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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 regeneration of art,—yea, of art already with metaphysical, broadest and profoundest sense,—and its own eternity guarantees also the eternity of art.

In light of these last momentous questions, we must now show how the influence of Socrates has spread over later generations. His influence extends to the present and, indeed, into all the future. It has spread like a lengthening shadow in the evening sun. Again and again, this influence makes the renewal of art necessary. Indeed, it calls for art in the broadest and deepest metaphysical sense. And the eternity of this influence also guarantees the eternity of art.

Before this could be perceived, before the intrinsic dependence of every art on the Greeks, the Greeks from Homer to Socrates, was conclusively 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 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 indignation breaks forth time after time against this presumptuous little nation, which dared to designate as "barbaric" for all time everything not native: who are they, one asks one's self, who, though they possessed only an ephemeral historical splendour, ridiculously restricted institutions, 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 of every culture, but that almost always chariot and horses are of too poor material and incommensurate 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.

Before we could recognize and conclusively demonstrate that every art depends fundamentally on the Greeks, from Homer to Socrates, we had to experience what the Athenians experienced with Socrates. Nearly every age and stage of culture has, at some point, tried with deep displeasure to free itself from the Greeks. In their presence, everything people had achieved themselves, sincerely admired, and thought quite original suddenly seemed to lose its life and color. It seemed to shrink into a failed copy, even a caricature. And so, time and again, people burst out in indignation against this presumptuous little nation. The Greeks dared to call everything foreign "barbaric" for all time. Who are they, people ask themselves, to claim the dignity and unique position among peoples that genius deserves among the masses? Their historical glory was brief, their institutions were absurdly limited, their customs were of doubtful excellence, and they were even marked by ugly vices. What a pity that no one has been fortunate enough to find the cup of hemlock that could settle the matter without fuss. For all the poison bred by envy, slander, and bitter resentment has failed to destroy that self-sufficient grandeur! And so we feel ashamed and afraid in the presence of the Greeks, unless we value truth above all else and dare to admit this truth to ourselves: the Greeks, like charioteers, hold the reins of our own culture and every other culture. But almost always the chariot and horses are too poor and unworthy of their glorious drivers. The drivers will then think it sport to send such a team into an abyss, which they themselves clear with the leap of Achilles.

In order to assign also to Socrates the dignity of such a leading position, it will suffice to recognise in him the type of an unheard-of form of 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, the theorist also finds an infinite satisfaction in what is 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, on the other hand, enjoys and contents himself with the cast-off veil, and finds the consummation of his pleasure in the process of a continuously successful unveiling through his own unaided efforts. There would have been no science if 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 fundamental secret of science, to the astonishment, and indeed, to the vexation of scientific men. Well, 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 imperturbable 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.

To give Socrates the dignity of such a leading position, we need only recognize him as a new type of person. He represents an unprecedented form of existence: the theoretical man. Our next task is to understand what this type means and what purpose it serves. Like the artist, the theorist finds endless satisfaction in what is. This satisfaction protects both from the practical ethics of pessimism, with its lynx eyes that shine only in the dark. Whenever truth is unveiled, the artist fixes his delighted gaze on what remains hidden. The theoretical man, by contrast, takes pleasure and satisfaction in the discarded veil. His greatest pleasure comes from continually succeeding in unveiling truth through his own efforts. There would have been no science if it had been concerned only with that one naked goddess. Its followers would then have felt like people trying to dig straight through the earth. Each sees that, despite a lifetime of effort, he can dig only a tiny part of the enormous depth. Before his eyes, his successor fills in the hole again through his own digging. So a third person seems wise to choose a new spot for his own attempt. Suppose someone conclusively proves that the goal on the opposite side of the earth cannot be reached this way. Who would still care to labor in the old depths? Only someone who had meanwhile learned to be satisfied with finding precious stones or discovering natural laws. For this reason Lessing, the most honest theoretical man, dared to say that he cared more about searching for truth than about truth itself. In saying this, he revealed the fundamental secret of science, to the astonishment and even annoyance of scientists. But alongside this detached insight stands a profound illusion. It first appeared in the world in the person of Socrates, as an excess of honesty, if not of presumption. It is the unshakable belief that thought, guided by causality, can reach the deepest abysses of being. It holds that thought can not only perceive being but even correct it. This sublime metaphysical illusion becomes an instinct in science. Again and again, it leads science to its limits, where science must turn into art. Art is really the goal this mechanism is meant to reach.

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 designated even as the necessary consequence, yea, as the end of science.

If we now look at Socrates in this light, he appears as the first person guided by the instinct of science not only in life but, more importantly, in death. The image of the dying Socrates, freed from the fear of death by knowledge and argument, is therefore the emblem above the entrance to science. It reminds everyone of the mission of science: to make existence seem understandable and therefore justified. If arguments are not enough for this purpose, myth must also be used. I have just described myth as the necessary consequence, indeed the ultimate goal, 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 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 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.

After the death of Socrates, the mystagogue of science, one philosophical school followed another, like wave upon wave. A universal thirst for knowledge developed across the whole cultured world, in a way no one had foreseen. The pursuit of knowledge became the particular task of everyone highly gifted. This thirst for knowledge led science onto the high seas, from which it has never since been completely driven. Because the movement was universal, a shared network of thought first spread over the entire globe. It also offered the prospect that an entire solar system might conform to law. Anyone who understands all this, along with the astonishingly high pyramid of our present knowledge, must see Socrates as the turning point and vortex of so-called universal history. Imagine the countless energies spent on that universal pursuit being used not in the service of knowledge. Imagine them used instead for the practical, i.e., selfish ends of individuals and peoples. Universal wars of destruction and endless migrations of peoples would probably weaken the instinctive love of life. Through the practice of suicide, the individual might then feel the last remnant of a sense of duty. Like the native of the Fiji Islands, he would strangle his parents as their son and his friend as a friend. Such practical pessimism might even give rise to a horrible ethics of general slaughter out of pity. Indeed, such pessimism exists and has existed wherever art, especially in the form of science and religion, has not appeared as a remedy and preventive against 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 sees in error and evil. 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, judgments, 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 thenceforth 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.

Against this practical pessimism, Socrates is the model of the theoretical optimist. He believes that the nature of things can be understood. He gives knowledge and perception the power of a universal cure, and sees error and evil. For Socratic man, the noblest and even the only truly human calling was to probe the depths of nature. It was to distinguish true perception from error and illusion. Likewise, from Socrates onward, the use of concepts, judgments, and reasoning was valued above all other abilities. It was seen as the highest activity and the most admirable gift of nature. Socrates traced even the most sublime moral acts to the dialectics of knowledge. These included feelings of pity, self-sacrifice, and heroism. They also included that hard-won peace of soul that the Apollonian Greek called Sophrosyne. Socrates and his like-minded successors, down to the present day, therefore considered all these things teachable. Anyone who has felt the joy of a Socratic insight knows how it seeks to encompass the entire world of phenomena. It reaches out in ever-widening circles. From then on, nothing will give that person a stronger reason to live than the desire to complete this conquest. That person will want to weave the net so tightly that nothing can pass through it. To such a person, the Platonic Socrates appears as the teacher of an entirely new kind of "Greek cheerfulness" and happiness in life. This happiness seeks expression in action. For the most part, it finds expression in maieutic and educational influence on noble youths, with the ultimate aim of producing 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 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 itself at these limits and finally bites its own tail—then the new form of perception discloses itself, namely tragic perception, which, in order even to be endured, requires art as a safeguard and remedy.

But now science, driven by its powerful illusion, rushes irresistibly toward its limits. There, its optimism, rooted in the very nature of logic, is shattered. The circle of science has infinitely many points along its edge. We still cannot know how this circle could ever be measured completely. Yet the noble and gifted man inevitably reaches those outermost points before he is halfway through his career. There he confronts the inexplicable. To his dismay, he sees logic coil around itself at these limits and finally bite its own tail. Then a new form of perception reveals itself, namely tragic perception, which requires art as a safeguard and remedy just to be endured.

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 of 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 Æschylean tragedy.

If the sight of the Greeks strengthens and refreshes our eyes, we can look at the highest spheres of the world around us. There we see an insatiable hunger for optimistic knowledge, typically represented by Socrates. This hunger has turned into tragic resignation and a need for art. But at its lower stages, the same hunger must show itself as hostile to art. It must feel a deep hatred of Dionyso-tragic art in particular. Socratism’s opposition to Æschylean tragedy was an example of this hostility.

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, 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!

So, with troubled spirits, we knock at the gates of the present and the future. Will that "transforming" lead to ever new forms of genius, especially the music-practising Socrates? Art spreads a net over existence, whether under the name of religion or science. Will that net always be woven more closely and delicately? Or is it destined to be torn to shreds by the restless barbaric activity and turmoil called "the present day"? Anxious, but not without hope, we stand apart for a little while. We are spectators allowed to witness these tremendous struggles and transitions. Alas! The power of these struggles is that anyone who witnesses them must also take part in them!