1

We shall have gained much for the science of æsthetics, when once we have perceived not only by logical inference, but by the immediate certainty of intuition, that the continuous development of art is bound up with the duplexity of the Apollonian and the Dionysian: in like manner as procreation is dependent on the duality of the sexes, involving perpetual conflicts with only periodically intervening reconciliations. These names we borrow from the Greeks, who disclose to the intelligent observer the profound mysteries of their view of art, not indeed in concepts, but in the impressively clear figures of their world of deities. It is in connection with Apollo and Dionysus, the two art-deities of the Greeks, that we learn that there existed in the Grecian world a wide antithesis, in origin and aims, between the art of the shaper, the Apollonian, and the non-plastic art of music, that of Dionysus: both these so heterogeneous tendencies run parallel to each other, for the most part openly at variance, and continually inciting each other to new and more powerful births, to perpetuate in them the strife of this antithesis, which is but seemingly bridged over by their mutual term "Art"; till at last, by a metaphysical miracle of the Hellenic will, they appear paired with each other, and through this pairing eventually generate the equally Dionysian and Apollonian art-work of Attic tragedy.

We will have made great progress in the science of aesthetics when we grasp one truth. We must grasp it not only through logical reasoning, but also through the immediate certainty of intuition. The continuous development of art depends on the duality of the Apollonian and the Dionysian:. In the same way, procreation depends on the duality of the sexes, with their constant conflicts and occasional reconciliations. We borrow these names from the Greeks. They reveal the deep mysteries of their view of art to the discerning observer. They do so not in concepts, but in the strikingly clear figures of their gods. Through Apollo and Dionysus, the two Greek gods of art, we learn of a great contrast in the Grecian world. The art of the shaper, the Apollonian, differed in origin and aims from the non-plastic art of music, the Dionysian. These two very different tendencies run alongside each other, for the most part openly opposed. Each continually spurs the other to new and more powerful creations. In these creations, they keep alive the conflict between them, which their shared name "Art" only seems to bridge. At last, through a metaphysical miracle of the Hellenic will, they appear joined together. From this union they eventually give birth to Attic tragedy, an artwork that is equally Dionysian and Apollonian.

In order to bring these two tendencies within closer range, let us conceive them first of all as the separate art-worlds of dreamland and drunkenness; between which physiological phenomena a contrast may be observed analogous to that existing between the Apollonian and the Dionysian. In dreams, according to the conception of Lucretius, the glorious divine figures first appeared to the souls of men, in dreams the great shaper beheld the charming corporeal structure of superhuman beings, and the Hellenic poet, if consulted on the mysteries of poetic inspiration, would likewise have suggested dreams and would have offered an explanation resembling that of Hans Sachs in the Meistersingers:—

To understand these two tendencies more closely, let us first imagine them as the separate art-worlds of dreamland and drunkenness. These physiological states contrast with each other in a way similar to the Apollonian and the Dionysian. According to Lucretius, the glorious figures of the gods first appeared to human souls in dreams. In dreams, the great sculptor saw the beautiful bodies of superhuman beings. And if asked about the mysteries of poetic inspiration, the Hellenic poet would likewise have pointed to dreams. He would have offered an explanation like that of Hans Sachs in the Meistersingers:

The beauteous appearance of the dream-worlds, in the production of which every man is a perfect artist, is the presupposition of all plastic art, and in fact, as we shall see, of an important half of poetry also. We take delight in the immediate apprehension of form; all forms speak to us; there is nothing indifferent, nothing superfluous. But, together with the highest life of this dream-reality we also have, glimmering through it, the sensation of its appearance: such at least is my experience, as to the frequency, ay, normality of which I could adduce many proofs, as also the sayings of the poets. Indeed, the man of philosophic turn has a foreboding that underneath this reality in which we live and have our being, another and altogether different reality lies concealed, and that therefore it is also an appearance; and Schopenhauer actually designates the gift of occasionally regarding men and things as mere phantoms and dream-pictures as the criterion of philosophical ability. Accordingly, the man susceptible to art stands in the same relation to the reality of dreams as the philosopher to the reality of existence; he is a close and willing observer, for from these pictures he reads the meaning of life, and by these processes he trains himself for life. And it is perhaps not only the agreeable and friendly pictures that he realises in himself with such perfect understanding: the earnest, the troubled, the dreary, the gloomy, the sudden checks, the tricks of fortune, the uneasy presentiments, in short, the whole "Divine Comedy" of life, and the Inferno, also pass before him, not merely like pictures on the wall—for he too lives and suffers in these scenes,—and yet not without that fleeting sensation of appearance. And perhaps many a one will, like myself, recollect having sometimes called out cheeringly and not without success amid the dangers and terrors of dream-life: "It is a dream! I will dream on!" I have likewise been told of persons capable of continuing the causality of one and the same dream for three and even more successive nights: all of which facts clearly testify that our innermost being, the common substratum of all of us, experiences our dreams with deep joy and cheerful acquiescence.

The beautiful appearance of dream worlds, which every person creates as a perfect artist, is the basis of all visual art. As we shall see, it is also the basis of an important part of poetry. We delight in seeing forms directly. All forms speak to us. Nothing is indifferent, nothing is superfluous. Yet even when this dream reality is most vivid, we still glimpse the sense that it is an appearance. At least, that is my experience. I could offer much evidence, including the words of poets, that this experience is frequent, indeed normal. A philosophically minded person senses that another, entirely different reality lies hidden beneath the reality in which we live. Our reality, therefore, is also an appearance. Schopenhauer goes so far as to make the ability to see people and things occasionally as mere phantoms and dream images the test of philosophical ability. In the same way, a person receptive to art relates to the reality of dreams as the philosopher relates to the reality of existence. Such a person watches closely and willingly, reading the meaning of life in these images and preparing for life through them. And perhaps it is not only the pleasant and friendly images that such a person experiences with perfect understanding. The serious, the troubled, the bleak, the gloomy also pass before the dreamer. So do sudden setbacks, tricks of fortune, and uneasy forebodings. In short, the whole "Divine Comedy" of life, including the Inferno, passes before the dreamer. These scenes do not pass like mere pictures on a wall, for the dreamer lives and suffers in them too. Yet even then, the fleeting sense that they are appearances remains. And perhaps many people, like me, remember calling out cheerfully amid the dangers and terrors of a dream, sometimes with success: "It is a dream! I will dream on!" I have also heard of people who could continue the chain of events in the same dream for three or more nights in a row. All these facts clearly show that our innermost being, the common foundation of us all, experiences dreams with deep joy and cheerful acceptance.

This cheerful acquiescence in the dream-experience has likewise been embodied by the Greeks in their Apollo: for Apollo, as the god of all shaping energies, is also the soothsaying god. He, who (as the etymology of the name indicates) is the "shining one," the deity of light, also rules over the fair appearance of the inner world of fantasies. The higher truth, the perfection of these states in contrast to the only partially intelligible everyday world, ay, the deep consciousness of nature, healing and helping in sleep and dream, is at the same time the symbolical analogue of the faculty of soothsaying and, in general, of the arts, through which life is made possible and worth living. But also that delicate line, which the dream-picture must not overstep—lest it act pathologically (in which case appearance, being reality pure and simple, would impose upon us)—must not be wanting in the picture of Apollo: that measured limitation, that freedom from the wilder emotions, that philosophical calmness of the sculptor-god. His eye must be "sunlike," according to his origin; even when it is angry and looks displeased, the sacredness of his beauteous appearance is still there. And so we might apply to Apollo, in an eccentric sense, what Schopenhauer says of the man wrapt in the veil of Mâyâ²: Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, I. p. 416: "Just as in a stormy sea, unbounded in every direction, rising and falling with howling mountainous waves, a sailor sits in a boat and trusts in his frail barque: so in the midst of a world of sorrows the individual sits quietly supported by and trusting in his principium individuationis." Indeed, we might say of Apollo, that in him the unshaken faith in this principium and the quiet sitting of the man wrapt therein have received their sublimest expression; and we might even designate Apollo as the glorious divine image of the principium individuationis, from out of the gestures and looks of which all the joy and wisdom of "appearance," together with its beauty, speak to us.

The Greeks also gave this joyful acceptance of the dream experience a divine form in Apollo. As the god of all creative powers, Apollo is also the god of prophecy. His name means “the shining one,” and as the god of light, he rules over the beautiful appearances of our inner world of fantasies. These dream states have a higher truth and perfection than the everyday world, which we understand only partly. In them, too, we become deeply aware of nature’s power to heal and help us in sleep and dreams. All this is also a symbolic counterpart to the power of prophecy and, more generally, to the arts. The arts make life possible and worth living. But a dream image must not cross a delicate boundary. If it does, it becomes pathological, and mere appearance deceives us into taking it for reality itself. This boundary must also be present in our image of Apollo. The sculptor-god must have measured restraint, freedom from wilder emotions, and a philosopher’s calm. His eye must be “sunlike,” as befits his origin. Even when he is angry and looks displeased, his beautiful appearance still has a sacred quality. So, in an unusual sense, we might apply to Apollo what Schopenhauer says of the man wrapped in the veil of Mâyâ²: Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, I. p. 416: “Just as a sailor sits in a boat on a stormy sea, trusting his frail craft, so the individual sits quietly amid a world of sorrows, supported by and trusting in his principium individuationis. The sea stretches boundlessly in every direction, rising and falling in howling, mountainous waves.” Indeed, we might say that Apollo gives the highest expression to this unshaken faith in the principium and to the quiet sitting of the man wrapped in it. We might even call Apollo the glorious divine image of the principium individuationis. Through his gestures and looks, all the joy, wisdom, and beauty of “appearance” speak to us.

In the same work Schopenhauer has described to us the stupendous awe which seizes upon man, when of a sudden he is at a loss to account for the cognitive forms of a phenomenon, in that the principle of reason, in some one of its manifestations, seems to admit of an exception. Add to this awe the blissful ecstasy which rises from the innermost depths of man, ay, of nature, at this same collapse of the principium individuationis, and we shall gain an insight into the being of the Dionysian, which is brought within closest ken perhaps by the analogy of drunkenness. It is either under the influence of the narcotic draught, of which the hymns of all primitive men and peoples tell us, or by the powerful approach of spring penetrating all nature with joy, that those Dionysian emotions awake, in the augmentation of which the subjective vanishes to complete self-forgetfulness. So also in the German Middle Ages singing and dancing crowds, ever increasing in number, were borne from place to place under this same Dionysian power. In these St. John's and St. Vitus's dancers we again perceive the Bacchic choruses of the Greeks, with their previous history in Asia Minor, as far back as Babylon and the orgiastic Sacæa. There are some, who, from lack of experience or obtuseness, will turn away from such phenomena as "folk-diseases" with a smile of contempt or pity prompted by the consciousness of their own health: of course, the poor wretches do not divine what a cadaverous-looking and ghastly aspect this very "health" of theirs presents when the glowing life of the Dionysian revellers rushes past them.

In the same work, Schopenhauer describes the tremendous awe that seizes a person who suddenly cannot explain a phenomenon’s forms of perception. This happens when the principle of reason seems to admit an exception in one of its forms. To this awe, add the blissful ecstasy that rises from the deepest parts of a person, indeed, of nature itself. This ecstasy arises when the principium individuationis collapses. Together, awe and ecstasy give us insight into the nature of the Dionysian. The analogy of drunkenness perhaps brings us closest to understanding it. Dionysian emotions awaken under the influence of a narcotic drink, celebrated in the hymns of all primitive men and peoples. They also awaken with the powerful arrival of spring, which fills all nature with joy. As these emotions grow, the sense of self vanishes into complete self-forgetfulness. In the German Middle Ages, too, ever-growing crowds sang and danced from place to place, driven by this same Dionysian power. In these St. John’s and St. Vitus’s dancers, we see again the Bacchic choruses of the Greeks. Their history reaches back through Asia Minor to Babylon and the orgiastic Sacæa. Some people turn away from such phenomena as "folk-diseases," out of inexperience or dullness. Conscious of their own health, they smile with contempt or pity. Of course, the poor wretches have no idea how corpse-like and ghastly their very "health" looks when the glowing life of the Dionysian revellers rushes past them.

Under the charm of the Dionysian not only is the covenant between man and man again established, but also estranged, hostile or subjugated nature again celebrates her reconciliation with her lost son, man. Of her own accord earth proffers her gifts, and peacefully the beasts of prey approach from the desert and the rocks. The chariot of Dionysus is bedecked with flowers and garlands: panthers and tigers pass beneath his yoke. Change Beethoven's "jubilee-song" into a painting, and, if your imagination be equal to the occasion when the awestruck millions sink into the dust, you will then be able to approach the Dionysian. Now is the slave a free man, now all the stubborn, hostile barriers, which necessity, caprice, or "shameless fashion" has set up between man and man, are broken down. Now, at the evangel of cosmic harmony, each one feels himself not only united, reconciled, blended with his neighbour, but as one with him, as if the veil of Mâyâ has been torn and were now merely fluttering in tatters before the mysterious Primordial Unity. In song and in dance man exhibits himself as a member of a higher community, he has forgotten how to walk and speak, and is on the point of taking a dancing flight into the air. His gestures bespeak enchantment. Even as the animals now talk, and as the earth yields milk and honey, so also something super-natural sounds forth from him: he feels himself a god, he himself now walks about enchanted and elated even as the gods whom he saw walking about in his dreams. Man is no longer an artist, he has become a work of art: the artistic power of all nature here reveals itself in the tremors of drunkenness to the highest gratification of the Primordial Unity. The noblest clay, the costliest marble, namely man, is here kneaded and cut, and the chisel strokes of the Dionysian world-artist are accompanied with the cry of the Eleusinian mysteries: "Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen? Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?"³

Under the spell of the Dionysian, people renew their bonds with one another. Nature, once estranged, hostile, or subjugated, also celebrates her reconciliation with her lost son, man. The earth freely offers her gifts, and beasts of prey come peacefully from the desert and the rocks. The chariot of Dionysus is decorated with flowers and garlands. Panthers and tigers pass beneath his yoke. Turn Beethoven's "jubilee-song" into a painting. Then imagine the awestruck millions sinking into the dust, if your imagination can rise to the occasion. Only then can you begin to approach the Dionysian. Now the slave is a free man. Now all the stubborn, hostile barriers between people are broken down. Necessity, caprice, or "shameless fashion" had set up these barriers. Now, hearing the good news of cosmic harmony, each person feels united, reconciled, and blended with their neighbor. Each feels at one with their neighbor. It is as if the veil of Mâyâ has been torn and hangs in tatters before the mysterious Primordial Unity. In song and dance, man shows that he belongs to a higher community. He has forgotten how to walk and speak, and is about to dance his way into the air. His gestures reveal his enchantment. The animals now speak, and the earth yields milk and honey. In the same way, something supernatural sounds from within him. He feels like a god. Enchanted and elated, he walks about like the gods he saw walking in his dreams. Man is no longer an artist. He has become a work of art. In the tremors of drunkenness, the artistic power of all nature reveals itself, giving the Primordial Unity its highest delight. Man, the noblest clay and the costliest marble, is kneaded and carved here. The chisel strokes of the Dionysian world-artist are accompanied by the cry of the Eleusinian mysteries: "Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen? Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?"³