17

Dionysian art, too, seeks to convince us of the eternal joy of existence: only we are to seek this joy not in phenomena, but behind phenomena. We are to perceive how all that comes into being must be ready for a sorrowful end; we are compelled to look into the terrors of individual existence—yet we are not to become torpid: a metaphysical comfort tears us momentarily from the bustle of the transforming figures. We are really for brief moments Primordial Being itself, and feel its indomitable desire for being and joy in existence; the struggle, the pain, the destruction of phenomena, now appear to us as something necessary, considering the surplus of innumerable forms of existence which throng and push one another into life, considering the exuberant fertility of the universal will. We are pierced by the maddening sting of these pains at the very moment when we have become, as it were, one with the immeasurable primordial joy in existence, and when we anticipate, in Dionysian ecstasy, the indestructibility and eternity of this joy. In spite of fear and pity, we are the happy living beings, not as individuals, but as the one living being, with whose procreative joy we are blended.

Dionysian art also seeks to convince us of the eternal joy of existence. But we must look for this joy behind appearances, not in appearances themselves. We must see that everything that comes into being must be ready for a sorrowful end. We are forced to face the terrors of individual existence, yet we must not become numb. A metaphysical comfort briefly draws us away from the bustle of ever-changing forms. For a few moments, we truly are Primordial Being itself. We feel its unconquerable desire to be and its joy in existence. The struggle, pain, and destruction of appearances now seem necessary to us. For countless forms of existence crowd and push one another into life, in a great abundance born of the universal will's overflowing fertility. We feel the maddening sting of these pains at the very moment when we have become, as it were, one with the boundless primordial joy in existence. In Dionysian ecstasy, we also sense that this joy is indestructible and eternal. Despite fear and pity, we are happy living beings. We are happy not as individuals, but as the one living being, whose joy in creating life merges with our own.

The history of the rise of Greek tragedy now tells us with luminous precision that the tragic art of the Greeks was really born of the spirit of music: with which conception we believe we have done justice for the first time to the original and most astonishing significance of the chorus. At the same time, however, we must admit that the import of tragic myth as set forth above never became transparent with sufficient lucidity to the Greek poets, let alone the Greek philosophers; their heroes speak, as it were, more superficially than they act; the myth does not at all find its adequate objectification in the spoken word. The structure of the scenes and the conspicuous images reveal a deeper wisdom than the poet himself can put into words and concepts: the same being also observed in Shakespeare, whose Hamlet, for instance, in an analogous manner talks more superficially than he acts, so that the previously mentioned lesson of Hamlet is to be gathered not from his words, but from a more profound contemplation and survey of the whole. With respect to Greek tragedy, which of course presents itself to us only as word-drama, I have even intimated that the incongruence between myth and expression might easily tempt us to regard it as shallower and less significant than it really is, and accordingly to postulate for it a more superficial effect than it must have had according to the testimony of the ancients: for how easily one forgets that what the word-poet did not succeed in doing, namely realising the highest spiritualisation and ideality of myth, he might succeed in doing every moment as creative musician! We require, to be sure, almost by philological method to reconstruct for ourselves the ascendency of musical influence in order to receive something of the incomparable comfort which must be characteristic of true tragedy. Even this musical ascendency, however, would only have been felt by us as such had we been Greeks: while in the entire development of Greek music—as compared with the infinitely richer music known and familiar to us—we imagine we hear only the youthful song of the musical genius intoned with a feeling of diffidence. The Greeks are, as the Egyptian priests say, eternal children, and in tragic art also they are only children who do not know what a sublime play-thing has originated under their hands and—is being demolished.

The history of Greek tragedy’s rise now shows with brilliant clarity that Greek tragic art was born from the spirit of music. With this insight, we believe we have, for the first time, done justice to the original and astonishing significance of the chorus. At the same time, we must admit that the meaning of tragic myth, as explained above, never became clear enough to the Greek poets, much less to the Greek philosophers. Their heroes speak, so to speak, more superficially than they act. The spoken word never fully expresses the myth. The arrangement of the scenes and their striking images reveal a deeper wisdom than the poet himself can express in words and concepts. We see the same thing in Shakespeare. His Hamlet, for example, similarly speaks more superficially than he acts. So the lesson of Hamlet mentioned earlier must be drawn not from his words, but from a deeper consideration of the whole play. Greek tragedy, of course, reaches us only as a drama in words. I have even suggested that the mismatch between myth and expression might easily tempt us to see Greek tragedy as shallower and less significant than it really is. We might therefore assume that its effect was more superficial than the testimony of the ancients tells us it must have been. For how easily we forget what the poet failed to achieve through words: giving the myth its highest spiritual and ideal form. As a creative musician, he might have achieved this at every moment! To gain some sense of the incomparable comfort that must be characteristic of true tragedy, we need to reconstruct the power of music, almost as a philologist would. Even then, we would have felt the power of music as such only if we had been Greeks. For in the whole development of Greek music, we imagine we hear only the hesitant song of a musical genius in its youth. We hear it this way because we know music that is infinitely richer. As the Egyptian priests say, the Greeks are eternal children. Even in tragic art, they are only children. They do not know what a sublime plaything has come into being in their hands and is being demolished.

That striving of the spirit of music for symbolic and mythical manifestation, which increases from the beginnings of lyric poetry to Attic tragedy, breaks off all of a sudden immediately after attaining luxuriant development, and disappears, as it were, from the surface of Hellenic art: while the Dionysian view of things born of this striving lives on in Mysteries and, in its strangest metamorphoses and debasements, does not cease to attract earnest natures. Will it not one day rise again as art out of its mystic depth?

The spirit of music increasingly sought expression in symbols and myths, from the beginnings of lyric poetry to Attic tragedy. But just as this striving reached its fullest flowering, it suddenly broke off. It seemed to disappear from the surface of Hellenic art. Yet the Dionysian view of things that grew out of this striving lives on in the Mysteries. Even in its strangest transformations and debasements, it continues to attract earnest people. Will it not one day rise again from its mystical depths as art?

Here the question occupies us, whether the power by the counteracting influence of which tragedy perished, has for all time strength enough to prevent the artistic reawaking of tragedy and of the tragic view of things. If ancient tragedy was driven from its course by the dialectical desire for knowledge and the optimism of science, it might be inferred that there is an eternal conflict between the theoretic and the tragic view of things, and only after the spirit of science has been led to its boundaries, and its claim to universal validity has been destroyed by the evidence of these boundaries, can we hope for a re-birth of tragedy: for which form of culture we should have to use the symbol of the music-practising Socrates in the sense spoken of above. In this contrast, I understand by the spirit of science the belief which first came to light in the person of Socrates,—the belief in the fathomableness of nature and in knowledge as a panacea.

Here we ask whether the force that destroyed tragedy will always be strong enough to prevent its artistic revival and the return of the tragic view of things. Ancient tragedy was driven off course by the dialectical desire for knowledge and the optimism of science. If so, we might conclude that the theoretical and the tragic view of things are in eternal conflict. We can hope for a rebirth of tragedy only after the spirit of science has been brought to its limits. Those limits must also have shown that its claim to universal validity is false. For the form of culture that would result, we would need the symbol of the music-practising Socrates, as discussed above. In this contrast, I mean by the spirit of science the belief that first appeared in Socrates. It is the belief that nature can be fully understood and that knowledge is a cure for everything.

He who recalls the immediate consequences of this restlessly onward-pressing spirit of science will realise at once that myth was annihilated by it, and that, in consequence of this annihilation, poetry was driven as a homeless being from her natural ideal soil. If we have rightly assigned to music the capacity to reproduce myth from itself, we may in turn expect to find the spirit of science on the path where it inimically opposes this mythopoeic power of music. This takes place in the development of the New Attic Dithyramb, the music of which no longer expressed the inner essence, the will itself, but only rendered the phenomenon insufficiently, in an imitation by means of concepts; from which intrinsically degenerate music the truly musical natures turned away with the same repugnance that they felt for the art-destroying tendency of Socrates. The unerring instinct of Aristophanes surely did the proper thing when it comprised Socrates himself, the tragedy of Euripides, and the music of the new Dithyrambic poets in the same feeling of hatred, and perceived in all three phenomena the symptoms of a degenerate culture. By this New Dithyramb, music has in an outrageous manner been made the imitative portrait of phenomena, for instance, of a battle or a storm at sea, and has thus, of course, been entirely deprived of its mythopoeic power. For if it endeavours to excite our delight only by compelling us to seek external analogies between a vital or natural process and certain rhythmical figures and characteristic sounds of music; if our understanding is expected to satisfy itself with the perception of these analogies, we are reduced to a frame of mind in which the reception of the mythical is impossible; for the myth as a unique exemplar of generality and truth towering into the infinite, desires to be conspicuously perceived. The truly Dionysean music presents itself to us as such a general mirror of the universal will: the conspicuous event which is refracted in this mirror expands at once for our consciousness to the copy of an eternal truth. Conversely, such a conspicious event is at once divested of every mythical character by the tone-painting of the New Dithyramb; music has here become a wretched copy of the phenomenon, and therefore infinitely poorer than the phenomenon itself: through which poverty it still further reduces even the phenomenon for our consciousness, so that now, for instance, a musically imitated battle of this sort exhausts itself in marches, signal-sounds, etc., and our imagination is arrested precisely by these superficialities. Tone-painting is therefore in every respect the counterpart of true music with its mythopoeic power: through it the phenomenon, poor in itself, is made still poorer, while through an isolated Dionysian music the phenomenon is evolved and expanded into a picture of the world. It was an immense triumph of the non-Dionysian spirit, when, in the development of the New Dithyramb, it had estranged music from itself and reduced it to be the slave of phenomena. Euripides, who, albeit in a higher sense, must be designated as a thoroughly unmusical nature, is for this very reason a passionate adherent of the New Dithyrambic Music, and with the liberality of a freebooter employs all its effective turns and mannerisms.

Anyone who recalls the immediate consequences of the relentlessly advancing spirit of science will see that it destroyed myth. As a result, poetry was driven from its natural ideal ground, becoming homeless. If we are right that music can produce myth from itself, we may expect science to oppose music’s myth-making power. This opposition appears in the development of the New Attic Dithyramb. Its music no longer expressed the inner essence, the will itself. Instead, it merely gave an inadequate representation of appearances, imitating them through concepts. Truly musical natures turned away from this inherently degenerate music. They felt the same disgust for it as for Socrates’ tendency to destroy art. Aristophanes’ unfailing instinct was surely right to direct the same hatred at Socrates, Euripides’ tragedy, and the music of the new Dithyrambic poets. He saw in all three signs of a degenerate culture. In the New Dithyramb, music has outrageously been made into an imitation of appearances, such as a battle or a storm at sea. In this way, it has of course been completely stripped of its myth-making power. Music may try to delight us only by forcing us to seek outward similarities. We look for similarities between a process of life or nature and certain rhythms and distinctive musical sounds. If our understanding is expected to be satisfied with noticing these similarities, we are left unable to receive myth. For myth wants to be clearly perceived as a unique example of generality and truth, reaching into infinity. Truly Dionysean music appears to us as a general mirror of the universal will. A striking event reflected in this mirror immediately expands in our consciousness into an image of an eternal truth. By contrast, the tone-painting of the New Dithyramb immediately strips such an event of all mythical character. Here music has become a wretched copy of the appearance, and is therefore infinitely poorer than the appearance itself. Because of this poverty, it makes even the appearance seem poorer to us. A battle imitated in music, for example, is reduced to marches, signal sounds, and the like. Our imagination is held captive by these very superficialities. Tone-painting is therefore in every respect the opposite of true music and its myth-making power. It makes the appearance, already poor in itself, still poorer. Dionysian music on its own, by contrast, develops and expands the appearance into a picture of the world. The non-Dionysian spirit won an immense triumph in the development of the New Dithyramb. It separated music from itself and reduced it to the slave of appearances. Euripides, though in a higher sense, must be called a thoroughly unmusical nature. For that very reason, he is a passionate follower of New Dithyrambic Music. Like a freebooter, he freely makes use of all its effective devices and mannerisms.

In another direction also we see at work the power of this un-Dionysian, myth-opposing spirit, when we turn our eyes to the prevalence of character representation and psychological refinement from Sophocles onwards. The character must no longer be expanded into an eternal type, but, on the contrary, must operate individually through artistic by-traits and shadings, through the nicest precision of all lines, in such a manner that the spectator is in general no longer conscious of the myth, but of the mighty nature-myth and the imitative power of the artist. Here also we observe the victory of the phenomenon over the Universal, and the delight in the particular quasi-anatomical preparation; we actually breathe the air of a theoretical world, in which scientific knowledge is valued more highly than the artistic reflection of a universal law. The movement along the line of the representation of character proceeds rapidly: while Sophocles still delineates complete characters and employs myth for their refined development, Euripides already delineates only prominent individual traits of character, which can express themselves in violent bursts of passion; in the New Attic Comedy, however, there are only masks with one expression: frivolous old men, duped panders, and cunning slaves in untiring repetition. Where now is the mythopoeic spirit of music? What is still left now of music is either excitatory music or souvenir music, that is, either a stimulant for dull and used-up nerves, or tone-painting. As regards the former, it hardly matters about the text set to it: the heroes and choruses of Euripides are already dissolute enough when once they begin to sing; to what pass must things have come with his brazen successors?

We can see this un-Dionysian spirit, hostile to myth, at work in another way. From Sophocles onward, character representation and psychological refinement become increasingly prominent. The character is no longer to be developed into an eternal type. Instead, the character must act as an individual, shaped through artistic details, subtle nuances, and the finest precision of every line. The result is that the spectator generally becomes conscious of the mighty myth of nature and the artist’s imitative power, rather than the myth itself. Here, too, we see the particular phenomenon triumph over the universal. We see a delight in examining particulars, almost as if dissecting them. We breathe the air of a theoretical world, where scientific knowledge is valued above the artistic reflection of a universal law. This movement toward character representation advances rapidly. Sophocles still portrays complete characters and uses myth to develop them with refinement. But Euripides portrays only prominent individual traits, which can express themselves in violent bursts of passion. In the New Attic Comedy, however, there are only masks with one expression: frivolous old men, duped panders, and cunning slaves, repeated endlessly. Where now is the myth-making spirit of music? All that remains is either exciting music or music of reminiscence. It either stimulates dull and worn-out nerves or paints pictures in sound. In the first case, the words set to the music hardly matter. The heroes and choruses of Euripides are already dissolute enough once they begin to sing. How bad must things have become with his brazen successors?

The new un-Dionysian spirit, however, manifests itself most clearly in the dénouements of the new dramas. In the Old Tragedy one could feel at the close the metaphysical comfort, without which the delight in tragedy cannot be explained at all; the conciliating tones from another world sound purest, perhaps, in the Œdipus at Colonus. Now that the genius of music has fled from tragedy, tragedy is, strictly speaking, dead: for from whence could one now draw the metaphysical comfort? One sought, therefore, for an earthly unravelment of the tragic dissonance; the hero, after he had been sufficiently tortured by fate, reaped a well-deserved reward through a superb marriage or divine tokens of favour. The hero had turned gladiator, on whom, after being liberally battered about and covered with wounds, freedom was occasionally bestowed. The deus ex machina took the place of metaphysical comfort. I will not say that the tragic view of things was everywhere completely destroyed by the intruding spirit of the un-Dionysian: we only know that it was compelled to flee from art into the under-world as it were, in the degenerate form of a secret cult. Over the widest extent of the Hellenic character, however, there raged the consuming blast of this spirit, which manifests itself in the form of "Greek cheerfulness," which we have already spoken of as a senile, unproductive love of existence; this cheerfulness is the counterpart of the splendid "naïveté" of the earlier Greeks, which, according to the characteristic indicated above, must be conceived as the blossom of the Apollonian culture growing out of a dark abyss, as the victory which the Hellenic will, through its mirroring of beauty, obtains over suffering and the wisdom of suffering. The noblest manifestation of that other form of "Greek cheerfulness," the Alexandrine, is the cheerfulness of the theoretical man: it exhibits the same symptomatic characteristics as I have just inferred concerning the spirit of the un-Dionysian:—it combats Dionysian wisdom and art, it seeks to dissolve myth, it substitutes for metaphysical comfort an earthly consonance, in fact, a deus ex machina of its own, namely the god of machines and crucibles, that is, the powers of the genii of nature recognised and employed in the service of higher egoism; it believes in amending the world by knowledge, in guiding life by science, and that it can really confine the individual within a narrow sphere of solvable problems, where he cheerfully says to life: "I desire thee: it is worth while to know thee."

The new un-Dionysian spirit, however, shows itself most clearly in the dénouements of the new dramas. At the end of Old Tragedy, one could feel metaphysical comfort. Without this comfort, the pleasure of tragedy cannot be explained at all. These soothing tones from another world sound purest, perhaps, in Œdipus at Colonus. Now that the genius of music has fled from tragedy, tragedy is, strictly speaking, dead. For where could one now find metaphysical comfort? People therefore sought an earthly resolution to the tragic discord. After fate had tortured the hero enough, he received a well-deserved reward through a splendid marriage or signs of divine favor. The hero had become a gladiator. After being thoroughly battered and covered with wounds, he was occasionally granted freedom. The deus ex machina took the place of metaphysical comfort. I will not say that the invading un-Dionysian spirit completely destroyed the tragic view of things everywhere. We know only that this view was forced to flee from art into the underworld, as it were. There it survived in the degenerate form of a secret cult. Across most of the Hellenic character, however, the consuming blast of this spirit raged. It appears as "Greek cheerfulness," which I have already described as a senile, unproductive love of existence. This cheerfulness is the counterpart of the splendid "naïveté" of the earlier Greeks. As I suggested above, we must see that naïveté as the blossom of Apollonian culture growing out of a dark abyss. It is the victory of the Hellenic will over suffering and the wisdom of suffering, won through its reflection of beauty. The noblest expression of that other form of "Greek cheerfulness," the Alexandrine, is the cheerfulness of the theoretical man. It shows the same signs that I have just attributed to the un-Dionysian spirit. It fights Dionysian wisdom and art, and it seeks to dissolve myth. It replaces metaphysical comfort with earthly harmony. In fact, it offers a deus ex machina of its own: the god of machines and crucibles. This god is the power of nature's genii, recognized and put to use in the service of higher egoism. The cheerfulness of the theoretical man believes that knowledge can improve the world and that science can guide life. It also believes that it can confine the individual within a narrow sphere of solvable problems. There he cheerfully says to life: "I desire you: you are worth knowing."