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Among the peculiar artistic effects of musical tragedy we had to emphasise an Apollonian illusion, through which we are to be saved from immediate oneness with the Dionysian music, while our musical excitement is able to discharge itself on an Apollonian domain and in an interposed visible middle world. It thereby seemed to us that precisely through this discharge the middle world of theatrical procedure, the drama generally, became visible and intelligible from within in a degree unattainable in the other forms of Apollonian art: so that here, where this art was as it were winged and borne aloft by the spirit of music, we had to recognise the highest exaltation of its powers, and consequently in the fraternal union of Apollo and Dionysus the climax of the Apollonian as well as of the Dionysian artistic aims.

Among the distinctive artistic effects of musical tragedy, we had to emphasize an Apollonian illusion. This illusion saves us from becoming immediately one with the Dionysian music. At the same time, it allows our musical excitement to find release in an Apollonian realm, an intervening visible world. It seemed to us that this release made the world of theatrical action, drama itself, visible and understandable from within. It did so to a degree no other form of Apollonian art could achieve. Here, Apollonian art seemed to be given wings and lifted up by the spirit of music. We therefore had to recognize this as the highest elevation of its powers. In the brotherly union of Apollo and Dionysus, we also had to recognize the fulfillment of both Apollonian and Dionysian artistic aims.

Of course, the Apollonian light-picture did not, precisely with this inner illumination through music, attain the peculiar effect of the weaker grades of Apollonian art. What the epos and the animated stone can do—constrain the contemplating eye to calm delight in the world of the individuatio—could not be realised here, notwithstanding the greater animation and distinctness. We contemplated the drama and penetrated with piercing glance into its inner agitated world of motives—and yet it seemed as if only a symbolic picture passed before us, the profoundest significance of which we almost believed we had divined, and which we desired to put aside like a curtain in order to behold the original behind it. The greatest distinctness of the picture did not suffice us: for it seemed to reveal as well as veil something; and while it seemed, with its symbolic revelation, to invite the rending of the veil for the disclosure of the mysterious background, this illumined all-conspicuousness itself enthralled the eye and prevented it from penetrating more deeply He who has not experienced this,—to have to view, and at the same time to have a longing beyond the viewing,—will hardly be able to conceive how clearly and definitely these two processes coexist in the contemplation of tragic myth and are felt to be conjoined; while the truly æsthetic spectators will confirm my assertion that among the peculiar effects of tragedy this conjunction is the most noteworthy. Now let this phenomenon of the æsthetic spectator be transferred to an analogous process in the tragic artist, and the genesis of tragic myth will have been understood. It shares with the Apollonian sphere of art the full delight in appearance and contemplation, and at the same time it denies this delight and finds a still higher satisfaction in the annihilation of the visible world of appearance. The substance of tragic myth is first of all an epic event involving the glorification of the fighting hero: but whence originates the essentially enigmatical trait, that the suffering in the fate of the hero, the most painful victories, the most agonising contrasts of motives, in short, the exemplification of the wisdom of Silenus, or, æsthetically expressed, the Ugly and Discordant, is always represented anew in such countless forms with such predilection, and precisely in the most youthful and exuberant age of a people, unless there is really a higher delight experienced in all this?

Of course, music’s inner illumination did not give the Apollonian image the distinctive effect of lesser forms of Apollonian art. The epic and the animated stone can hold the observer’s eye in calm delight at the world of individuatio. Here, despite the image’s greater liveliness and clarity, that effect could not be achieved. We watched the drama and gazed deeply into its turbulent inner world of motives. Yet it seemed as if only a symbolic picture passed before us. We almost believed we had grasped its deepest meaning. We wanted to draw it aside like a curtain and see the original behind it. The picture’s great clarity did not satisfy us, for it seemed both to reveal and to conceal something. Its symbolic revelation seemed to invite us to tear aside the veil and uncover the mysterious background. Yet the picture’s illuminated clarity held our eyes and kept us from looking deeper. Anyone who has not experienced this will hardly understand how clearly these two processes coexist when we contemplate tragic myth. We must look, yet at the same time we long to see beyond what we are looking at. We also feel that the two processes are joined. Truly aesthetic spectators will confirm my claim that this joining is the most remarkable of tragedy’s distinctive effects. Now apply this experience of the aesthetic spectator to a similar process in the tragic artist. Then we can understand the origin of tragic myth. Like Apollonian art, tragic myth takes full delight in appearance and contemplation. Yet it also rejects this delight and finds an even higher satisfaction in the destruction of the visible world of appearances. The substance of tragic myth is, first of all, an epic event that glorifies the fighting hero. But what explains its essentially puzzling feature? The hero’s suffering, the most painful victories, and the most agonizing conflicts of motives are portrayed again and again. In short, the wisdom of Silenus, or, in aesthetic terms, the Ugly and Discordant, appears in countless forms. Why are these things portrayed with such fondness, especially during a people’s most youthful and exuberant age? Must there not be a higher delight in them?

For the fact that things actually take such a tragic course would least of all explain the origin of a form of art; provided that art is not merely an imitation of the reality of nature, but in truth a metaphysical supplement to the reality of nature, placed alongside thereof for its conquest. Tragic myth, in so far as it really belongs to art, also fully participates in this transfiguring metaphysical purpose of art in general: What does it transfigure, however, when it presents the phenomenal world in the guise of the suffering hero? Least of all the "reality" of this phenomenal world, for it says to us: "Look at this! Look carefully! It is your life! It is the hour-hand of your clock of existence!"

The fact that events actually take such a tragic course hardly explains the origin of an art form. This is so if art is not merely an imitation of nature’s reality, but truly a metaphysical supplement to it, placed alongside it to overcome it. To the extent that tragic myth really belongs to art, it fully shares this transformative metaphysical purpose of art in general. But what does tragic myth transform when it presents the world of appearances in the form of a suffering hero? Certainly not the "reality" of this world. For tragic myth says to us: "Look at this! Look carefully! It is your life! It is the hour hand on the clock of your existence!"

And myth has displayed this life, in order thereby to transfigure it to us? If not, how shall we account for the æsthetic pleasure with which we make even these representations pass before us? I am inquiring concerning the æsthetic pleasure, and am well aware that many of these representations may moreover occasionally create even a moral delectation, say under the form of pity or of a moral triumph. But he who would derive the effect of the tragic exclusively from these moral sources, as was usually the case far too long in æsthetics, let him not think that he has done anything for Art thereby; for Art must above all insist on purity in her domain. For the explanation of tragic myth the very first requirement is that the pleasure which characterises it must be sought in the purely æsthetic sphere, without encroaching on the domain of pity, fear, or the morally-sublime. How can the ugly and the discordant, the substance of tragic myth, excite an æsthetic pleasure?

And has myth shown us this life in order to transform it for us? If not, how can we explain the aesthetic pleasure we take in seeing even these representations? I am asking about aesthetic pleasure. I know that many of these representations may also sometimes give us moral pleasure, perhaps through pity or moral triumph. But anyone who traces the effect of tragedy solely to these moral sources should not think they have done anything for art. For far too long, this was the usual approach in aesthetics. But art must, above all, insist on the purity of its own domain. To explain tragic myth, we must first seek its characteristic pleasure in the purely aesthetic sphere. We must not encroach on the domain of pity, fear, or moral sublimity. How can the ugly and the discordant, the substance of tragic myth, arouse aesthetic pleasure?

Here it is necessary to raise ourselves with a daring bound into a metaphysics of Art. I repeat, therefore, my former proposition, that it is only as an æsthetic phenomenon that existence and the world, appear justified: and in this sense it is precisely the function of tragic myth to convince us that even the Ugly and Discordant is an artistic game which the will, in the eternal fulness of its joy, plays with itself. But this not easily comprehensible proto-phenomenon of Dionysian Art becomes, in a direct way, singularly intelligible, and is immediately apprehended in the wonderful significance of musical dissonance: just as in general it is music alone, placed in contrast to the world, which can give us an idea as to what is meant by the justification of the world as an æsthetic phenomenon. The joy that the tragic myth excites has the same origin as the joyful sensation of dissonance in music. The Dionysian, with its primitive joy experienced in pain itself, is the common source of music and tragic myth.

Here we must make a daring leap into a metaphysics of Art. So I repeat my earlier claim: existence and the world are justified only as an aesthetic phenomenon. In this sense, tragic myth has a particular function. It convinces us that even the Ugly and Discordant are part of an artistic game. In the eternal fullness of its joy, the will plays this game with itself. This basic phenomenon of Dionysian Art is not easy to understand. But it becomes remarkably clear and immediately understandable through the wonderful significance of musical dissonance: more generally, music alone can give us an idea of what it means to justify the world as an aesthetic phenomenon. It does so when set against the world. The joy aroused by tragic myth has the same source as the joyful sensation of dissonance in music. The Dionysian, with its primal joy experienced in pain itself, is the common source of music and tragic myth.

Is it not possible that by calling to our aid the musical relation of dissonance, the difficult problem of tragic effect may have meanwhile been materially facilitated? For we now understand what it means to wish to view tragedy and at the same time to have a longing beyond the viewing: a frame of mind, which, as regards the artistically employed dissonance, we should simply have to characterise by saying that we desire to hear and at the same time have a longing beyond the hearing. That striving for the infinite, the pinion-flapping of longing, accompanying the highest delight in the clearly-perceived reality, remind one that in both states we have to recognise a Dionysian phenomenon, which again and again reveals to us anew the playful up-building and demolishing of the world of individuals as the efflux of a primitive delight, in like manner as when Heraclitus the Obscure compares the world-building power to a playing child which places stones here and there and builds sandhills only to overthrow them again.

Might the musical idea of dissonance have made the difficult problem of tragic effect much easier to understand? We now understand what it means to want to watch a tragedy while longing for something beyond watching it. We can describe our response to dissonance in art in the same way: we want to hear it while longing for something beyond hearing it. In both states, we strive for the infinite, our longing flapping its wings, even as we take the greatest delight in the reality we clearly perceive. This reminds us that both are Dionysian phenomena. Again and again, they reveal how the world of individuals is playfully built up and torn down as an expression of a primal delight. In the same way, Heraclitus the Obscure compares the power that builds the world to a playing child. The child places stones here and there and builds sandhills, only to knock them down again.

Hence, in order to form a true estimate of the Dionysian capacity of a people, it would seem that we must think not only of their music, but just as much of their tragic myth, the second witness of this capacity. Considering this most intimate relationship between music and myth, we may now in like manner suppose that a degeneration and depravation of the one involves a deterioration of the other: if it be true at all that the weakening of the myth is generally expressive of a debilitation of the Dionysian capacity. Concerning both, however, a glance at the development of the German genius should not leave us in any doubt; in the opera just as in the abstract character of our myth-less existence, in an art sunk to pastime just as in a life guided by concepts, the inartistic as well as life-consuming nature of Socratic optimism had revealed itself to us. Yet there have been indications to console us that nevertheless in some inaccessible abyss the German spirit still rests and dreams, undestroyed, in glorious health, profundity, and Dionysian strength, like a knight sunk in slumber: from which abyss the Dionysian song rises to us to let us know that this German knight even still dreams his primitive Dionysian myth in blissfully earnest visions. Let no one believe that the German spirit has for ever lost its mythical home when it still understands so obviously the voices of the birds which tell of that home. Some day it will find itself awake in all the morning freshness of a deep sleep: then it will slay the dragons, destroy the malignant dwarfs, and waken Brünnhilde—and Wotan's spear itself will be unable to obstruct its course!

So, to judge a people’s Dionysian capacity accurately, we must consider not only their music but also their tragic myth. That myth is a second witness to this capacity. Music and myth are intimately related. So we may also suppose that when one degenerates and becomes corrupt, the other deteriorates. This follows if a weakening of myth generally expresses a weakening of Dionysian capacity. A glance at the development of the German genius should leave us in no doubt about either music or myth. We have seen the unartistic and life-consuming nature of Socratic optimism in opera and in the abstract character of our existence without myth. We have also seen it in art reduced to entertainment and in life guided by concepts. Yet there have been comforting signs that the German spirit still rests and dreams in some inaccessible abyss. Like a sleeping knight, it remains undestroyed, in glorious health, depth, and Dionysian strength. From that abyss, the Dionysian song rises to us. It tells us that this German knight still dreams his original Dionysian myth in blissfully earnest visions. Let no one believe that the German spirit has lost its mythical home forever. For it still so clearly understands the voices of the birds that tell of that home. Someday it will awake with all the morning freshness that follows a deep sleep. Then it will slay the dragons, destroy the evil dwarfs, and wake Brünnhilde. Even Wotan’s spear will be unable to block its path!

My friends, ye who believe in Dionysian music, ye know also what tragedy means to us. There we have tragic myth, born anew from music,—and in this latest birth ye can hope for everything and forget what is most afflicting. What is most afflicting to all of us, however, is—the prolonged degradation in which the German genius has lived estranged from house and home in the service of malignant dwarfs. Ye understand my allusion—as ye will also, in conclusion, understand my hopes.

My friends, you who believe in Dionysian music also know what tragedy means to us. In tragedy, myth is born again from music. In this latest birth, you can hope for everything and forget what is most distressing. What distresses us all most is the long degradation of the German genius. It has lived far from home, serving malicious dwarfs. You understand what I mean, just as you will also understand my hopes in the end.