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In order to comprehend this, we must take down the artistic structure of the Apollonian culture, as it were, stone by stone, till we behold the foundations on which it rests. Here we observe first of all the glorious Olympian figures of the gods, standing on the gables of this structure, whose deeds, represented in far-shining reliefs, adorn its friezes. Though Apollo stands among them as an individual deity, side by side with others, and without claim to priority of rank, we must not suffer this fact to mislead us. The same impulse which embodied itself in Apollo has, in general, given birth to this whole Olympian world, and in this sense we may regard Apollo as the father thereof. What was the enormous need from which proceeded such an illustrious group of Olympian beings?

To understand this, we must take apart the artistic structure of Apollonian culture, stone by stone, until we see its foundations. First, we see the glorious Olympian gods standing on the gables of this structure. Their deeds appear in shining reliefs that adorn its friezes. Apollo stands among them as one god beside the others, with no claim to higher rank. But we must not let this mislead us. The same impulse that took shape in Apollo also gave birth to the whole Olympian world. In this sense, we may regard Apollo as its father. What enormous need gave rise to such a magnificent group of Olympian beings?

Whosoever, with another religion in his heart, approaches these Olympians and seeks among them for moral elevation, even for sanctity, for incorporeal spiritualisation, for sympathetic looks of love, will soon be obliged to turn his back on them, discouraged and disappointed. Here nothing suggests asceticism, spirituality, or duty: here only an exuberant, even triumphant life speaks to us, in which everything existing is deified, whether good or bad. And so the spectator will perhaps stand quite bewildered before this fantastic exuberance of life, and ask himself what magic potion these madly merry men could have used for enjoying life, so that, wherever they turned their eyes, Helena, the ideal image of their own existence "floating in sweet sensuality," smiled upon them. But to this spectator, already turning backwards, we must call out: "depart not hence, but hear rather what Greek folk-wisdom says of this same life, which with such inexplicable cheerfulness spreads out before thee." There is an ancient story that king Midas hunted in the forest a long time for the wise Silenus, the companion of Dionysus, without capturing him. When at last he fell into his hands, the king asked what was best of all and most desirable for man. Fixed and immovable, the demon remained silent; till at last, forced by the king, he broke out with shrill laughter into these words: "Oh, wretched race of a day, children of chance and misery, why do ye compel me to say to you what it were most expedient for you not to hear? What is best of all is for ever beyond your reach: not to be born, not to be, to be nothing. The second best for you, however, is soon to die."

Anyone who approaches these Olympians with another religion in their heart may look for moral uplift or even holiness. They may seek a spirituality free of the body, or loving, sympathetic looks. But they will soon have to turn away, discouraged and disappointed. Here, nothing suggests asceticism, spirituality, or duty. Instead, an exuberant, even triumphant life speaks to us. In it, everything that exists is made divine, whether good or bad. The observer may stand bewildered before this fantastic abundance of life. They may wonder what magic potion these wildly merry people used to enjoy life so much. Wherever they looked, Helena smiled upon them, the ideal image of their own existence, "floating in sweet sensuality." But to this observer, already turning away, we must call out: "Do not leave yet. Listen instead to what Greek folk wisdom says about this same life, which unfolds before you with such inexplicable cheerfulness." An ancient story tells how King Midas hunted in the forest for a long time for the wise Silenus, the companion of Dionysus. He could not catch him. When Silenus finally fell into his hands, the king asked what was best and most desirable for man. The demon stayed motionless and silent. At last, forced by the king, he broke into shrill laughter and said: "Oh, wretched race of a day, children of chance and misery, why do you force me to tell you what you would be better off not hearing? What is best of all is forever beyond your reach: not to be born, not to be, to be nothing. The second best for you, however, is to die soon."

How is the Olympian world of deities related to this folk-wisdom? Even as the rapturous vision of the tortured martyr to his sufferings.

How does the Olympian world of gods relate to this folk wisdom? It relates to folk wisdom as a tortured martyr’s ecstatic vision relates to his suffering.

Now the Olympian magic mountain opens, as it were, to our view and shows to us its roots. The Greek knew and felt the terrors and horrors of existence: to be able to live at all, he had to interpose the shining dream-birth of the Olympian world between himself and them. The excessive distrust of the titanic powers of nature, the Moira throning inexorably over all knowledge, the vulture of the great philanthropist Prometheus, the terrible fate of the wise Œdipus, the family curse of the Atridæ which drove Orestes to matricide; in short, that entire philosophy of the sylvan god, with its mythical exemplars, which wrought the ruin of the melancholy Etruscans—was again and again surmounted anew by the Greeks through the artistic middle world of the Olympians, or at least veiled and withdrawn from sight. To be able to live, the Greeks had, from direst necessity, to create these gods: which process we may perhaps picture to ourselves in this manner: that out of the original Titan thearchy of terror the Olympian thearchy of joy was evolved, by slow transitions, through the Apollonian impulse to beauty, even as roses break forth from thorny bushes. How else could this so sensitive people, so vehement in its desires, so singularly qualified for sufferings have endured existence, if it had not been exhibited to them in their gods, surrounded with a higher glory? The same impulse which calls art into being, as the complement and consummation of existence, seducing to a continuation of life, caused also the Olympian world to arise, in which the Hellenic "will" held up before itself a transfiguring mirror. Thus do the gods justify the life of man, in that they themselves live it—the only satisfactory Theodicy! Existence under the bright sunshine of such gods is regarded as that which is desirable in itself, and the real grief of the Homeric men has reference to parting from it, especially to early parting: so that we might now say of them, with a reversion of the Silenian wisdom, that "to die early is worst of all for them, the second worst is—some day to die at all." If once the lamentation is heard, it will ring out again, of the short-lived Achilles, of the leaf-like change and vicissitude of the human race, of the decay of the heroic age. It is not unworthy of the greatest hero to long for a continuation of life, ay, even as a day-labourer. So vehemently does the "will," at the Apollonian stage of development, long for this existence, so completely at one does the Homeric man feel himself with it, that the very lamentation becomes its song of praise.

Now the magic mountain of the Olympians seems to open before us and reveal its roots. The Greek knew and felt the terrors and horrors of existence. To live at all, he had to place the radiant dream of the Olympian world between himself and those terrors. There was a deep distrust of the titanic powers of nature. There was Moira, enthroned inexorably above all knowledge, and the vulture of the great benefactor Prometheus. There was the terrible fate of the wise Œdipus, and the family curse of the Atridæ that drove Orestes to matricide. In short, there was the whole philosophy of the sylvan god, with its mythical examples, which brought the melancholy Etruscans to ruin. Again and again, the Greeks overcame this philosophy through the artistic middle world of the Olympians. Or at least they veiled it and hid it from sight. To live, the Greeks had to create these gods out of the deepest necessity. We may perhaps picture the process in this way: the original Titan thearchy of terror slowly became the Olympian thearchy of joy. This happened through the Apollonian impulse to beauty, just as roses spring from thorny bushes. How else could this people have endured existence? They were so sensitive, so fierce in their desires, and so especially suited to sufferings. They could endure existence because their gods showed it to them surrounded by a higher glory. The same impulse gives birth to art as the complement and fulfillment of existence, enticing us to go on living. This impulse also brought the Olympian world into being. In that world, the Hellenic "will" held up a transforming mirror to itself. Thus the gods justify human life by living it themselves. This is the only satisfactory Theodicy! Life under the bright sunshine of such gods is seen as desirable in itself. The real grief of Homeric men concerns leaving life, especially leaving it early. We might now reverse the Silenian wisdom and say of them: "to die early is worst of all for them, the second worst is to die at all someday." Once the lament is heard, it sounds again and again. It is a lament for the short-lived Achilles, for the leaf-like change and shifting fortunes of the human race, and for the decline of the heroic age. Even the greatest hero may rightly long to go on living, even as a day laborer. At the Apollonian stage of development, the "will" longs so fiercely for this existence. Homeric man feels so completely at one with it that even his lament becomes a song of praise for life.

Here we must observe that this harmony which is so eagerly contemplated by modern man, in fact, this oneness of man with nature, to express which Schiller introduced the technical term "naïve," is by no means such a simple, naturally resulting and, as it were, inevitable condition, which must be found at the gate of every culture leading to a paradise of man: this could be believed only by an age which sought to picture to itself Rousseau's Émile also as an artist, and imagined it had found in Homer such an artist Émile, reared at Nature's bosom. Wherever we meet with the "naïve" in art, it behoves us to recognise the highest effect of the Apollonian culture, which in the first place has always to overthrow some Titanic empire and slay monsters, and which, through powerful dazzling representations and pleasurable illusions, must have triumphed over a terrible depth of world-contemplation and a most keen susceptibility to suffering. But how seldom is the naïve—that complete absorption, in the beauty of appearance—attained! And hence how inexpressibly sublime is Homer, who, as unit being, bears the same relation to this Apollonian folk-culture as the unit dream-artist does to the dream-faculty of the people and of Nature in general. The Homeric "naïveté" can be comprehended only as the complete triumph of the Apollonian illusion: it is the same kind of illusion as Nature so frequently employs to compass her ends. The true goal is veiled by a phantasm: we stretch out our hands for the latter, while Nature attains the former through our illusion. In the Greeks the "will" desired to contemplate itself in the transfiguration of the genius and the world of art; in order to glorify themselves, its creatures had to feel themselves worthy of glory; they had to behold themselves again in a higher sphere, without this consummate world of contemplation acting as an imperative or reproach. Such is the sphere of beauty, in which, as in a mirror, they saw their images, the Olympians. With this mirroring of beauty the Hellenic will combated its talent—correlative to the artistic—for suffering and for the wisdom of suffering: and, as a monument of its victory, Homer, the naïve artist, stands before us.

We must note that modern people are so eager to contemplate harmony, the oneness of man with nature. Schiller introduced the technical term "naïve" to express this oneness. But it is by no means a simple, natural, or inevitable state. It is not something that must stand at the entrance to every culture, leading to a human paradise. Only one kind of age could believe this. It would have to imagine Rousseau's Émile as an artist too. And it would have to imagine that Homer was such an artist Émile, raised at Nature's breast. Wherever we find the "naïve" in art, we must recognize it as the highest achievement of Apollonian culture. Such a culture must always first overthrow some Titanic empire and slay monsters. Through powerful, dazzling images and pleasurable illusions, it must triumph over a terrifying depth of insight into the world. It must also triumph over an extremely keen sensitivity to suffering. But how rarely is the naïve attained, that complete absorption in the beauty of appearance! And so how inexpressibly sublime is Homer! As an individual, he stands in the same relation to this Apollonian folk-culture as an individual dream-artist does to the dreaming power of a people and of Nature in general. The Homeric "naïveté" can be understood only as the complete triumph of Apollonian illusion. It is the same kind of illusion Nature so often uses to achieve her ends. The true goal is hidden by an illusion. We reach for the illusion, while Nature uses it to achieve her true goal. In the Greeks, the "will" wanted to see itself transformed in the genius and the world of art. To glorify themselves, its creatures had to feel worthy of glory. They had to see themselves again in a higher sphere. Yet this perfect world they contemplated could not serve as a command or a reproach to them. Such is the sphere of beauty, in which they saw their own images, the Olympians, as in a mirror. With this reflection of beauty, the Hellenic will fought its talent for suffering and for the wisdom of suffering. This talent matched its talent for art. And Homer, the naïve artist, stands before us as a monument to its victory.