5

We now approach the real purpose of our investigation, which aims at acquiring a knowledge of the Dionyso-Apollonian genius and his art-work, or at least an anticipatory understanding of the mystery of the aforesaid union. Here we shall ask first of all where that new germ which subsequently developed into tragedy and dramatic dithyramb first makes itself perceptible in the Hellenic world. The ancients themselves supply the answer in symbolic form, when they place Homer and Archilochus as the forefathers and torch-bearers of Greek poetry side by side on gems, sculptures, etc., in the sure conviction that only these two thoroughly original compeers, from whom a stream of fire flows over the whole of Greek posterity, should be taken into consideration. Homer, the aged dreamer sunk in himself, the type of the Apollonian naïve artist, beholds now with astonishment the impassioned genius of the warlike votary of the muses, Archilochus, violently tossed to and fro on the billows of existence: and modern æsthetics could only add by way of interpretation, that here the "objective" artist is confronted by the first "subjective" artist. But this interpretation is of little service to us, because we know the subjective artist only as the poor artist, and in every type and elevation of art we demand specially and first of all the conquest of the Subjective, the redemption from the "ego" and the cessation of every individual will and desire; indeed, we find it impossible to believe in any truly artistic production, however insignificant, without objectivity, without pure, interestless contemplation. Hence our æsthetics must first solve the problem as to how the "lyrist" is possible as an artist: he who according to the experience of all ages continually says "I" and sings off to us the entire chromatic scale of his passions and desires. This very Archilochus appals us, alongside of Homer, by his cries of hatred and scorn, by the drunken outbursts of his desire. Is not just he then, who has been called the first subjective artist, the non-artist proper? But whence then the reverence which was shown to him—the poet—in very remarkable utterances by the Delphic oracle itself, the focus of "objective" art?

We now approach the real purpose of our investigation. We seek to understand the Dionyso-Apollonian genius and his work of art. Or at least we seek a preliminary understanding of the mystery of this union. First, we must ask where the new seed of tragedy and dramatic dithyramb first appeared in the Hellenic world. The ancients themselves give us an answer in symbolic form. On gems, sculptures, and other objects, they place Homer and Archilochus side by side as the forefathers and torchbearers of Greek poetry. They were certain that only these two equally original poets deserved consideration. From them, a stream of fire flows over all later Greek generations. Homer, the aged dreamer absorbed in himself, is the model of the Apollonian naïve artist. Now he gazes in astonishment at the passionate genius of Archilochus. This warlike devotee of the muses is violently tossed about on the waves of existence. Modern aesthetics could only interpret this encounter by saying that the "objective" artist faces the first "subjective" artist. But this interpretation is of little use to us. We know the subjective artist only as a poor artist. In every kind and degree of art, we demand above all that the Subjective be overcome. We demand freedom from the "ego" and an end to every individual will and desire. Indeed, we cannot believe that any truly artistic work, however slight, is possible without objectivity and pure, disinterested contemplation. Our aesthetics must therefore first solve the problem of how the "lyrist" can be an artist. Experience throughout the ages shows that the lyrist continually says "I" and sings the entire chromatic scale of his passions and desires to us. Beside Homer, Archilochus himself appalls us with his cries of hatred and scorn and the drunken outbursts of his desire. Is he not, then, the very opposite of an artist, though he has been called the first subjective artist? But why, then, did the Delphic oracle itself speak of him as a poet with such remarkable reverence? For the oracle was the center of "objective" art.

Schiller has enlightened us concerning his poetic procedure by a psychological observation, inexplicable to himself, yet not apparently open to any objection. He acknowledges that as the preparatory state to the act of poetising he had not perhaps before him or within him a series of pictures with co-ordinate causality of thoughts, but rather a musical mood ("The perception with me is at first without a clear and definite object; this forms itself later. A certain musical mood of mind precedes, and only after this does the poetical idea follow with me.") Add to this the most important phenomenon of all ancient lyric poetry, the union, regarded everywhere as natural, of the lyrist with the musician, their very identity, indeed,—compared with which our modern lyric poetry is like the statue of a god without a head,—and we may now, on the basis of our metaphysics of æsthetics set forth above, interpret the lyrist to ourselves as follows. As Dionysian artist he is in the first place become altogether one with the Primordial Unity, its pain and contradiction, and he produces the copy of this Primordial Unity as music, granting that music has been correctly termed a repetition and a recast of the world; but now, under the Apollonian dream-inspiration, this music again becomes visible to him as in a symbolic dream-picture. The formless and intangible reflection of the primordial pain in music, with its redemption in appearance, then generates a second mirroring as a concrete symbol or example. The artist has already surrendered his subjectivity in the Dionysian process: the picture which now shows to him his oneness with the heart of the world, is a dream-scene, which embodies the primordial contradiction and primordial pain, together with the primordial joy, of appearance. The "I" of the lyrist sounds therefore from the abyss of being: its "subjectivity," in the sense of the modern æsthetes, is a fiction. When Archilochus, the first lyrist of the Greeks, makes known both his mad love and his contempt to the daughters of Lycambes, it is not his passion which dances before us in orgiastic frenzy: we see Dionysus and the Mænads, we see the drunken reveller Archilochus sunk down to sleep—as Euripides depicts it in the Bacchæ, the sleep on the high Alpine pasture, in the noonday sun:—and now Apollo approaches and touches him with the laurel. The Dionyso-musical enchantment of the sleeper now emits, as it were, picture sparks, lyrical poems, which in their highest development are called tragedies and dramatic dithyrambs.

Schiller has shed light on his poetic process through a psychological observation. He could not explain it himself, yet it seems beyond dispute. He admits that, before writing poetry, he perhaps did not see or feel a series of images accompanied by logically connected thoughts. Instead, he experienced a musical mood: "My perception is at first without a clear and definite object. That takes shape later. A certain musical mood of mind comes first, and only after that does the poetic idea follow." To this we must add the most important feature of all ancient lyric poetry: the union of the lyric poet with the musician. Everywhere, this union was regarded as natural. Indeed, the poet and musician were one and the same. By comparison, our modern lyric poetry is like a statue of a god without a head. On the basis of our metaphysics of aesthetics set out above, we may now understand the lyric poet as follows. As a Dionysian artist, the poet first becomes entirely one with the Primordial Unity, its pain and contradiction. He reproduces this Primordial Unity as music, granting that music has rightly been called a repetition and a recasting of the world. But now, under Apollonian dream-inspiration, this music becomes visible to him as a symbolic dream-picture. Music reflects the primordial pain in a formless, intangible way, along with its redemption in appearance. This reflection then generates a second image, in the form of a concrete symbol or example. The artist has already surrendered his subjectivity in the Dionysian process. The picture that now reveals his oneness with the heart of the world is a dream scene. It embodies the primordial contradiction and primordial pain, together with the primordial joy of appearance. The "I" of the lyric poet therefore speaks from the abyss of being. Its "subjectivity," as modern aesthetes understand it, is a fiction. When Archilochus, the first Greek lyric poet, declares his mad love and contempt to the daughters of Lycambes, it is not his passion that dances before us in orgiastic frenzy. We see Dionysus and the Mænads. We see Archilochus, the drunken reveller, sunk in sleep. Euripides depicts this sleep in the Bacchæ, on a high Alpine pasture in the noonday sun. Now Apollo approaches and touches him with the laurel. The sleeper's Dionyso-musical enchantment now gives off, as it were, sparks of images: lyric poems. In their highest development, these are called tragedies and dramatic dithyrambs.

The plastic artist, as also the epic poet, who is related to him, is sunk in the pure contemplation of pictures. The Dionysian musician is, without any picture, himself just primordial pain and the primordial re-echoing thereof. The lyric genius is conscious of a world of pictures and symbols—growing out of the state of mystical self-abnegation and oneness,—which has a colouring causality and velocity quite different from that of the world of the plastic artist and epic poet. While the latter lives in these pictures, and only in them, with joyful satisfaction, and never grows tired of contemplating them with love, even in their minutest characters, while even the picture of the angry Achilles is to him but a picture, the angry expression of which he enjoys with the dream-joy in appearance—so that, by this mirror of appearance, he is guarded against being unified and blending with his figures;—the pictures of the lyrist on the other hand are nothing but his very self and, as it were, only different projections of himself, on account of which he as the moving centre of this world is entitled to say "I": only of course this self is not the same as that of the waking, empirically real man, but the only verily existent and eternal self resting at the basis of things, by means of the images whereof the lyric genius sees through even to this basis of things. Now let us suppose that he beholds himself also among these images as non-genius, i.e., his subject, the whole throng of subjective passions and impulses of the will directed to a definite object which appears real to him; if now it seems as if the lyric genius and the allied non-genius were one, and as if the former spoke that little word "I" of his own accord, this appearance will no longer be able to lead us astray, as it certainly led those astray who designated the lyrist as the subjective poet. In truth, Archilochus, the passionately inflamed, loving and hating man, is but a vision of the genius, who by this time is no longer Archilochus, but a genius of the world, who expresses his primordial pain symbolically in the figure of the man Archilochus: while the subjectively willing and desiring man, Archilochus, can never at any time be a poet. It is by no means necessary, however, that the lyrist should see nothing but the phenomenon of the man Archilochus before him as a reflection of eternal being; and tragedy shows how far the visionary world of the lyrist may depart from this phenomenon, to which, of course, it is most intimately related.

The visual artist and the related epic poet are absorbed in simply contemplating images. The Dionysian musician, by contrast, has no image. He is himself primordial pain and its primordial echo. The lyric genius becomes aware of a world of images and symbols arising from a state of mystical self-denial and oneness. Its color, causality, and speed are quite different from those in the world of the visual artist and epic poet. The visual artist and epic poet live in these images alone, taking joyful satisfaction in them. They never tire of contemplating them with love, even in their smallest details. Even the image of the angry Achilles is only an image to them. They enjoy its angry expression with the dreamlike joy of looking at an appearance. This mirror of appearance protects them from becoming one with their figures or merging with them. The lyric poet's images, on the other hand, are nothing but his very self, as if they were different projections of himself. He is the moving center of this world and is therefore entitled to say "I". Of course, this self is not the self of the waking, empirically real person. It is the one truly existent and eternal self that lies at the foundation of things. Through its images, the lyric genius sees all the way to that foundation. Now suppose that the lyric genius also sees himself among these images as a non-genius, i.e., as his subject. He sees the whole crowd of subjective passions and impulses of the will directed toward a particular object that seems real to him. The lyric genius and the non-genius associated with him may then seem to be one person. It may seem as if the genius says the little word "I" of his own accord. But this appearance can no longer mislead us. It certainly misled those who called the lyric poet a subjective poet. In truth, Archilochus, the passionately inflamed man who loves and hates, is only a vision of the genius. By this point, the genius is no longer Archilochus, but a genius of the world. He expresses his primordial pain symbolically in the figure of the man Archilochus. Archilochus as a man with subjective wishes and desires, however, can never be a poet. Yet the lyric poet need not see only the appearance of the man Archilochus as a reflection of eternal being. Tragedy shows how far the lyric poet's visionary world can depart from this appearance, although it is of course most intimately connected with it.

Schopenhauer, who did not shut his eyes to the difficulty presented by the lyrist in the philosophical contemplation of art, thought he had found a way out of it, on which, however, I cannot accompany him; while he alone, in his profound metaphysics of music, held in his hands the means whereby this difficulty could be definitely removed: as I believe I have removed it here in his spirit and to his honour. In contrast to our view, he describes the peculiar nature of song as follows⁴ (Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, I. 295):—"It is the subject of the will, i.e., his own volition, which fills the consciousness of the singer; often as an unbound and satisfied desire (joy), but still more often as a restricted desire (grief), always as an emotion, a passion, or an agitated frame of mind. Besides this, however, and along with it, by the sight of surrounding nature, the singer becomes conscious of himself as the subject of pure will-less knowing, the unbroken, blissful peace of which now appears, in contrast to the stress of desire, which is always restricted and always needy. The feeling of this contrast, this alternation, is really what the song as a whole expresses and what principally constitutes the lyrical state of mind. In it pure knowing comes to us as it were to deliver us from desire and the stress thereof: we follow, but only for an instant; for desire, the remembrance of our personal ends, tears us anew from peaceful contemplation; yet ever again the next beautiful surrounding in which the pure will-less knowledge presents itself to us, allures us away from desire. Therefore, in song and in the lyrical mood, desire (the personal interest of the ends) and the pure perception of the surrounding which presents itself, are wonderfully mingled with each other; connections between them are sought for and imagined; the subjective disposition, the affection of the will, imparts its own hue to the contemplated surrounding, and conversely, the surroundings communicate the reflex of their colour to the will. The true song is the expression of the whole of this mingled and divided state of mind."

Schopenhauer did not ignore the difficulty the lyric poet poses for a philosophical understanding of art. He thought he had found a way around it, but I cannot follow him there. Yet he alone, in his profound metaphysics of music, had the means to resolve the difficulty completely. I believe I have resolved it here in his spirit and to his honor. In contrast to my view, he describes the distinctive nature of song as follows⁴ (Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, I. 295): "The singer’s consciousness is filled by the subject of the will, that is, by his own desire. This desire is often free and satisfied (joy), but still more often restricted (grief). It is always an emotion, a passion, or an agitated state of mind. At the same time, however, the sight of nature around him makes the singer aware of himself as the subject of pure, will-free knowing. Its unbroken, blissful peace contrasts with the strain of desire, which is always restricted and always needy. "The song as a whole really expresses the feeling of this contrast and this alternation. These chiefly make up the lyrical state of mind. In this state, pure knowing comes to us, as if to free us from desire and its strain. We follow it, but only for an instant. For desire, the memory of our personal aims, tears us away from peaceful contemplation once more. Yet the next beautiful scene, in which pure, will-free knowledge appears to us, again and again draws us away from desire. "So, in song and in the lyrical mood, desire (our personal interest in our aims) is wonderfully mingled with pure perception of our surroundings. We seek and imagine connections between the two. Our subjective mood, the state of the will, gives its own color to the surroundings we contemplate. In turn, the surroundings reflect their color onto the will. The true song expresses the whole of this mixed and divided state of mind."

Who could fail to see in this description that lyric poetry is here characterised as an imperfectly attained art, which seldom and only as it were in leaps arrives at its goal, indeed, as a semi-art, the essence of which is said to consist in this, that desire and pure contemplation, i.e., the unæsthetic and the æsthetic condition, are wonderfully mingled with each other? We maintain rather, that this entire antithesis, according to which, as according to some standard of value, Schopenhauer, too, still classifies the arts, the antithesis between the subjective and the objective, is quite out of place in æsthetics, inasmuch as the subject i.e., the desiring individual who furthers his own egoistic ends, can be conceived only as the adversary, not as the origin of art. In so far as the subject is the artist, however, he has already been released from his individual will, and has become as it were the medium, through which the one verily existent Subject celebrates his redemption in appearance. For this one thing must above all be clear to us, to our humiliation and exaltation, that the entire comedy of art is not at all performed, say, for our betterment and culture, and that we are just as little the true authors of this art-world: rather we may assume with regard to ourselves, that its true author uses us as pictures and artistic projections, and that we have our highest dignity in our significance as works of art—for only as an æsthetic phenomenon is existence and the world eternally justified:—while of course our consciousness of this our specific significance hardly differs from the kind of consciousness which the soldiers painted on canvas have of the battle represented thereon. Hence all our knowledge of art is at bottom quite illusory, because, as knowing persons we are not one and identical with the Being who, as the sole author and spectator of this comedy of art, prepares a perpetual entertainment for himself. Only in so far as the genius in the act of artistic production coalesces with this primordial artist of the world, does he get a glimpse of the eternal essence of art, for in this state he is, in a marvellous manner, like the weird picture of the fairy-tale which can at will turn its eyes and behold itself; he is now at once subject and object, at once poet, actor, and spectator.

Who could fail to see how this description portrays lyric poetry? It presents lyric poetry as an imperfectly achieved art, which rarely reaches its goal, and then only in leaps. Indeed, it presents lyric poetry as a half-art. Its essence supposedly lies in a strange mixture of desire and pure contemplation, i.e., the non-aesthetic and the aesthetic states. We maintain, on the contrary, that this whole opposition between the subjective and the objective has no place in aesthetics. Schopenhauer still uses this opposition as a standard for classifying the arts. But the subject, i.e., the desiring individual who pursues selfish ends, can only be the enemy of art, not its source. To the extent that the subject is an artist, however, he has already been freed from his individual will. He has become a kind of medium through which the one truly existent Subject celebrates its redemption in appearance. Above all, one thing must be clear to us, to our humiliation and exaltation. The whole comedy of art is not performed for our improvement and education. Nor are we the true authors of this art-world. Rather, we may assume that its true author uses us as images and artistic projections. Our highest dignity lies in our significance as works of art. For existence and the world are eternally justified only as an aesthetic phenomenon. Of course, we are hardly more aware of this particular significance than soldiers painted on canvas are aware of the battle depicted there. Thus all our knowledge of art is ultimately illusory. For, as knowing beings, we are not one and the same as the Being who creates perpetual entertainment for himself. He alone is the author and spectator of this comedy of art. Only when the genius, in the act of artistic creation, becomes one with this primordial artist of the world does he glimpse the eternal essence of art. In this state, he is strangely like the magical picture in a fairy tale that can turn its eyes and look at itself at will. He is now both subject and object, both poet and actor and spectator.