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Let the attentive friend picture to himself purely and simply, according to his experiences, the effect of a true musical tragedy. I think I have so portrayed the phenomenon of this effect in both its phases that he will now be able to interpret his own experiences. For he will recollect that with regard to the myth which passed before him he felt himself exalted to a kind of omniscience, as if his visual faculty were no longer merely a surface faculty, but capable of penetrating into the interior, and as if he now saw before him, with the aid of music, the ebullitions of the will, the conflict of motives, and the swelling stream of the passions, almost sensibly visible, like a plenitude of actively moving lines and figures, and could thereby dip into the most tender secrets of unconscious emotions. While he thus becomes conscious of the highest exaltation of his instincts for conspicuousness and transfiguration, he nevertheless feels with equal definitiveness that this long series of Apollonian artistic effects still does not generate the blissful continuance in will-less contemplation which the plasticist and the epic poet, that is to say, the strictly Apollonian artists, produce in him by their artistic productions: to wit, the justification of the world of the individuatio attained in this contemplation,—which is the object and essence of Apollonian art. He beholds the transfigured world of the stage and nevertheless denies it. He sees before him the tragic hero in epic clearness and beauty, and nevertheless delights in his annihilation. He comprehends the incidents of the scene in all their details, and yet loves to flee into the incomprehensible. He feels the actions of the hero to be justified, and is nevertheless still more elated when these actions annihilate their originator. He shudders at the sufferings which will befall the hero, and yet anticipates therein a higher and much more overpowering joy. He sees more extensively and profoundly than ever, and yet wishes to be blind. Whence must we derive this curious internal dissension, this collapse of the Apollonian apex, if not from the Dionysian spell, which, though apparently stimulating the Apollonian emotions to their highest pitch, can nevertheless force this superabundance of Apollonian power into its service? Tragic myth is to be understood only as a symbolisation of Dionysian wisdom by means of the expedients of Apollonian art: the mythus conducts the world of phenomena to its boundaries, where it denies itself, and seeks to flee back again into the bosom of the true and only reality; where it then, like Isolde, seems to strike up its metaphysical swan-song:—

Let the attentive friend simply imagine, from his own experience, the effect of a true musical tragedy. I think I have described both phases of this effect well enough for him to interpret his own experience. He will remember feeling a kind of omniscience as the myth unfolded before him. It was as if his sight could now penetrate beneath the surface. With music’s help, he seemed to see the surges of the will, the conflict of motives, and the rising stream of passions. They appeared almost visibly before him, like a multitude of moving lines and figures. In this way, he could enter the most delicate secrets of unconscious emotions. He becomes aware that his instincts for vivid perception and transfiguration have reached their highest pitch. Yet he feels just as clearly that this long series of Apollonian artistic effects does not produce a blissful state of sustained, will-less contemplation. The sculptor and the epic poet, the strictly Apollonian artists, produce this state through their works. In that contemplation, the world of individuatio is justified. This justification is the aim and essence of Apollonian art. He sees the transfigured world of the stage and yet denies it. He sees the tragic hero before him with epic clarity and beauty, yet delights in his destruction. He understands every detail of the events onstage, yet loves to escape into the incomprehensible. He feels that the hero’s actions are justified, yet is even more elated when they destroy the hero himself. He shudders at the suffering that will befall the hero, yet anticipates a higher and far more overpowering joy in it. He sees more widely and deeply than ever, yet wishes to be blind. What can explain this strange inner conflict and the collapse of the Apollonian at its highest point? It must be the Dionysian spell. Though it seems to drive the Apollonian emotions to their highest pitch, it can also force this abundance of Apollonian power into its service. Tragic myth can be understood only as Dionysian wisdom expressed through the means of Apollonian art. The myth leads the world of appearances to its limits. There, that world denies itself and seeks to escape back into the embrace of the one true reality. There, like Isolde, it seems to begin its metaphysical swan song:

We thus realise to ourselves in the experiences of the truly æsthetic hearer the tragic artist himself when he proceeds like a luxuriously fertile divinity of individuation to create his figures (in which sense his work can hardly be understood as an "imitation of nature")—and when, on the other hand, his vast Dionysian impulse then absorbs the entire world of phenomena, in order to anticipate beyond it, and through its annihilation, the highest artistic primal joy, in the bosom of the Primordial Unity. Of course, our æsthetes have nothing to say about this return in fraternal union of the two art-deities to the original home, nor of either the Apollonian or Dionysian excitement of the hearer, while they are indefatigable in characterising the struggle of the hero with fate, the triumph of the moral order of the world, or the disburdenment of the emotions through tragedy, as the properly Tragic: an indefatigableness which makes me think that they are perhaps not æsthetically excitable men at all, but only to be regarded as moral beings when hearing tragedy. Never since Aristotle has an explanation of the tragic effect been proposed, by which an æsthetic activity of the hearer could be inferred from artistic circumstances. At one time fear and pity are supposed to be forced to an alleviating discharge through the serious procedure, at another time we are expected to feel elevated and inspired at the triumph of good and noble principles, at the sacrifice of the hero in the interest of a moral conception of things; and however certainly I believe that for countless men precisely this, and only this, is the effect of tragedy, it as obviously follows therefrom that all these, together with their interpreting æsthetes, have had no experience of tragedy as the highest art. The pathological discharge, the catharsis of Aristotle, which philologists are at a loss whether to include under medicinal or moral phenomena, recalls a remarkable anticipation of Goethe. "Without a lively pathological interest," he says, "I too have never yet succeeded in elaborating a tragic situation of any kind, and hence I have rather avoided than sought it. Can it perhaps have been still another of the merits of the ancients that the deepest pathos was with them merely æsthetic play, whereas with us the truth of nature must co-operate in order to produce such a work?" We can now answer in the affirmative this latter profound question after our glorious experiences, in which we have found to our astonishment in the case of musical tragedy itself, that the deepest pathos can in reality be merely æsthetic play: and therefore we are justified in believing that now for the first time the proto-phenomenon of the tragic can be portrayed with some degree of success. He who now will still persist in talking only of those vicarious effects proceeding from ultra-æsthetic spheres, and does not feel himself raised above the pathologically-moral process, may be left to despair of his æsthetic nature: for which we recommend to him, by way of innocent equivalent, the interpretation of Shakespeare after the fashion of Gervinus, and the diligent search for poetic justice.

In the experience of the truly aesthetic listener, we can picture the tragic artist himself. He creates his figures like a lavishly fertile god of individuation. In this sense, his work can hardly be understood as an "imitation of nature". But his vast Dionysian impulse then absorbs the entire world of appearances. By destroying that world, he anticipates the highest primal joy of art beyond it, in the bosom of the Primordial Unity. Of course, our aesthetes have nothing to say about the two art gods returning home in brotherly union. Nor do they speak of the listener’s Apollonian or Dionysian excitement. Instead, they tirelessly describe other things as the essence of tragedy. These include the hero’s struggle with fate, the triumph of the moral order, or the release of emotions through tragedy. Their tirelessness makes me think they may not be capable of aesthetic excitement at all. Perhaps they should be regarded only as moral beings when they listen to tragedy. Since Aristotle, no explanation of the tragic effect has shown how artistic features produce aesthetic activity in the listener. Sometimes the serious action is said to force fear and pity into a relieving release. At other times, we are expected to feel uplifted and inspired by the triumph of good and noble principles. This triumph comes through the hero’s sacrifice for the sake of a moral view of the world. I am certain that tragedy has precisely this effect, and only this effect, on countless people. But it follows just as clearly that none of them, or their interpreting aesthetes, have experienced tragedy as the highest art. Aristotle’s catharsis, the release of emotion, recalls a remarkable insight of Goethe. Philologists are at a loss whether to classify catharsis as a medical or a moral phenomenon. "Without a lively emotional interest," Goethe says, "I too have never succeeded in working out any kind of tragic situation. So I have tended to avoid it rather than seek it out. Could it perhaps have been another merit of the ancients that, for them, the deepest emotion was merely aesthetic play? For us, by contrast, must the truth of nature help produce such a work?" We can now answer Goethe’s profound final question in the affirmative. Our glorious experiences have shown us, to our astonishment, that in musical tragedy itself the deepest emotion can indeed be merely aesthetic play. We are therefore justified in believing that, only now, the primal phenomenon of tragedy can be portrayed with some success. Anyone who still insists on discussing only those substitute effects that come from outside the aesthetic sphere may despair of his aesthetic nature. He may do so if he does not feel himself raised above the emotional and moral process. As a harmless substitute, we recommend that he interpret Shakespeare in the manner of Gervinus and diligently search for poetic justice.

Thus with the re-birth of tragedy the æsthetic hearer is also born anew, in whose place in the theatre a curious quid pro quo was wont to sit with half-moral and half-learned pretensions,—the "critic." In his sphere hitherto everything has been artificial and merely glossed over with a semblance of life. The performing artist was in fact at a loss what to do with such a critically comporting hearer, and hence he, as well as the dramatist or operatic composer who inspired him, searched anxiously for the last remains of life in a being so pretentiously barren and incapable of enjoyment. Such "critics," however, have hitherto constituted the public; the student, the school-boy, yea, even the most harmless womanly creature, were already unwittingly prepared by education and by journals for a similar perception of works of art. The nobler natures among the artists counted upon exciting the moral-religious forces in such a public, and the appeal to a moral order of the world operated vicariously, when in reality some powerful artistic spell should have enraptured the true hearer. Or again, some imposing or at all events exciting tendency of the contemporary political and social world was presented by the dramatist with such vividness that the hearer could forget his critical exhaustion and abandon himself to similar emotions, as, in patriotic or warlike moments, before the tribune of parliament, or at the condemnation of crime and vice:—an estrangement of the true aims of art which could not but lead directly now and then to a cult of tendency. But here there took place what has always taken place in the case of factitious arts, an extraordinary rapid depravation of these tendencies, so that for instance the tendency to employ the theatre as a means for the moral education of the people, which in Schiller's time was taken seriously, is already reckoned among the incredible antiquities of a surmounted culture. While the critic got the upper hand in the theatre and concert-hall, the journalist in the school, and the press in society, art degenerated into a topic of conversation of the most trivial kind, and æsthetic criticism was used as the cement of a vain, distracted, selfish and moreover piteously unoriginal sociality, the significance of which is suggested by the Schopenhauerian parable of the porcupines, so that there has never been so much gossip about art and so little esteem for it. But is it still possible to have intercourse with a man capable of conversing on Beethoven or Shakespeare? Let each answer this question according to his sentiments: he will at any rate show by his answer his conception of "culture," provided he tries at least to answer the question, and has not already grown mute with astonishment.

With the rebirth of tragedy, the aesthetic listener is also born again. In the theater, a curious quid pro quo had taken the listener’s place: the "critic," with pretensions that were half moral and half scholarly. Until now, everything in the critic’s domain has been artificial, with only a thin appearance of life. The performer did not know what to do with such a critical listener. So the performer, like the dramatist or opera composer who inspired him, searched anxiously for the last traces of life in this pretentious being, so barren and incapable of enjoyment. Yet such "critics" have until now made up the public. Education and newspapers had already prepared students, schoolboys, and even the most harmless woman to perceive works of art in the same way, without knowing it. The nobler artists counted on stirring the moral and religious powers of such an audience. An appeal to a moral order in the world served as a substitute. In truth, a powerful artistic spell should have transported the true listener. Or the dramatist would vividly present some impressive, or at least exciting, tendency in contemporary political and social life. The listener could then forget his critical exhaustion and give himself over to familiar emotions. These were the emotions he might feel in patriotic or warlike moments, before a parliamentary speaker, or when crime and vice were condemned. This departure from art’s true aims was bound at times to lead directly to a cult of tendency. But here something happened that has always happened with artificial arts. These tendencies decayed with extraordinary speed. For example, in Schiller’s time people took seriously the idea of using the theater to educate the public morally. That idea is already counted among the unbelievable relics of a culture we have outgrown. The critic gained control in the theater and concert hall, the journalist in the school, and the press in society. Meanwhile, art became a subject of the most trivial conversation. Aesthetic criticism served as the cement holding together a vain, distracted, selfish, and pitifully unoriginal social life. Schopenhauer’s parable of the porcupines suggests what this social life amounted to. Never has there been so much gossip about art and so little respect for it. But is it still possible to associate with a man capable of conversing about Beethoven or Shakespeare? Let each person answer according to his own feelings. His answer will at least reveal his idea of "culture," provided he tries to answer at all and has not already been struck dumb with astonishment.

On the other hand, many a one more nobly and delicately endowed by nature, though he may have gradually become a critical barbarian in the manner described, could tell of the unexpected as well as totally unintelligible effect which a successful performance of Lohengrin, for example, exerted on him: except that perhaps every warning and interpreting hand was lacking to guide him; so that the incomprehensibly heterogeneous and altogether incomparable sensation which then affected him also remained isolated and became extinct, like a mysterious star after a brief brilliancy. He then divined what the æsthetic hearer is.

On the other hand, many people are naturally more noble and sensitive, though they may gradually have become critical barbarians in the way described. Such a person could describe the unexpected and utterly incomprehensible effect of a successful performance of Lohengrin, for example. Yet perhaps no one was there to warn or guide him in interpreting it. So the feeling that came over him, so incomprehensibly different from anything else and beyond all comparison, remained isolated. It died out like a mysterious star after a brief blaze of light. He then sensed what an aesthetic listener is.