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Thus far we have considered the Apollonian and his antithesis, the Dionysian, as artistic powers, which burst forth from nature herself, without the mediation of the human artist, and in which her art-impulses are satisfied in the most immediate and direct way: first, as the pictorial world of dreams, the perfection of which has no connection whatever with the intellectual height or artistic culture of the unit man, and again, as drunken reality, which likewise does not heed the unit man, but even seeks to destroy the individual and redeem him by a mystic feeling of Oneness. Anent these immediate art-states of nature every artist is either an "imitator," to wit, either an Apollonian, an artist in dreams, or a Dionysian, an artist in ecstasies, or finally—as for instance in Greek tragedy—an artist in both dreams and ecstasies: so we may perhaps picture him, as in his Dionysian drunkenness and mystical self-abnegation, lonesome and apart from the revelling choruses, he sinks down, and how now, through Apollonian dream-inspiration, his own state, i.e., his oneness with the primal source of the universe, reveals itself to him in a symbolical dream-picture.

So far, we have considered the Apollonian and its opposite, the Dionysian, as artistic powers. These powers burst forth from nature herself, without the mediation of the human artist. In them, her artistic impulses find their most immediate and direct satisfaction. First, there is the visual world of dreams. Its perfection has nothing to do with the intellectual level or artistic culture of the individual. Then there is the reality of intoxication. This too pays no attention to the individual. It even seeks to destroy the individual and redeem him through a mystical feeling of Oneness. In relation to these immediate artistic states of nature, every artist is an "imitator." An artist is either Apollonian, an artist in dreams, or Dionysian, an artist in ecstasies. Finally, as in Greek tragedy, an artist may work in both dreams and ecstasies. We may perhaps picture such an artist sinking down, alone and apart from the reveling choruses, in Dionysian intoxication and mystical self-denial. Then, through Apollonian dream inspiration, his own state reveals itself to him in a symbolic dream-picture. This state is his oneness with the primal source of the universe.

After these general premisings and contrastings, let us now approach the Greeks in order to learn in what degree and to what height these art-impulses of nature were developed in them: whereby we shall be enabled to understand and appreciate more deeply the relation of the Greek artist to his archetypes, or, according to the Aristotelian expression, "the imitation of nature." In spite of all the dream-literature and the numerous dream-anecdotes of the Greeks, we can speak only conjecturally, though with a fair degree of certainty, of their dreams. Considering the incredibly precise and unerring plastic power of their eyes, as also their manifest and sincere delight in colours, we can hardly refrain (to the shame of every one born later) from assuming for their very dreams a logical causality of lines and contours, colours and groups, a sequence of scenes resembling their best reliefs, the perfection of which would certainly justify us, if a comparison were possible, in designating the dreaming Greeks as Homers and Homer as a dreaming Greek: in a deeper sense than when modern man, in respect to his dreams, ventures to compare himself with Shakespeare.

After these general introductions and contrasts, let us now turn to the Greeks. We want to learn how far and how fully these art-impulses of nature developed in them. This will help us understand and appreciate more deeply the Greek artist’s relationship to his models, or, in Aristotle’s phrase, "the imitation of nature." Despite all the Greeks’ writings and anecdotes about dreams, we can only make educated guesses about their dreams. Even so, we can be fairly certain. The Greeks’ eyes had an incredibly precise and unerring ability to perceive shapes. They also took an obvious and sincere delight in colors. Given this, we can hardly avoid assuming that even their dreams had a logical sequence of lines and contours, colors and groups. To the shame of everyone born later, their dreams must have had scenes resembling their finest reliefs. If we could compare them, the perfection of those scenes would surely justify calling dreaming Greeks Homers and Homer a dreaming Greek. We would mean this in a deeper sense than when modern people dare to compare themselves with Shakespeare because of their dreams.

On the other hand, we should not have to speak conjecturally, if asked to disclose the immense gap which separated the Dionysian Greek from the Dionysian barbarian. From all quarters of the Ancient World—to say nothing of the modern—from Rome as far as Babylon, we can prove the existence of Dionysian festivals, the type of which bears, at best, the same relation to the Greek festivals as the bearded satyr, who borrowed his name and attributes from the goat, does to Dionysus himself. In nearly every instance the centre of these festivals lay in extravagant sexual licentiousness, the waves of which overwhelmed all family life and its venerable traditions; the very wildest beasts of nature were let loose here, including that detestable mixture of lust and cruelty which has always seemed to me the genuine "witches' draught." For some time, however, it would seem that the Greeks were perfectly secure and guarded against the feverish agitations of these festivals (—the knowledge of which entered Greece by all the channels of land and sea) by the figure of Apollo himself rising here in full pride, who could not have held out the Gorgon's head to a more dangerous power than this grotesquely uncouth Dionysian. It is in Doric art that this majestically-rejecting attitude of Apollo perpetuated itself. This opposition became more precarious and even impossible, when, from out of the deepest root of the Hellenic nature, similar impulses finally broke forth and made way for themselves: the Delphic god, by a seasonably effected reconciliation, was now contented with taking the destructive arms from the hands of his powerful antagonist. This reconciliation marks the most important moment in the history of the Greek cult: wherever we turn our eyes we may observe the revolutions resulting from this event. It was the reconciliation of two antagonists, with the sharp demarcation of the boundary-lines to be thenceforth observed by each, and with periodical transmission of testimonials;—in reality, the chasm was not bridged over. But if we observe how, under the pressure of this conclusion of peace, the Dionysian power manifested itself, we shall now recognise in the Dionysian orgies of the Greeks, as compared with the Babylonian Sacæa and their retrogression of man to the tiger and the ape, the significance of festivals of world-redemption and days of transfiguration. Not till then does nature attain her artistic jubilee; not till then does the rupture of the principium individuationis become an artistic phenomenon. That horrible "witches' draught" of sensuality and cruelty was here powerless: only the curious blending and duality in the emotions of the Dionysian revellers reminds one of it—just as medicines remind one of deadly poisons,—that phenomenon, to wit, that pains beget joy, that jubilation wrings painful sounds out of the breast. From the highest joy sounds the cry of horror or the yearning wail over an irretrievable loss. In these Greek festivals a sentimental trait, as it were, breaks forth from nature, as if she must sigh over her dismemberment into individuals. The song and pantomime of such dually-minded revellers was something new and unheard-of in the Homeric-Grecian world; and the Dionysian music in particular excited awe and horror. If music, as it would seem, was previously known as an Apollonian art, it was, strictly speaking, only as the wave-beat of rhythm, the formative power of which was developed to the representation of Apollonian conditions. The music of Apollo was Doric architectonics in tones, but in merely suggested tones, such as those of the cithara. The very element which forms the essence of Dionysian music (and hence of music in general) is carefully excluded as un-Apollonian; namely, the thrilling power of the tone, the uniform stream of the melos, and the thoroughly incomparable world of harmony. In the Dionysian dithyramb man is incited to the highest exaltation of all his symbolic faculties; something never before experienced struggles for utterance—the annihilation of the veil of Mâyâ, Oneness as genius of the race, ay, of nature. The essence of nature is now to be expressed symbolically; a new world of symbols is required; for once the entire symbolism of the body, not only the symbolism of the lips, face, and speech, but the whole pantomime of dancing which sets all the members into rhythmical motion. Thereupon the other symbolic powers, those of music, in rhythmics, dynamics, and harmony, suddenly become impetuous. To comprehend this collective discharge of all the symbolic powers, a man must have already attained that height of self-abnegation, which wills to express itself symbolically through these powers: the Dithyrambic votary of Dionysus is therefore understood only by those like himself! With what astonishment must the Apollonian Greek have beheld him! With an astonishment, which was all the greater the more it was mingled with the shuddering suspicion that all this was in reality not so very foreign to him, yea, that, like unto a veil, his Apollonian consciousness only hid this Dionysian world from his view.

On the other hand, we would not have to guess about the immense gap between the Dionysian Greek and the Dionysian barbarian. We can find evidence of Dionysian festivals throughout the Ancient World, from Rome to Babylon, not to mention the modern world. At best, these festivals resembled the Greek festivals as the bearded satyr resembles Dionysus himself. The satyr borrowed his name and attributes from the goat. Nearly all these festivals centered on extravagant sexual excess. Its waves overwhelmed all family life and its venerable traditions. The very wildest beasts of nature were let loose. They included that detestable mixture of lust and cruelty that has always seemed to me the genuine "witches' draught." For some time, however, the Greeks seem to have been completely protected against the feverish excitement of these festivals. Knowledge of them reached Greece by every route, by land and sea. But Apollo himself stood guard in all his pride. He could not have held out the Gorgon's head to a more dangerous power than this grotesquely uncouth Dionysian force. This majestic refusal by Apollo lived on in Doric art. But this resistance grew more precarious and finally became impossible. Similar impulses at last broke out from the deepest roots of the Hellenic nature and forced their way forward. Through a timely reconciliation, the Delphic god was now content to take the destructive weapons from his powerful opponent's hands. This reconciliation marks the most important moment in the history of the Greek cult. Wherever we look, we can see the revolutions it brought about. The two opponents were reconciled, with sharp boundaries that each would respect from then on and periodic exchanges of tokens. In reality, the chasm was not bridged. But if we look at how the Dionysian power revealed itself under this peace agreement, we can see something new. Compared with the Babylonian Sacæa, where man regressed to the tiger and the ape, the Greek Dionysian orgies were festivals of world-redemption and days of transfiguration. Only then does nature reach her artistic jubilee. Only then does the breaking of the principium individuationis become an artistic phenomenon. That horrible "witches' draught" of sensuality and cruelty had no power here. Only the curious mixture and duality of the Dionysian revelers' emotions reminds us of it, just as medicines remind us of deadly poisons. In this mixture, pain gives birth to joy, and jubilation draws painful cries from the breast. From the greatest joy comes a cry of horror or a longing wail over an irretrievable loss. In these Greek festivals, a sentimental trait, as it were, breaks forth from nature. It is as if she must sigh over her division into individuals. The song and pantomime of revelers with these mixed feelings were new and unheard of in the Homeric-Grecian world. Dionysian music in particular inspired awe and horror. Music seems to have been known before as an Apollonian art. Strictly speaking, though, it was known only as the wave-beat of rhythm. Rhythm's power to give form had been developed to represent Apollonian states. Apollo's music was Doric architecture in tones, but only suggested tones, like those of the cithara. What makes up the essence of Dionysian music, and therefore of music in general, was carefully excluded as un-Apollonian. This was the thrilling power of tone, the steady flow of melody, and the utterly incomparable world of harmony. In the Dionysian dithyramb, man is driven to the highest exaltation of all his powers of symbolic expression. Something never experienced before struggles to find expression: the destruction of the veil of Mâyâ, Oneness as the genius of the race, indeed, of nature. The essence of nature must now be expressed through symbols. A new world of symbols is needed. For once, the entire body must express itself symbolically, not just the lips, face, and speech. It must use the whole pantomime of dance, which sets every limb moving in rhythm. Then the other symbolic powers, those of music in rhythm, dynamics, and harmony, suddenly become impetuous. To understand this outpouring of all the symbolic powers together, a person must already have reached that height of self-abnegation. At that height, a person seeks to express self-abnegation symbolically through these powers. The Dithyrambic follower of Dionysus is therefore understood only by those like himself! With what astonishment the Apollonian Greek must have looked at him! That astonishment must have been all the greater because it was mixed with a shuddering suspicion. Perhaps none of this was really so foreign to him. Perhaps his Apollonian consciousness merely hid this Dionysian world from his sight, like a veil.