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Concerning this naïve artist the analogy of dreams will enlighten us to some extent. When we realise to ourselves the dreamer, as, in the midst of the illusion of the dream-world and without disturbing it, he calls out to himself: "it is a dream, I will dream on"; when we must thence infer a deep inner joy in dream-contemplation; when, on the other hand, to be at all able to dream with this inner joy in contemplation, we must have completely forgotten the day and its terrible obtrusiveness, we may, under the direction of the dream-reading Apollo, interpret all these phenomena to ourselves somewhat as follows. Though it is certain that of the two halves of life, the waking and the dreaming, the former appeals to us as by far the more preferred, important, excellent and worthy of being lived, indeed, as that which alone is lived: yet, with reference to that mysterious ground of our being of which we are the phenomenon, I should, paradoxical as it may seem, be inclined to maintain the very opposite estimate of the value of dream life. For the more clearly I perceive in nature those all-powerful art impulses, and in them a fervent longing for appearance, for redemption through appearance, the more I feel myself driven to the metaphysical assumption that the Verily-Existent and Primordial Unity, as the Eternally Suffering and Self-Contradictory, requires the rapturous vision, the joyful appearance, for its continuous salvation: which appearance we, who are completely wrapt in it and composed of it, must regard as the Verily Non-existent,—i.e., as a perpetual unfolding in time, space and causality,—in other words, as empiric reality. If we therefore waive the consideration of our own "reality" for the present, if we conceive our empiric existence, and that of the world generally, as a representation of the Primordial Unity generated every moment, we shall then have to regard the dream as an appearance of appearance, hence as a still higher gratification of the primordial desire for appearance. It is for this same reason that the innermost heart of Nature experiences that indescribable joy in the naïve artist and in the naïve work of art, which is likewise only "an appearance of appearance." In a symbolic painting, Raphael, himself one of these immortal "naïve" ones, has represented to us this depotentiating of appearance to appearance, the primordial process of the naïve artist and at the same time of Apollonian culture. In his Transfiguration, the lower half, with the possessed boy, the despairing bearers, the helpless, terrified disciples, shows to us the reflection of eternal primordial pain, the sole basis of the world: the "appearance" here is the counter-appearance of eternal Contradiction, the father of things. Out of this appearance then arises, like an ambrosial vapour, a visionlike new world of appearances, of which those wrapt in the first appearance see nothing—a radiant floating in purest bliss and painless Contemplation beaming from wide-open eyes. Here there is presented to our view, in the highest symbolism of art, that Apollonian world of beauty and its substratum, the terrible wisdom of Silenus, and we comprehend, by intuition, their necessary interdependence. Apollo, however, again appears to us as the apotheosis of the principium individuationis, in which alone the perpetually attained end of the Primordial Unity, its redemption through appearance, is consummated: he shows us, with sublime attitudes, how the entire world of torment is necessary, that thereby the individual may be impelled to realise the redeeming vision, and then, sunk in contemplation thereof, quietly sit in his fluctuating barque, in the midst of the sea.

The analogy of dreams may shed some light on this naïve artist. Imagine a dreamer who, without disturbing the illusion of the dream world, says to himself: "it is a dream, I will dream on". We must infer that he takes a deep inner joy in contemplating the dream. Yet, to dream with this inner joy, he must also have completely forgotten the day and its terrible intrusiveness. Guided by Apollo, the interpreter of dreams, we may interpret these things as follows. Of the two halves of life, waking and dreaming, we certainly prefer waking life by far. We regard it as more important, better, and more worth living. Indeed, we regard it as the only life we actually live. Yet I would be inclined to assign the opposite value to dream life. This may seem paradoxical, but I am thinking of the mysterious ground of our being, of which we are the appearance. In nature, I perceive all-powerful artistic impulses and a fervent longing for appearance and for redemption through appearance. The more clearly I see them, the more I feel driven to a metaphysical assumption. The Verily-Existent and Primordial Unity is Eternally Suffering and Self-Contradictory. For its continuous salvation, it requires the rapturous vision, the joyful appearance. We are completely wrapped up in that appearance and made of it. So we must regard it as the Verily Non-existent, i.e., as a perpetual unfolding in time, space, and causality. In other words, we must regard it as empirical reality. Let us therefore set aside our own "reality" for the moment. Suppose we understand our empirical existence, and that of the world as a whole, as a representation of the Primordial Unity. This representation is generated at every moment. We must then regard the dream as an appearance of appearance. It is thus an even higher gratification of the primordial desire for appearance. For the same reason, the innermost heart of Nature feels indescribable joy in the naïve artist and the naïve work of art. The work of art, too, is only "an appearance of appearance." In a symbolic painting, Raphael shows us this reduction of appearance to appearance. He was himself one of these immortal "naïve" artists. His painting shows the primordial process of the naïve artist and, at the same time, of Apollonian culture. The lower half of his Transfiguration shows the possessed boy, the despairing bearers, and the helpless, terrified disciples. It reflects eternal primordial pain, the sole basis of the world. The "appearance" here is the counter-appearance of eternal Contradiction, the father of things. Out of this appearance, a new world of appearances arises like an ambrosial vapor. It is like a vision, and those caught up in the first appearance see nothing of it. There is a radiant floating in pure bliss, and painless Contemplation shines from wide-open eyes. Here art presents its highest symbolism. It shows us the Apollonian world of beauty and the foundation beneath it, the terrible wisdom of Silenus. And we grasp intuitively how each necessarily depends on the other. Apollo, however, appears to us again as the perfect embodiment of the principium individuationis. Only through this principle is the perpetually achieved aim of the Primordial Unity fulfilled: its redemption through appearance. With sublime gestures, Apollo shows us why the whole world of torment is necessary. It is necessary so that the individual may be driven to create the redeeming vision. Then, absorbed in contemplating it, the individual can sit quietly in his rocking boat in the middle of the sea.

This apotheosis of individuation, if it be at all conceived as imperative and laying down precepts, knows but one law—the individual, i.e., the observance of the boundaries of the individual, measure in the Hellenic sense. Apollo, as ethical deity, demands due proportion of his disciples, and, that this may be observed, he demands self-knowledge. And thus, parallel to the æsthetic necessity for beauty, there run the demands "know thyself" and "not too much," while presumption and undueness are regarded as the truly hostile demons of the non-Apollonian sphere, hence as characteristics of the pre-Apollonian age, that of the Titans, and of the extra-Apollonian world, that of the barbarians. Because of his Titan-like love for man, Prometheus had to be torn to pieces by vultures; because of his excessive wisdom, which solved the riddle of the Sphinx, Œdipus had to plunge into a bewildering vortex of monstrous crimes: thus did the Delphic god interpret the Grecian past.

This elevation of individuation to divine status, if understood as a command that sets rules, knows only one law: the individual, i.e., respect for the individual's boundaries, measure in the Greek sense. Apollo, as an ethical god, demands proper proportion from his followers. To achieve this, he demands self-knowledge. So, alongside the aesthetic need for beauty, come the demands "know thyself" and "not too much." Presumption and excess are regarded as the truly hostile demons of the non-Apollonian realm. They are therefore seen as traits of the pre-Apollonian age of the Titans and the extra-Apollonian world of the barbarians. Because of his Titan-like love for man, Prometheus had to be torn to pieces by vultures. Because of his excessive wisdom, which solved the riddle of the Sphinx, Œdipus had to plunge into a bewildering whirl of monstrous crimes. This was how the Delphic god interpreted the Grecian past.

So also the effects wrought by the Dionysian appeared "titanic" and "barbaric" to the Apollonian Greek: while at the same time he could not conceal from himself that he too was inwardly related to these overthrown Titans and heroes. Indeed, he had to recognise still more than this: his entire existence, with all its beauty and moderation, rested on a hidden substratum of suffering and of knowledge, which was again disclosed to him by the Dionysian. And lo! Apollo could not live without Dionysus! The "titanic" and the "barbaric" were in the end not less necessary than the Apollonian. And now let us imagine to ourselves how the ecstatic tone of the Dionysian festival sounded in ever more luring and bewitching strains into this artificially confined world built on appearance and moderation, how in these strains all the undueness of nature, in joy, sorrow, and knowledge, even to the transpiercing shriek, became audible: let us ask ourselves what meaning could be attached to the psalmodising artist of Apollo, with the phantom harp-sound, as compared with this demonic folk-song! The muses of the arts of "appearance" paled before an art which, in its intoxication, spoke the truth, the wisdom of Silenus cried "woe! woe!" against the cheerful Olympians. The individual, with all his boundaries and due proportions, went under in the self-oblivion of the Dionysian states and forgot the Apollonian precepts. The Undueness revealed itself as truth, contradiction, the bliss born of pain, declared itself but of the heart of nature. And thus, wherever the Dionysian prevailed, the Apollonian was routed and annihilated. But it is quite as certain that, where the first assault was successfully withstood, the authority and majesty of the Delphic god exhibited itself as more rigid and menacing than ever. For I can only explain to myself the Doric state and Doric art as a permanent war-camp of the Apollonian: only by incessant opposition to the titanic-barbaric nature of the Dionysian was it possible for an art so defiantly-prim, so encompassed with bulwarks, a training so warlike and rigorous, a constitution so cruel and relentless, to last for any length of time.

To the Apollonian Greek, the effects of the Dionysian also seemed "titanic" and "barbaric". Yet he could not hide from himself that he too was inwardly related to these defeated Titans and heroes. Indeed, he had to recognize even more. His whole existence, with all its beauty and moderation, rested on a hidden foundation of suffering and knowledge. The Dionysian revealed this foundation to him again. And look! Apollo could not live without Dionysus! In the end, the "titanic" and the "barbaric" were no less necessary than the Apollonian. Now let us imagine the ecstatic music of the Dionysian festival. Its strains became ever more alluring and enchanting as they echoed through this artificially confined world, built on appearance and moderation. In this music, all the excess of nature could be heard, in joy, sorrow, and knowledge, even in piercing shrieks. Compared with this demonic folk-song, what meaning could Apollo's chanting artist have, with his ghostly harp music? The muses of the arts of "appearance" paled before an art that spoke the truth in its intoxication. The wisdom of Silenus cried "woe! woe!" against the cheerful Olympians. In Dionysian states, the individual lost himself, along with all his boundaries and proper proportions, and forgot the Apollonian precepts. Excess revealed itself as truth. Contradiction, the bliss born of pain, declared that it came from the heart of nature. So wherever the Dionysian prevailed, the Apollonian was defeated and destroyed. But it is equally certain that, where the first assault was successfully resisted, the authority and majesty of the Delphic god appeared more rigid and threatening than ever. For I can explain the Doric state and Doric art only as a permanent war camp of the Apollonian. Only constant resistance to the titanic and barbaric nature of the Dionysian could sustain them for any length of time. Only such resistance could sustain an art so defiantly prim and so surrounded by defenses, a training so warlike and strict, and a constitution so cruel and relentless.

Up to this point we have enlarged upon the observation made at the beginning of this essay: how the Dionysian and the Apollonian, in ever new births succeeding and mutually augmenting one another, controlled the Hellenic genius: how from out the age of "bronze," with its Titan struggles and rigorous folk-philosophy, the Homeric world develops under the fostering sway of the Apollonian impulse to beauty, how this "naïve" splendour is again overwhelmed by the inbursting flood of the Dionysian, and how against this new power the Apollonian rises to the austere majesty of Doric art and the Doric view of things. If, then, in this way, in the strife of these two hostile principles, the older Hellenic history falls into four great periods of art, we are now driven to inquire after the ulterior purpose of these unfoldings and processes, unless perchance we should regard the last-attained period, the period of Doric art, as the end and aim of these artistic impulses: and here the sublime and highly celebrated art-work of Attic tragedy and dramatic dithyramb presents itself to our view as the common goal of both these impulses, whose mysterious union, after many and long precursory struggles, found its glorious consummation in such a child,—which is at once Antigone and Cassandra.

So far, we have expanded on the observation made at the beginning of this essay. The Dionysian and the Apollonian governed the Hellenic genius through successive new births, each strengthening the other. The age of "bronze" had its Titan struggles and its rigorous folk philosophy. From that age, the Homeric world developed, nurtured by the Apollonian impulse toward beauty. Then the Dionysian burst in like a flood and overwhelmed this "naïve" splendor. In response to this new power, the Apollonian rose to the austere majesty of Doric art and the Doric view of things. Thus, the struggle between these two opposing principles divides early Hellenic history into four great periods of art. Unless we regard the last of these periods, that of Doric art, as the final aim of both artistic impulses, we must now ask about the deeper purpose of these developments. Here, the sublime and highly celebrated art of Attic tragedy and dramatic dithyramb appears before us as their common goal. After many long struggles leading up to it, the mysterious union of these two impulses found its glorious fulfillment in such a child, who is both Antigone and Cassandra.