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Music and tragic myth are equally the expression of the Dionysian capacity of a people, and are inseparable from each other. Both originate in an ultra Apollonian sphere of art; both transfigure a region in the delightful accords of which all dissonance, just like the terrible picture of the world, dies charmingly away; both play with the sting of displeasure, trusting to their most potent magic; both justify thereby the existence even of the "worst world." Here the Dionysian, as compared with the Apollonian, exhibits itself as the eternal and original artistic force, which in general calls into existence the entire world of phenomena: in the midst of which a new transfiguring appearance becomes necessary, in order to keep alive the animated world of individuation. If we could conceive an incarnation of dissonance—and what is man but that?—then, to be able to live this dissonance would require a glorious illusion which would spread a veil of beauty over its peculiar nature. This is the true function of Apollo as deity of art: in whose name we comprise all the countless manifestations of the fair realm of illusion, which each moment render life in general worth living and make one impatient for the experience of the next moment.

Music and tragic myth both express a people’s Dionysian capacity, and they cannot be separated. Both come from an artistic realm beyond the Apollonian. Both transform a realm whose delightful harmonies charm away all dissonance, along with the terrible picture of the world. Both play with the sting of displeasure, trusting in their most powerful magic. In doing so, both justify the existence of even the "worst world." Compared with the Apollonian, the Dionysian reveals itself as the eternal, original artistic force. This force brings the entire world of appearances into being. Within that world, a new transforming appearance becomes necessary to keep the living world of individual beings alive. Suppose we could imagine dissonance embodied in a person. And what is man but that? To live, this embodied dissonance would need a glorious illusion to veil its own nature in beauty. This is the true function of Apollo as the god of art. In his name, we include all the countless forms of the beautiful realm of illusion. At every moment, they make life itself worth living and make us eager to experience the next moment.

At the same time, just as much of this basis of all existence—the Dionysian substratum of the world—is allowed to enter into the consciousness of human beings, as can be surmounted again by the Apollonian transfiguring power, so that these two art-impulses are constrained to develop their powers in strictly mutual proportion, according to the law of eternal justice. When the Dionysian powers rise with such vehemence as we experience at present, there can be no doubt that, veiled in a cloud, Apollo has already descended to us; whose grandest beautifying influences a coming generation will perhaps behold.

At the same time, only as much of the Dionysian foundation of all existence enters human consciousness as the Apollonian power of transformation can overcome. Thus, according to the law of eternal justice, these two artistic impulses must develop their powers in strict proportion to each other. Today, the Dionysian powers are rising with great force. So there can be no doubt that Apollo has already descended among us, veiled in a cloud. Perhaps a coming generation will witness his greatest powers of beautification.

That this effect is necessary, however, each one would most surely perceive by intuition, if once he found himself carried back—even in a dream—into an Old-Hellenic existence. In walking under high Ionic colonnades, looking upwards to a horizon defined by clear and noble lines, with reflections of his transfigured form by his side in shining marble, and around him solemnly marching or quietly moving men, with harmoniously sounding voices and rhythmical pantomime, would he not in the presence of this perpetual influx of beauty have to raise his hand to Apollo and exclaim: "Blessed race of Hellenes! How great Dionysus must be among you, when the Delian god deems such charms necessary to cure you of your dithyrambic madness!"—To one in this frame of mind, however, an aged Athenian, looking up to him with the sublime eye of Æschylus, might answer: "Say also this, thou curious stranger: what sufferings this people must have undergone, in order to be able to become thus beautiful! But now follow me to a tragic play, and sacrifice with me in the temple of both the deities!"

Everyone would surely sense that this effect is necessary if they were transported, even in a dream, into ancient Hellenic life. Imagine walking beneath tall Ionic colonnades and looking up at a horizon marked by clear, noble lines. Beside you are reflections of your transfigured form in shining marble. All around you, men march solemnly or move quietly, with harmonious voices and rhythmic gestures. Faced with this constant flow of beauty, would you not raise your hand to Apollo and cry: "Blessed race of Hellenes! How great Dionysus must be among you, when the Delian god finds such beauty necessary to cure you of your dithyrambic madness!" But an aged Athenian might look up at someone in this frame of mind with the sublime gaze of Æschylus. He might answer: "Say this too, curious stranger: how much this people must have suffered to become so beautiful! But now follow me to a tragic play, and join me in sacrificing in the temple of both deities!"