera and revolution, for instance.... The two decisive innovations in the book are, first, the comprehension of the Dionysian phenomenon among the Greeks—it provides the first psychological analysis of this phenomenon, and sees in it the single root of all Greek art; and, secondly, the comprehension of Socraticism—Socrates being presented for the first time as the instrument of Greek dissolution, as a typical decadent. "Reason" versus Instinct. "Reason" at any cost, as a dangerous, life-undermining force. The whole book is profoundly and politely silent concerning Christianity: the latter is neither Apollonian nor Dionysian; it denies all æsthetic values, which are the only values that The Birth of Tragedy recognises. Christianity is most profoundly nihilistic, whereas in the Dionysian symbol, the most extreme limits of a yea-saying attitude to life are attained. In one part of the book the Christian priesthood is referred to as a "perfidious order of goblins," as "subterraneans."

To be fair to The Birth of Tragedy (1872), one must forget a few things. The book caused a sensation and even fascinated people because of its mistakes. It applied its ideas to Wagnerism, as if Wagnerism were a sign of an ascending tendency. For that reason alone, the treatise was an event in Wagner's life. From then on, great hopes surrounded Wagner's name. Even today, people remind me, sometimes in the middle of Parsifal, that I am responsible for the widespread belief that this movement has great cultural value. I have often seen the book quoted as "The Second Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music". People listened only for new formulas describing Wagner's art, his aim, and his mission. As a result, the book's real, hidden value was overlooked. "Hellenism and Pessimism" would have been a less ambiguous title. The book contains the first attempt to show how the Greeks dealt with pessimism, how they overcame it. ... Tragedy itself proves that the Greeks were not pessimists. Schopenhauer blundered here, as he did in everything else. Seen impartially, The Birth of Tragedy is a book quite alien to its age. No one would imagine that it was begun amid the thunder of the battle of Wörth. I worked out these problems on cold September nights beneath the walls of Metz, while nursing the wounded. It would be easier to believe that the book was written fifty years earlier. It is indifferent to politics, "un-German,"¹ as people would say today. It smells offensively of Hegel. Only one or two formulas are infected with the bitter smell of corpses peculiar to Schopenhauer. An idea, the opposition between the Dionysian and the Apollonian, is turned into metaphysics. History itself is portrayed as the development of this idea. In tragedy, the two opposing principles become one. From this standpoint, things never before placed face to face are suddenly brought together. They explain and illuminate each other. ... Opera and revolution, for instance. ... The book's two decisive innovations are these. First, it understands the Dionysian phenomenon among the Greeks. It gives the first psychological analysis of the phenomenon and sees it as the single root of all Greek art. Second, it understands Socraticism. For the first time, Socrates is presented as the instrument of Greek dissolution, as a typical decadent. "Reason" versus Instinct. "Reason" at any cost, a dangerous force that undermines life. The whole book maintains a profound and polite silence about Christianity. Christianity is neither Apollonian nor Dionysian. It denies all aesthetic values, the only values that The Birth of Tragedy recognizes. Christianity is profoundly nihilistic. By contrast, the Dionysian symbol represents the furthest possible extent of an attitude that says yes to life. In one part of the book, the Christian priesthood is called a "perfidious order of goblins", "subterraneans".

This start of mine was remarkable beyond measure. As a confirmation of my inmost personal experience I had discovered the only example of this fact that history possesses,—with this I was the first to understand the amazing Dionysian phenomenon. At the same time, by recognising Socrates as a decadent, I proved most conclusively that the certainty of my psychological grasp of things ran very little risk at the hands of any sort of moral idiosyncrasy: to regard morality itself as a symptom of degeneration is an innovation, a unique event of the first order in the history of knowledge. How high I had soared above the pitifully foolish gabble about Optimism and Pessimism with my two new doctrines! I was the first to see the actual contrast: the degenerate instinct which turns upon life with a subterranean lust of vengeance (Christianity, Schopenhauer's philosophy, and in some respects too even Plato's philosophy—in short, the whole of idealism in its typical forms), as opposed to a formula of the highest yea-saying to life, born of an abundance and a superabundance of life—a I yea-saying free from all reserve, applying even to suffering, and guilt, and all that is questionable and strange in existence.... This last, most joyous, most exuberant and exultant yea to life, is not only the highest, but also the profoundest conception, and one which is most strictly confirmed and supported by truth and science. Nothing that exists must be suppressed, nothing can be dispensed with. Those aspects of life which Christians and other Nihilists reject, belong to an incalculably higher order in the hierarchy of values, than that which the instinct of degeneration calls good, and may call good. In order to understand this, a certain courage is necessary, and, as a prerequisite of this, a certain superfluity of strength: for a man can approach only as near to truth as he has the courage to advance—that is to say, everything depends strictly upon the measure of his strength. Knowledge, and the affirmation of reality, are just as necessary to the strong man as cowardice, the flight from reality—in fact, the "ideal"—are necessary to the weak inspired by weakness.... These people are not at liberty to "know,"—decadents stand in need of lies,—it is one of their self-preservative measures. He who not only understands the word "Dionysian," but understands himself in that term, does not require any refutation of Plato, or of Christianity, or of Schopenhauer—for his nose scents decomposition.

My beginning was remarkable beyond measure. To confirm my deepest personal experience, I had discovered the only historical example of this fact. In doing so, I became the first to understand the astonishing Dionysian phenomenon. At the same time, I recognized Socrates as a decadent. This proved conclusively that no moral quirk was likely to undermine the certainty of my psychological insight. To see morality itself as a symptom of degeneration is an innovation. It is a unique event of the first importance in the history of knowledge. With my two new doctrines, how high I had risen above the pitifully foolish chatter about Optimism and Pessimism! I was the first to see the real contrast. On one side is the degenerate instinct that turns against life with a hidden lust for revenge. This instinct appears in Christianity, Schopenhauer's philosophy, and, in some respects, even Plato's philosophy. In short, it appears in all the typical forms of idealism. On the other side is a way of saying the highest yes to life, born of an abundance and overabundance of life. It says yes without reservation, even to suffering, guilt, and everything questionable and strange in existence.... This last, most joyous, exuberant, and exultant yes to life is not only the highest conception, but also the deepest. It is also confirmed and supported most rigorously by truth and science. Nothing that exists must be suppressed. Nothing can be done without. Christians and other Nihilists reject certain aspects of life. Yet those aspects rank incalculably higher in the hierarchy of values than what the instinct of degeneration calls good, and may call good. To understand this, a person needs courage. And courage, in turn, requires a certain surplus of strength. A person can approach truth only as closely as he has the courage to go. In other words, everything depends strictly on the measure of his strength. Knowledge and the affirmation of reality are necessary to the strong man. In the same way, cowardice and flight from reality, in fact, the "ideal", are necessary to the weak, who are driven by weakness.... These people are not free to "know." Decadents need lies as a means of self-preservation. Anyone who not only understands the word "Dionysian," but understands himself in that term, needs no refutation of Plato, Christianity, or Schopenhauer. His nose scents decomposition.

The extent to which I had by means of these doctrines discovered the idea of "tragedy," the ultimate explanation of what the psychology of tragedy is, I discussed finally in The Twilight of the Idols (Aph. 5, part 10).... "The saying of yea to life, and even to its weirdest and most difficult problems: the will to life rejoicing at its own infinite vitality in the sacrifice of its highest types—that is what I called Dionysian, that is what I meant as the bridge to the psychology of the tragic poet. Not to cast out terror and pity, or to purge one's self of dangerous passion by discharging it with vehemence,—this was Aristotle's² misunderstanding of it,—but to be far beyond terror and pity and to be the eternal lust of Becoming itself—that lust which also involves the joy of destruction." ... In this sense I have the right to regard myself as the first tragic philosopher—that is to say, the most extreme antithesis and antipodes of a pessimistic philosopher. Before my time no such thing existed as this translation of the Dionysian phenomenon into philosophic emotion: tragic wisdom was lacking; in vain have I sought for signs of it even among the great Greeks in philosophy—those belonging to the two centuries before Socrates. I still remained a little doubtful about Heraclitus, in whose presence, alone, I felt warmer and more at ease than anywhere else. The yea-saying to the impermanence and annihilation of things, which is the decisive feature of a Dionysian philosophy; the yea-saying to contradiction and war, the postulation of Becoming, together with the radical rejection even of the concept Being— in all these things, at all events, I must recognise him who has come nearest to me in thought hither to. The doctrine of the "Eternal Recurrence"—that is to say, of the absolute and eternal repetition of all things in periodical cycles—this doctrine of Zarathustra's might, it is true, have been taught before. In any case, the Stoics, who derived nearly all their fundamental ideas from Heraclitus, show traces of it.

I finally discussed in The Twilight of the Idols (Aph. 5, part 10) how far these doctrines had led me to discover the idea of "tragedy" and the ultimate explanation of its psychology.... "Saying yes to life, even in its strangest and most difficult problems: the will to life rejoicing in its own infinite vitality as it sacrifices its highest types. That is what I called Dionysian. That is what I meant as the bridge to the psychology of the tragic poet. The aim is not to drive out terror and pity, or to purge oneself of dangerous passion by releasing it violently. That was Aristotle's² misunderstanding. The aim is to go far beyond terror and pity and become the eternal desire of Becoming itself, a desire that also includes the joy of destruction." ... In this sense, I have the right to regard myself as the first tragic philosopher. I am, in other words, the most extreme opposite of a pessimistic philosopher. Before my time, no one had translated the Dionysian phenomenon into philosophical emotion. Tragic wisdom was missing. I have searched in vain for signs of it even among the great Greek philosophers of the two centuries before Socrates. I remained somewhat uncertain about Heraclitus alone. In his presence, I felt warmer and more at ease than anywhere else. Saying yes to the impermanence and destruction of things is the defining feature of a Dionysian philosophy. Heraclitus also said yes to contradiction and war, asserted Becoming, and radically rejected even the concept of Being. In all these things, at least, I must recognize him as the thinker who has come closest to me so far. The doctrine of "Eternal Recurrence" means the absolute and eternal repetition of all things in periodic cycles. Zarathustra's doctrine may, it is true, have been taught before. In any case, traces of it appear among the Stoics, who drew nearly all their fundamental ideas from Heraclitus.

A tremendous hope finds expression in this work. After all, I have absolutely no reason to renounce the hope for a Dionysian future of music. Let us look a century ahead, and let us suppose that my attempt to destroy two millenniums of hostility to Nature and of the violation of humanity be crowned with success That new party of life-advocates, which will undertake the greatest of all tasks, the elevation and perfection of mankind, as well as the relentless destruction of all degenerate and parasitical elements, will make that superabundance of life on earth once more possible, out of which the Dionysian state will perforce arise again. I promise the advent of a tragic age: the highest art in the saying of yea to life, "tragedy," will be born again when mankind has the knowledge of the hardest, but most necessary of wars, behind it, without, however, suffering from that knowledge.... A psychologist might add that what I heard in Wagnerian music in my youth and early manhood had nothing whatsoever to do with Wagner; that when I described Dionysian music, I described merely what I personally had heard—that I was compelled instinctively to translate and transfigure everything into the new spirit which filled my breast. A proof of this, and as strong a proof as you could have, is my essay, Wagner in Bayreuth: in all its decisive psychological passages I am the only person concerned—without any hesitation you may read my name or the word "Zarathustra" wherever the text contains the name of Wagner. The whole panorama of the dithyrambic artist is the representation of the already existing author of Zarathustra, and it is drawn with an abysmal depth which does not even once come into contact with the real Wagner. Wagner himself had a notion of the truth; he did not recognise himself in the essay.—In this way, "the idea of Bayreuth" was changed into something which to those who are acquainted with my Zarathustra will be no riddle—that is to say, into the Great Noon when the highest of the elect will consecrate themselves for the greatest of all duties—who knows? the vision of a feast which I may live to see.... The pathos of the first few pages is universal history; the look which is discussed on page 105³ of the book, is the actual look of Zarathustra; Wagner, Bayreuth, the whole of this petty German wretchedness, is a cloud upon which an infinite Fata Morgana of the future is reflected. Even from the psychological standpoint, all the decisive traits in my character are introduced into Wagner's nature—the juxtaposition of the most brilliant and most fatal forces, a Will to Power such as no man has ever possessed—inexorable bravery in matters spiritual, an unlimited power of learning unaccompanied by depressed powers for action. Everything in this essay is a prophecy: the proximity of the resurrection of the Greek spirit, the need of men who will be counter-Alexanders, who will once more tie the Gordian knot of Greek culture, after it has been cut. Listen to the world-historic accent with which the concept "sense for the tragic" is introduced on page 180: there are little else but world-historic accents in this essay. This is the strangest kind of "objectivity" that ever existed: my absolute certainty in regard to what I am, projected itself into any chance reality—truth about myself was voiced from out appalling depths. On pages 174 and 175 the style of Zarathustra is described and foretold with incisive certainty, and no more magnificent expression will ever be found than that on pages 144-147 for the event for which Zarathustra stands—that prodigious act of the purification and consecration of mankind.

This work expresses a tremendous hope. After all, I have absolutely no reason to abandon hope for a Dionysian future for music. Let us look a century ahead. Suppose my attempt to destroy two thousand years of hostility to Nature and violation of humanity succeeds. A new party of life-advocates will undertake the greatest of all tasks. It will elevate and perfect mankind and relentlessly destroy all degenerate and parasitical elements. It will once again make possible that superabundance of life on earth, from which the Dionysian state will inevitably arise again. I promise the coming of a tragic age. Mankind will have fought the hardest but most necessary of wars and will not suffer from that knowledge. Then "tragedy," the highest art of saying yes to life, will be born again.... A psychologist might add that what I heard in Wagnerian music in my youth and early manhood had nothing whatsoever to do with Wagner. When I described Dionysian music, I described only what I personally had heard. Instinct compelled me to translate and transform everything into the new spirit that filled my heart. My essay, Wagner in Bayreuth, provides as strong a proof of this as anyone could ask for. In all its decisive psychological passages, I am the only person concerned. You may read my name or the word "Zarathustra" wherever the text names Wagner, without any hesitation. The whole picture of the dithyrambic artist portrays the author of Zarathustra, who already existed. It is drawn with an immense depth that never once touches the real Wagner. Wagner himself had some idea of the truth. He did not recognize himself in the essay. In this way, "the idea of Bayreuth" became something that will be no riddle to readers familiar with my Zarathustra. It became the Great Noon, when the highest of the elect will dedicate themselves to the greatest of all duties. Who knows? Perhaps it is a vision of a feast I may live to see.... The emotion of the first few pages belongs to universal history. The look discussed on page 105³ of the book is the actual look of Zarathustra. Wagner, Bayreuth, and all this petty German misery are a cloud upon which an infinite Fata Morgana of the future is reflected. Even from a psychological standpoint, I put all the decisive traits of my character into Wagner's nature. These are the pairing of the most brilliant and most fatal forces, a Will to Power such as no man has ever possessed, relentless courage in spiritual matters, and an unlimited power to learn without any loss of the power to act. Everything in this essay is a prophecy. It foretells the approaching rebirth of the Greek spirit and the need for men who will be counter-Alexanders. They will tie the Gordian knot of Greek culture once more, after it has been cut. Listen to the world-historic tone in which the concept "sense for the tragic" is introduced on page 180. There is little else but world-historic language in this essay. This is the strangest kind of "objectivity" that ever existed. My absolute certainty about what I am projected itself onto whatever reality happened to be at hand. The truth about myself spoke out from appalling depths. On pages 174 and 175, the style of Zarathustra is described and foretold with sharp certainty. Pages 144-147 express the event for which Zarathustra stands more magnificently than anyone ever will again. That event is the tremendous act of purifying and consecrating mankind.