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By this elaborate historical example we have endeavoured to make it clear that tragedy perishes as surely by evanescence of the spirit of music as it can be born only out of this spirit. In order to qualify the singularity of 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 Illustrious 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 which seem to me to guarantee a re-birth of tragedy—and who knows what other blessed hopes for the German genius!

Through this detailed historical example, we have tried to show that tragedy dies when the spirit of music fades. It can be born only from that same spirit. This claim may seem strange, so we must qualify it and show where our insight comes from. To do that, we must look clearly at similar events in our own time. We must enter the struggles now taking place in the highest spheres of our world. As I said just now, these struggles are between an insatiable optimistic outlook and the tragic need for art. In doing so, I will set aside all the other forces that have always opposed art, especially tragedy. These forces are again triumphing today. As a result, among the theatrical arts, only farce and ballet, for example, are flowering in fairly rich profusion. Perhaps not everyone cares for their scent. I will speak only of the Most Illustrious Opposition to the tragic view of things. By this I mean essentially optimistic science, with its ancestor Socrates at its head. Soon I will also name the forces that 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 individuationis through which alone the redemption in appearance is to be truly attained, while by the mystical cheer of Dionysus the spell of individuation is broken, and the way lies open to the Mothers of Being,[20] 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 music a different character and origin in advance of all the other arts, because, unlike them, it is not a copy of the phenomenon, but a direct copy of the will itself, and therefore represents the metaphysical of everything physical in the world, the thing-in-itself of every phenomenon. (Schopenhauer, Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, I. 310.) To this most important perception of æsthetics (with which, taken in a serious sense, æsthetics 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 æsthetic principles quite different from those which apply to the plastic arts, and not, in general, according to the category of beauty: although an erroneous æsthetics, 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 delight in beautiful forms. Upon perceiving this extraordinary 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 possession of a charm to enable me—far beyond the phraseology of our usual æsthetics—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.

Before we plunge into these struggles, let us arm ourselves with the knowledge we have gained so far. Many people seek to derive the arts from a single principle, the necessary source of life for every work of art. In contrast, I keep my eyes fixed on the two artistic deities of the Greeks, Apollo and Dionysus. I see them as living, unmistakable representatives of two worlds of art, different in their very nature and highest aims. Apollo stands before me as the transforming genius of the principium individuationis, through which alone redemption in appearance can truly be achieved. But the mystical joy of Dionysus breaks the spell of individuation. It opens the way to the Mothers of Being,[20] to the innermost heart of things. Only one great thinker has fully recognized this extraordinary opposition between the visual arts, which are Apollonian, and music, which is Dionysian. Even without this key to the symbolism of the Hellenic divinities, he gave music a character and origin distinct from all the other arts. Unlike them, music is not a copy of a phenomenon, but a direct copy of the will itself. It therefore represents the metaphysical aspect of everything physical in the world, the thing-in-itself of every phenomenon. (Schopenhauer, Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, I. 310.) This is a vital insight into aesthetics. Taken seriously, it marks the true beginning of aesthetics. Richard Wagner put his seal on this insight, confirming its eternal truth. In his Beethoven, he asserted that music must be judged by aesthetic principles quite different from those applied to the visual arts. Music must not, in general, be judged by the category of beauty. Yet a misguided aesthetics, inspired by art that has gone astray and degenerated, has taken its idea of beauty from the visual arts. It has thus grown accustomed to demanding that music have an effect like that of visual art, namely, that it arouse delight in beautiful forms. When I perceived this extraordinary opposition, I felt a strong urge to approach the essence of Greek tragedy. Through tragedy, I hoped to reach the deepest revelation of Hellenic genius. At last, I thought I possessed a charm that would let me picture the original problem of tragedy vividly, far beyond the usual language of aesthetics. This gave me such an astonishing insight into the Hellenic character that it seemed our proudly self-assured classical scholarship on the Greeks had so far managed to live almost entirely on illusions and externals.

Perhaps we may lead up to this primitive problem with the question: what æsthetic effect results when the intrinsically separate art-powers, the Apollonian and the Dionysian, enter into concurrent actions? Or, in briefer form: how is music related to image and concept?—Schopenhauer, whom Richard Wagner, with especial reference to this point, accredits with an unsurpassable clearness and perspicuity of exposition, expresses himself most copiously on the subject in the following passage which I shall cite here at full length²¹ (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 expressions of the same thing,²⁰ which is therefore itself the only medium of the analogy between these two expressions, so that a knowledge 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 objiects of experience and applicable to them all a priori, and yet are not abstract but perceptiple and thoroughly determinate. All possible efforts, excitements 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 reproduce 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 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 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 abstraction 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 concepts 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 concepts 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 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 between the two must have proceeded from the direct knowledge of the nature of the world unknown to his reason, and must not be an imitation produced with conscious intention by means of conceptions; otherwise the music does not express the inner nature of the will itself, but merely gives an inadequate imitation of its phenomenon: all specially imitative music does this."

Perhaps we can approach this fundamental problem by asking: What aesthetic effect results when the separate artistic powers of the Apollonian and the Dionysian act together? Or, more briefly: How is music related to image and concept? Schopenhauer wrote at length on this subject in the following passage, which I quote here in full.²¹ Richard Wagner credits Schopenhauer with unsurpassed clarity of expression, especially on this point (Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, I. p. 309): "From all this, we may regard the world of appearances, or nature, and music as two expressions of the same thing.²⁰ This underlying thing is therefore the only link between them. To understand the analogy between nature and music, we must know this link. If we regard music as an expression of the world, it is a universal language in the highest degree. Its universality relates to that of concepts much as concepts relate to particular things. Yet its universality is nothing like the empty universality of abstraction. It is quite different, and it is also completely clear and definite. In this respect, music resembles geometric figures and numbers. These are the universal forms of all possible objects of experience and apply to them all a priori. Yet they are not abstract. They can be perceived, and they are completely definite. "The infinite number of possible melodies can express every possible effort, excitement, and manifestation of will. They can express everything that happens in the human heart, everything reason includes in the broad, negative concept of feeling. But they always express these things as universal form alone, without material. They express the thing-in-itself, not the appearance. They reproduce, as it were, the soul and essence of these things without the body. "This deep connection between music and the true nature of all things explains another fact. When suitable music accompanies a scene, action, event, or setting, it seems to reveal its most secret meaning. The music seems to provide the most accurate and distinct commentary on it. The same connection also explains why someone who gives himself completely to a symphony seems to experience every possible event of life and the world within himself. Yet, on reflection, he can find no likeness between the music and the things that passed through his mind. "For, as we have said, music differs from all the other arts. It does not copy appearances or, more precisely, the adequate objectification of the will. It copies the will itself directly. It therefore represents the metaphysical aspect of everything physical in the world, and the thing-in-itself of every appearance. We might just as well call the world embodied music as embodied will. That is why music immediately gives greater meaning to every picture and every scene of real life and the world. This is all the more true when its melody is analogous to the inner spirit of the particular appearance. "This is why we can set a poem to music as a song, a visible representation as a pantomime, or both together as an opera. Such particular pictures of human life, set to the universal language of music, are never bound to it or made to correspond to it by strict necessity. Instead, they relate to music as a freely chosen example relates to a general concept. In the definite form of reality, they represent what music expresses in the universality of pure form. "For melodies, like general concepts, are to some extent abstractions from reality. The actual world, the world of particular things, provides objects of perception to both concepts and melodies in their universality. It provides the specific and individual thing, the particular case. Yet these two kinds of universality are opposed in one respect. Concepts contain only forms first abstracted from perception, the separated outer shell of things, as it were. They are therefore abstracta in the strictest sense. Music, on the other hand, gives us the innermost kernel that comes before all forms, the heart of things. "We can express this relation very well in the language of the scholastics. Concepts are universalia post rem (universals after the thing). Music gives us universalia ante rem (universals before the thing). The real world gives us universalia in re (universals in the thing). "But, as we have said, a composition and a visible representation can be related at all because both express the same inner being of the world in different ways. Suppose such a relation actually exists in a particular case. The composer has then expressed the movements of will at the heart of an event in the universal language of music. The melody of the song or the music of the opera is then expressive. But the analogy the composer discovers between them must come from a direct knowledge of the nature of the world, a knowledge unknown to his reason. It must not be an imitation produced through concepts with conscious intent. Otherwise, the music does not express the inner nature of the will itself. It merely offers an inadequate imitation of the will’s appearance. All music that is specifically imitative 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 significance. From these facts, intelligible in themselves and not inaccessible to profounder observation, 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 phenomenon 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?

According to Schopenhauer’s doctrine, we therefore understand music directly as the language of the will. We feel our imagination stirred to give form to the invisible yet intensely active spirit world that speaks to us. We are prompted to embody it in a comparable example. Conversely, images and concepts take on greater significance when influenced by music that truly corresponds to them. Dionysian art therefore tends to influence the Apollonian artistic faculty in two ways. First, music inspires a symbolic intuition of Dionysian universality. Second, it makes the symbolic image stand out in its fullest significance. These facts are understandable in themselves and can be grasped through deeper observation. From them, I infer that music can give birth to myth, the most significant example of its kind. More specifically, music can give birth to tragic myth, which speaks of Dionysian knowledge in symbols. In discussing the lyric poet, I have shown how music strives to express its nature through Apollonian images. Now let us consider that music, at its highest power, must also seek its highest symbolic expression. We must then consider it possible that music can find a symbolic expression for its own Dionysian wisdom. And where should we seek this expression if not in tragedy and, more generally, in the idea of the tragic?

From the nature of art, as it is ordinarily conceived according to the single category of appearance 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 annihilation 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 omnipotence, as it were, behind the principium individuationis, the eternal life beyond all phenomena, and in spite of all annihilation. The metaphysical delight in the tragic is a translation of the instinctively 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," 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 glorification 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!"

We cannot honestly derive tragedy from the usual idea of art, which treats it solely in terms of appearance and beauty. Only through the spirit of music can we understand the joy in the destruction of the individual. For only in particular examples of such destruction does the eternal nature of Dionysian art become clear to us. This art expresses the will in its omnipotence, as though it stood behind the principium individuationis, the principle of individual existence. It expresses eternal life beyond all appearances, a life that continues despite all destruction. The metaphysical delight in tragedy translates instinctive, unconscious Dionysian wisdom into the language of the stage. The hero, the highest expression of the will, is rejected for our pleasure. For the hero is only an appearance, and his destruction does not affect the eternal life of the will. "We believe in eternal life," tragedy exclaims. Music is the most direct idea of this life. The visual arts have a completely different purpose. Here Apollo overcomes the suffering of the individual by glorifying the eternity of appearance in radiant beauty. Here beauty triumphs over the suffering inherent in life. Pain is, in a sense, quietly erased from the face of nature. In Dionysian art and its tragic symbolism, the same nature speaks to us in its true, undisguised voice: "Be as I am! Amid the ceaseless change of appearances, I am the eternally creative primal mother. I eternally drive all things into existence and find eternal satisfaction in this change of appearances!"