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Whatever rises to the surface in the dialogue of the Apollonian part of Greek tragedy, appears simple, transparent, beautiful. In this sense the dialogue is a copy of the Hellene, whose nature reveals itself in the dance, because in the dance the greatest energy is merely potential, but betrays itself nevertheless in flexible and vivacious movements. The language of the Sophoclean heroes, for instance, surprises us by its Apollonian precision and clearness, so that we at once imagine we see into the innermost recesses of their being, and marvel not a little that the way to these recesses is so short. But if for the moment we disregard the character of the hero which rises to the surface and grows visible—and which at bottom is nothing but the light-picture cast on a dark wall, that is, appearance through and through,—if rather we enter into the myth which projects itself in these bright mirrorings, we shall of a sudden experience a phenomenon which bears a reverse relation to one familiar in optics. When, after a vigorous effort to gaze into the sun, we turn away blinded, we have dark-coloured spots before our eyes as restoratives, so to speak; while, on the contrary, those light-picture phenomena of the Sophoclean hero,—in short, the Apollonian of the mask,—are the necessary productions of a glance into the secret and terrible things of nature, as it were shining spots to heal the eye which dire night has seared. Only in this sense can we hope to be able to grasp the true meaning of the serious and significant notion of "Greek cheerfulness"; while of course we encounter the misunderstood notion of this cheerfulness, as resulting from a state of unendangered comfort, on all the ways and paths of the present time.

Whatever comes to the surface in the dialogue of the Apollonian part of Greek tragedy seems simple, clear, and beautiful. In this sense, the dialogue is a likeness of the Hellene, whose nature reveals itself in dance. In dance, the greatest energy remains potential, yet still shows itself in flexible and lively movements. The language of Sophocles' heroes, for example, surprises us with its Apollonian precision and clarity. We immediately imagine that we can see into the deepest parts of their being. We are more than a little amazed that the way there is so short. But suppose we set aside for a moment the hero's character as it rises to the surface and becomes visible. At bottom, this character is nothing but a picture of light cast on a dark wall. It is appearance through and through. Suppose instead that we enter the myth projected in these bright reflections. We will suddenly experience something that reverses a familiar optical phenomenon. When we turn away, blinded, after straining to gaze at the sun, dark spots appear before our eyes. These spots are, so to speak, a means of recovery. By contrast, the images of light that make up the Sophoclean hero, in short, the Apollonian aspect of the mask, are the necessary products of a glance into nature's secret and terrible things. They are, as it were, bright spots that heal the eye seared by dreadful night. Only in this sense can we hope to grasp the true meaning of the serious and significant idea of "Greek cheerfulness". Of course, everywhere we turn today, we encounter a misunderstood idea of this cheerfulness, as something arising from a state of comfort free from danger.

The most sorrowful figure of the Greek stage, the hapless Œdipus, was understood by Sophocles as the noble man, who in spite of his wisdom was destined to error and misery, but nevertheless through his extraordinary sufferings ultimately exerted a magical, wholesome influence on all around him, which continues effective even after his death. The noble man does not sin; this is what the thoughtful poet wishes to tell us: all laws, all natural order, yea, the moral world itself, may be destroyed through his action, but through this very action a higher magic circle of influences is brought into play, which establish a new world on the ruins of the old that has been overthrown. This is what the poet, in so far as he is at the same time a religious thinker, wishes to tell us: as poet, he shows us first of all a wonderfully complicated legal mystery, which the judge slowly unravels, link by link, to his own destruction. The truly Hellenic delight at this dialectical loosening is so great, that a touch of surpassing cheerfulness is thereby communicated to the entire play, which everywhere blunts the edge of the horrible presuppositions of the procedure. In the "Œdipus at Colonus" we find the same cheerfulness, elevated, however, to an infinite transfiguration: in contrast to the aged king, subjected to an excess of misery, and exposed solely as a sufferer to all that befalls him, we have here a supermundane cheerfulness, which descends from a divine sphere and intimates to us that in his purely passive attitude the hero attains his highest activity, the influence of which extends far beyond his life, while his earlier conscious musing and striving led him only to passivity. Thus, then, the legal knot of the fable of Œdipus, which to mortal eyes appears indissolubly entangled, is slowly unravelled—and the profoundest human joy comes upon us in the presence of this divine counterpart of dialectics. If this explanation does justice to the poet, it may still be asked whether the substance of the myth is thereby exhausted; and here it turns out that the entire conception of the poet is nothing but the light-picture which healing nature holds up to us after a glance into the abyss. Œdipus, the murderer of his father, the husband of his mother, Œdipus, the interpreter of the riddle of the Sphinx! What does the mysterious triad of these deeds of destiny tell us? There is a primitive popular belief, especially in Persia, that a wise Magian can be born only of incest: which we have forthwith to interpret to ourselves with reference to the riddle-solving and mother-marrying Œdipus, to the effect that when the boundary of the present and future, the rigid law of individuation and, in general, the intrinsic spell of nature, are broken by prophetic and magical powers, an extraordinary counter-naturalness—as, in this case, incest—must have preceded as a cause; for how else could one force nature to surrender her secrets but by victoriously opposing her, i.e., by means of the Unnatural? It is this intuition which I see imprinted in the awful triad of the destiny of Œdipus: the very man who solves the riddle of nature—that double-constituted Sphinx—must also, as the murderer of his father and husband of his mother, break the holiest laws of nature. Indeed, it seems as if the myth sought to whisper into our ears that wisdom, especially Dionysian wisdom, is an unnatural abomination, and that whoever, through his knowledge, plunges nature into an abyss of annihilation, must also experience the dissolution of nature in himself. "The sharpness of wisdom turns round upon the sage: wisdom is a crime against nature": such terrible expressions does the myth call out to us: but the Hellenic poet touches like a sunbeam the sublime and formidable Memnonian statue of the myth, so that it suddenly begins to sound—in Sophoclean melodies.

The most sorrowful figure on the Greek stage is the unfortunate Œdipus. Sophocles understood him as a noble man who, despite his wisdom, was destined for error and misery. Yet through his extraordinary suffering, he ultimately had a magical, healing influence on everyone around him. That influence continues even after his death. The noble man does not sin. This is what the thoughtful poet wants to tell us. His actions may destroy all laws, all natural order, even the moral world itself. But those same actions bring a higher magic circle of influences into play. These influences establish a new world on the ruins of the old one. This is what the poet wants to tell us as a religious thinker. As a poet, he first shows us a wonderfully complicated legal mystery. The judge slowly unravels it, link by link, bringing about his own destruction. The truly Hellenic delight in this logical unraveling is so great that it gives the whole play a touch of extraordinary cheerfulness. This cheerfulness softens the horror of the assumptions behind the proceedings. In "Œdipus at Colonus" we find the same cheerfulness, but raised to an infinite transfiguration. The aged king is subjected to extreme misery. He faces everything that happens to him solely as a sufferer. Against this stands an otherworldly cheerfulness that descends from a divine realm. It suggests that, in his purely passive state, the hero achieves his greatest activity. Its influence reaches far beyond his life. His earlier conscious thought and striving, by contrast, led him only to passivity. So the legal knot in the story of Œdipus is slowly untied, though to mortal eyes it seems impossible to untangle. We feel the deepest human joy as we witness this divine counterpart to logical reasoning. Even if this explanation does justice to the poet, we may still ask whether it captures everything in the myth. Here we find that the poet's whole conception is only the image that healing nature holds before us after a glance into the abyss. Œdipus, the murderer of his father, the husband of his mother, Œdipus, the solver of the Sphinx's riddle! What does this mysterious triad of fateful deeds tell us? There is an ancient popular belief, especially in Persia, that a wise Magian can be born only of incest. We must interpret this belief in relation to Œdipus, who solves the riddle and marries his mother. Prophetic and magical powers break the boundary between present and future, the rigid law of individuation, and nature's own spell. The belief suggests that an extraordinary act against nature, such as incest in this case, must first have caused this breach. For how else could one force nature to surrender her secrets, except by defeating her through the Unnatural? I see this insight imprinted in the terrible triad of Œdipus's fate. The very man who solves the riddle of nature, that Sphinx with its dual form, must also break nature's holiest laws by murdering his father and marrying his mother. Indeed, the myth seems to whisper that wisdom, especially Dionysian wisdom, is an unnatural abomination. It also seems to say that anyone who plunges nature into an abyss of annihilation through knowledge must experience the dissolution of nature within himself. "The sharpness of wisdom turns round upon the sage: wisdom is a crime against nature": the myth calls out these terrible words to us. But the Hellenic poet touches the sublime and formidable Memnonian statue of the myth like a sunbeam. Suddenly it begins to sound, in Sophoclean melodies.

With the glory of passivity I now contrast the glory of activity which illuminates the Prometheus of Æschylus. That which Æschylus the thinker had to tell us here, but which as a poet he only allows us to surmise by his symbolic picture, the youthful Goethe succeeded in disclosing to us in the daring words of his Prometheus:—

I now contrast the glory of passivity with the glory of activity that illuminates Æschylus’s Prometheus. As a thinker, Æschylus had something to tell us here. But as a poet, he lets us only guess at it through his symbolic image. The young Goethe succeeded in revealing it to us in the daring words of his Prometheus:

Man, elevating himself to the rank of the Titans, acquires his culture by his own efforts, and compels the gods to unite with him, because in his self-sufficient wisdom he has their existence and their limits in his hand. What is most wonderful, however, in this Promethean form, which according to its fundamental conception is the specific hymn of impiety, is the profound Æschylean yearning for justice: the untold sorrow of the bold "single-handed being" on the one hand, and the divine need, ay, the foreboding of a twilight of the gods, on the other, the power of these two worlds of suffering constraining to reconciliation, to metaphysical oneness—all this suggests most forcibly the central and main position of the Æschylean view of things, which sees Moira as eternal justice enthroned above gods and men. In view of the astonishing boldness with which Æschylus places the Olympian world on his scales of justice, it must be remembered that the deep-minded Greek had an immovably firm substratum of metaphysical thought in his mysteries, and that all his sceptical paroxysms could be discharged upon the Olympians. With reference to these deities, the Greek artist, in particular, had an obscure feeling as to mutual dependency: and it is just in the Prometheus of Æschylus that this feeling is symbolised. The Titanic artist found in himself the daring belief that he could create men and at least destroy Olympian deities: namely, by his superior wisdom, for which, to be sure, he had to atone by eternal suffering. The splendid "can-ing" of the great genius, bought too cheaply even at the price of eternal suffering, the stern pride of the artist: this is the essence and soul of Æschylean poetry, while Sophocles in his Œdipus preludingly strikes up the victory-song of the saint. But even this interpretation which Æschylus has given to the myth does not fathom its astounding depth of terror; the fact is rather that the artist's delight in unfolding, the cheerfulness of artistic creating bidding defiance to all calamity, is but a shining stellar and nebular image reflected in a black sea of sadness. The tale of Prometheus is an original possession of the entire Aryan family of races, and documentary evidence of their capacity for the profoundly tragic; indeed, it is not improbable that this myth has the same characteristic significance for the Aryan race that the myth of the fall of man has for the Semitic, and that there is a relationship between the two myths like that of brother and sister. The presupposition of the Promethean myth is the transcendent value which a naïve humanity attach to fire as the true palladium of every ascending culture: that man, however, should dispose at will of this fire, and should not receive it only as a gift from heaven, as the igniting lightning or the warming solar flame, appeared to the contemplative primordial men as crime and robbery of the divine nature. And thus the first philosophical problem at once causes a painful, irreconcilable antagonism between man and God, and puts as it were a mass of rock at the gate of every culture. The best and highest that men can acquire they obtain by a crime, and must now in their turn take upon themselves its consequences, namely the whole flood of sufferings and sorrows with which the offended celestials must visit the nobly aspiring race of man: a bitter reflection, which, by the dignity it confers on crime, contrasts strangely with the Semitic myth of the fall of man, in which curiosity, beguilement, seducibility, wantonness,—in short, a whole series of pre-eminently feminine passions,—were regarded as the origin of evil. What distinguishes the Aryan representation is the sublime view of active sin as the properly Promethean virtue, which suggests at the same time the ethical basis of pessimistic tragedy as the justification of human evil—of human guilt as well as of the suffering incurred thereby. The misery in the essence of things—which the contemplative Aryan is not disposed to explain away—the antagonism in the heart of the world, manifests itself to him as a medley of different worlds, for instance, a Divine and a human world, each of which is in the right individually, but as a separate existence alongside of another has to suffer for its individuation. With the heroic effort made by the individual for universality, in his attempt to pass beyond the bounds of individuation and become the one universal being, he experiences in himself the primordial contradiction concealed in the essence of things, i.e., he trespasses and suffers. Accordingly crime¹¹ is understood by the Aryans to be a man, sin¹² by the Semites a woman; as also, the original crime is committed by man, the original sin by woman. Besides, the witches' chorus says:

Man raises himself to the rank of the Titans and creates his culture through his own efforts. He compels the gods to join him because his self-sufficient wisdom holds their existence and their limits in its grasp. Yet the most wonderful thing about this Promethean form is its profound Æschylean longing for justice. In its basic conception, it is a distinct hymn to impiety. On one side is the immense sorrow of the bold "single-handed being". On the other is divine necessity, even the foreboding of a twilight of the gods. The power of these two suffering worlds forces them toward reconciliation, toward metaphysical unity. All this strongly suggests the central principle of the Æschylean view. It sees Moira as eternal justice, enthroned above gods and men. Æschylus judges the Olympian world on his scales of justice with astonishing boldness. We must remember, however, that the deep-thinking Greek had a solid foundation of metaphysical thought in his mysteries. He could direct all his outbursts of skepticism at the Olympians. The Greek artist in particular had a vague sense that he and these gods depended on each other. It is precisely this feeling that Æschylus symbolizes in Prometheus. The Titanic artist found within himself the daring belief that he could create men and at least destroy Olympian gods. He could do this through his superior wisdom, though he had to atone for it with eternal suffering. The great genius's splendid "can-ing" was bought too cheaply, even at the price of eternal suffering. This power, along with the stern pride of the artist, is the essence and soul of Æschylean poetry. Sophocles, by contrast, begins to sound the victory song of the saint in his Œdipus. Yet even Æschylus's interpretation of the myth does not reach its astonishing depth of terror. Rather, the artist delights in developing the myth. The cheerfulness of artistic creation defies all calamity. But this delight and cheerfulness are only a shining image of stars and nebulae reflected in a black sea of sadness. The tale of Prometheus is an original possession of the entire Aryan family of races. It is documentary evidence of their capacity for the profoundly tragic. Indeed, the myth may well have the same characteristic significance for the Aryan race as the myth of the fall of man has for the Semitic. The two myths may be related like brother and sister. The Promethean myth assumes that a naïve humanity places supreme value on fire. Fire is the true safeguard of every rising culture. Yet early contemplative men saw it as a crime and a theft from divine nature for man to control fire at will. They thought he should receive fire only as a gift from heaven, as lightning that kindles or as the warming flame of the sun. Thus the first philosophical problem immediately creates a painful, irreconcilable conflict between man and God. It places, as it were, a mass of rock at the gate of every culture. Men obtain the best and highest things they can acquire through a crime. In turn, they must bear its consequences. These are the whole flood of suffering and sorrow that the offended heavenly beings must inflict on the nobly aspiring race of man. This is a bitter reflection. By giving crime dignity, it contrasts strangely with the Semitic myth of the fall of man. That myth sees curiosity, deception, susceptibility to seduction, and wantonness as the origin of evil. In short, it sees the origin of evil in a whole series of preeminently feminine passions. What distinguishes the Aryan representation is its sublime view of active sin as the true Promethean virtue. This view also suggests the ethical basis of pessimistic tragedy: the justification of human evil, both human guilt and the suffering it brings. The contemplative Aryan is not inclined to explain away the misery at the heart of things. To him, the conflict at the heart of the world appears as a mixture of different worlds. The divine world and the human world, for example, are each right in themselves. Yet each must suffer for its individuation, because it exists separately alongside the other. The individual makes a heroic effort to reach universality. He tries to pass beyond the bounds of individuation and become the one universal being. In doing so, he experiences within himself the primal contradiction hidden in the essence of things. That is, he commits a trespass and suffers. Accordingly, the Aryans understand crime¹¹ to be a man, while the Semites understand sin¹² to be a woman. Likewise, man commits the original crime, while woman commits the original sin. Besides, the witches' chorus says:

He who understands this innermost core of the tale of Prometheus—namely the necessity of crime imposed on the titanically striving individual—will at once be conscious of the un-Apollonian nature of this pessimistic representation: for Apollo seeks to pacify individual beings precisely by drawing boundary lines between them, and by again and again calling attention thereto, with his requirements of self-knowledge and due proportion, as the holiest laws of the universe. In order, however, to prevent the form from congealing to Egyptian rigidity and coldness in consequence of this Apollonian tendency, in order to prevent the extinction of the motion of the entire lake in the effort to prescribe to the individual wave its path and compass, the high tide of the Dionysian tendency destroyed from time to time all the little circles in which the one-sided Apollonian "will" sought to confine the Hellenic world. The suddenly swelling tide of the Dionysian then takes the separate little wave-mountains of individuals on its back, just as the brother of Prometheus, the Titan Atlas, does with the earth. This Titanic impulse, to become as it were the Atlas of all individuals, and to carry them on broad shoulders higher and higher, farther and farther, is what the Promethean and the Dionysian have in common. In this respect the Æschylean Prometheus is a Dionysian mask, while, in the afore-mentioned profound yearning for justice, Æschylus betrays to the intelligent observer his paternal descent from Apollo, the god of individuation and of the boundaries of justice. And so the double-being of the Æschylean Prometheus, his conjoint Dionysian and Apollonian nature, might be thus expressed in an abstract formula: "Whatever exists is alike just and unjust, and equally justified in both."

Anyone who understands the innermost core of the tale of Prometheus will immediately recognize its pessimistic vision as un-Apollonian. At its core is the necessity of crime imposed on the titanically striving individual. Apollo seeks to calm individual beings by drawing boundaries between them. He repeatedly calls attention to these boundaries through his demands for self-knowledge and due proportion, the holiest laws of the universe. But this Apollonian tendency might have caused form to harden into Egyptian rigidity and coldness. In trying to prescribe a path and range for each wave, it might have stopped the motion of the entire lake. To prevent this, the rising tide of the Dionysian tendency periodically destroyed all the little circles in which the one-sided Apollonian "will" sought to confine the Hellenic world. The suddenly swelling Dionysian tide then carries the separate little wave-mountains of individuals on its back. It does so just as the Titan Atlas, the brother of Prometheus, carries the earth. The Promethean and the Dionysian share this Titanic impulse. Each seeks to become, as it were, the Atlas of all individuals, carrying them on broad shoulders higher and higher, farther and farther. In this respect, the Prometheus of Æschylus is a Dionysian mask. But in his profound yearning for justice, mentioned above, Æschylus reveals his paternal descent from Apollo to the discerning observer. Apollo is the god of individuation and of the boundaries of justice. Thus the double nature of the Prometheus of Æschylus, both Dionysian and Apollonian, might be expressed in an abstract formula: "Whatever exists is alike just and unjust, and equally justified in both."