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It may be weighed some day before an impartial judge, in what time and in what men the German spirit has thus far striven most resolutely to learn of the Greeks: and if we confidently assume that this unique praise must be accorded to the noblest intellectual efforts of Goethe, Schiller, and Winkelmann, it will certainly have to be added that since their time, and subsequently to the more immediate influences of these efforts, the endeavour to attain to culture and to the Greeks by this path has in an incomprehensible manner grown feebler and feebler. In order not to despair altogether of the German spirit, must we not infer therefrom that possibly, in some essential matter, even these champions could not penetrate into the core of the Hellenic nature, and were unable to establish a permanent friendly alliance between German and Greek culture? So that perhaps an unconscious perception of this shortcoming might raise also in more serious minds the disheartening doubt as to whether after such predecessors they could advance still farther on this path of culture, or could reach the goal at all. Accordingly, we see the opinions concerning the value of Greek contribution to culture degenerate since that time in the most alarming manner; the expression of compassionate superiority may be heard in the most heterogeneous intellectual and non-intellectual camps, and elsewhere a totally ineffective declamation dallies with "Greek harmony," "Greek beauty," "Greek cheerfulness." And in the very circles whose dignity it might be to draw indefatigably from the Greek channel for the good of German culture, in the circles of the teachers in the higher educational institutions, they have learned best to compromise with the Greeks in good time and on easy terms, to the extent often of a sceptical abandonment of the Hellenic ideal and a total perversion of the true purpose of antiquarian studies. If there be any one at all in these circles who has not completely exhausted himself in the endeavour to be a trustworthy corrector of old texts or a natural-history microscopist of language, he perhaps seeks also to appropriate Grecian antiquity "historically" along with other antiquities, and in any case according to the method and with the supercilious air of our present cultured historiography. When, therefore, the intrinsic efficiency of the higher educational institutions has never perhaps been lower or feebler than at present, when the "journalist," the paper slave of the day, has triumphed over the academic teacher in all matters pertaining to culture, and there only remains to the latter the often previously experienced metamorphosis of now fluttering also, as a cheerful cultured butterfly, in the idiom of the journalist, with the "light elegance" peculiar thereto—with what painful confusion must the cultured persons of a period like the present gaze at the phenomenon (which can perhaps be comprehended analogically only by means of the profoundest principle of the hitherto unintelligible Hellenic genius) of the reawakening of the Dionysian spirit and the re-birth of tragedy? Never has there been another art-period in which so-called culture and true art have been so estranged and opposed, as is so obviously the case at present. We understand why so feeble a culture hates true art; it fears destruction thereby. But must not an entire domain of culture, namely the Socratic-Alexandrine, have exhausted its powers after contriving to culminate in such a daintily-tapering point as our present culture? When it was not permitted to heroes like Goethe and Schiller to break open the enchanted gate which leads into the Hellenic magic mountain, when with their most dauntless striving they did not get beyond the longing gaze which the Goethean Iphigenia cast from barbaric Tauris to her home across the ocean, what could the epigones of such heroes hope for, if the gate should not open to them suddenly of its own accord, in an entirely different position, quite overlooked in all endeavours of culture hitherto—amidst the mystic tones of reawakened tragic music.

An impartial judge may one day consider when and among whom the German spirit has tried hardest to learn from the Greeks. We may confidently assume that this unique praise belongs to the noblest intellectual efforts of Goethe, Schiller, and Winkelmann. But we must also add that the attempt to reach culture and the Greeks by this path has grown inexplicably weaker. This decline began after their time and after the immediate influence of their efforts had passed. To avoid despairing entirely of the German spirit, must we not draw another conclusion? Perhaps even these champions could not penetrate to the heart of the Hellenic nature in some essential respect. Perhaps they could not establish a lasting friendship between German and Greek culture. An unconscious awareness of this failure might then have raised a discouraging doubt, even in serious minds. After such predecessors, could they advance any farther along this path to culture, or reach its goal at all? Since then, we have seen views of the Greek contribution to culture decline alarmingly. Expressions of pitying superiority can be heard in the most varied intellectual and non-intellectual circles. Elsewhere, utterly ineffective speeches play with ideas of "Greek harmony," "Greek beauty," and "Greek cheerfulness." Teachers in higher educational institutions might have found their dignity in drawing tirelessly on the Greek source for German culture. Instead, they have learned better than anyone to settle their dealings with the Greeks early and on easy terms. Often, this means skeptically abandoning the Hellenic ideal and completely distorting the true purpose of antiquarian studies. Some teachers may not have exhausted themselves trying to be reliable correctors of old texts or natural-history microscopists of language. Such a teacher may also try to make Greek antiquity his own "historically," along with other antiquities. In any case, he does so using the methods and superior air of our present cultured historiography. The real effectiveness of higher educational institutions has perhaps never been lower or weaker than it is now. The "journalist," the paper slave of the day, has triumphed over the academic teacher in all matters of culture. The teacher is left only with a familiar transformation. He too can now flutter about as a cheerful cultured butterfly, speaking in the journalist's language and its characteristic "light elegance." In these circumstances, how painfully bewildered must the cultured people of our time be when they encounter the reawakening of the Dionysian spirit and the re-birth of tragedy? Perhaps we can understand this phenomenon by analogy only through the deepest principle of the Hellenic genius, which has remained incomprehensible until now. Never has another artistic age seen such a gulf and such hostility between so-called culture and true art as we plainly see today. We understand why so feeble a culture hates true art. It fears that art will destroy it. But must not an entire realm of culture, namely the Socratic-Alexandrine, have exhausted its powers? After all, it has managed to culminate in something as delicately tapered to a point as our present culture. Even heroes like Goethe and Schiller were not allowed to force open the enchanted gate to the Hellenic magic mountain. Despite their boldest efforts, they got no farther than Goethe's Iphigenia. From barbaric Tauris, she cast a longing gaze toward her home across the ocean. What, then, could the epigones of such heroes hope for? Only that the gate might suddenly open to them of its own accord, in an entirely different place. All previous attempts at culture had overlooked that place: amid the mystic tones of reawakened tragic music.

Let no one attempt to weaken our faith in an impending re-birth of Hellenic antiquity; for in it alone we find our hope of a renovation and purification of the German spirit through the fire-magic of music. What else do we know of amidst the present desolation and languor of culture, which could awaken any comforting expectation for the future? We look in vain for one single vigorously-branching root, for a speck of fertile and healthy soil: there is dust, sand, torpidness and languishing everywhere! Under such circumstances a cheerless solitary wanderer could choose for himself no better symbol than the Knight with Death and the Devil, as Dürer has sketched him for us, the mail-clad knight, grim and stern of visage, who is able, unperturbed by his gruesome companions, and yet hopelessly, to pursue his terrible path with horse and hound alone. Our Schopenhauer was such a Dürerian knight: he was destitute of all hope, but he sought the truth. There is not his equal.

Let no one weaken our faith in the coming rebirth of Hellenic antiquity. Only in that rebirth do we find hope for the German spirit. Only through the fire-magic of music can it be renewed and purified. In today’s desolate and listless culture, what else could give us any comforting hope for the future? We search in vain for a single vigorously branching root, for a speck of fertile, healthy soil. Everywhere there is dust, sand, numbness, and decline! In such circumstances, a lonely, cheerless wanderer could choose no better symbol than Dürer’s Knight with Death and the Devil. The knight wears armor, and his face is grim and stern. Undisturbed by his gruesome companions, yet without hope, he follows his terrible path with only his horse and hound. Our Schopenhauer was such a Dürerian knight. He had no hope at all, but he sought the truth. He has no equal.

But how suddenly this gloomily depicted wilderness of our exhausted culture changes when the Dionysian magic touches it! A hurricane seizes everything decrepit, decaying, collapsed, and stunted; wraps it whirlingly into a red cloud of dust; and carries it like a vulture into the air. Confused thereby, our glances seek for what has vanished: for what they see is something risen to the golden light as from a depression, so full and green, so luxuriantly alive, so ardently infinite. Tragedy sits in the midst of this exuberance of life, sorrow and joy, in sublime ecstasy; she listens to a distant doleful song—it tells of the Mothers of Being, whose names are: Wahn, Wille, Wehe[21]—Yes, my friends, believe with me in Dionysian life and in the re-birth of tragedy. The time of the Socratic man is past: crown yourselves with ivy, take in your hands the thyrsus, and do not marvel if tigers and panthers lie down fawning at your feet. Dare now to be tragic men, for ye are to be redeemed! Ye are to accompany the Dionysian festive procession from India to Greece! Equip yourselves for severe conflict, but believe in the wonders of your god!

But how suddenly this grim wilderness of our exhausted culture changes when Dionysian magic touches it! A hurricane seizes everything worn out, decaying, collapsed, and stunted. It whirls it all into a red cloud of dust and carries it into the air like a vulture. Confused, we look for what has vanished. Instead, we see something rising into golden light, as if from a hollow. It is so full and green, so rich with life, so intensely infinite. Tragedy sits amid this abundance of life, sorrow, and joy, in sublime ecstasy. She listens to a distant, mournful song. It tells of the Mothers of Being, whose names are Wahn, Wille, Wehe[21]. Yes, my friends, join me in believing in Dionysian life and the rebirth of tragedy. The time of Socratic man is past. Crown yourselves with ivy and take the thyrsus in your hands. Do not be surprised if tigers and panthers lie down at your feet and fawn over you. Dare now to be tragic men, for you will be redeemed! You will join the Dionysian festive procession from India to Greece! Prepare yourselves for fierce conflict, but believe in the wonders of your god!