An Attempt at Self-Criticism

Whatever may lie at the bottom of this doubtful book must be a question of the first rank and attractiveness, moreover a deeply personal question,—in proof thereof observe the time in which it originated, in spite of which it originated, the exciting period of the Franco-German war of 1870-71. While the thunder of the battle of Wörth rolled over Europe, the ruminator and riddle-lover, who had to be the parent of this book, sat somewhere in a nook of the Alps, lost in riddles and ruminations, consequently very much concerned and unconcerned at the same time, and wrote down his meditations on the Greeks,—the kernel of the curious and almost inaccessible book, to which this belated prologue (or epilogue) is to be devoted. A few weeks later: and he found himself under the walls of Metz, still wrestling with the notes of interrogation he had set down concerning the alleged "cheerfulness" of the Greeks and of Greek art; till at last, in that month of deep suspense, when peace was debated at Versailles, he too attained to peace with himself, and, slowly recovering from a disease brought home from the field, made up his mind definitely regarding the "Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music."—From music? Music and Tragedy? Greeks and tragic music? Greeks and the Art-work of pessimism? A race of men, well-fashioned, beautiful, envied, life-inspiring, like no other race hitherto, the Greeks—indeed? The Greeks were in need of tragedy? Yea—of art? Wherefore—Greek art?...

Whatever lies at the heart of this doubtful book must be a question of the highest importance and appeal. It must also be deeply personal. As proof, consider when it was written, and in spite of what: the tumultuous Franco-German war of 1870-71. As the thunder of the battle of Wörth rolled across Europe, the thinker and lover of riddles who would write this book sat somewhere in a corner of the Alps. Lost in riddles and reflections, he was deeply concerned and unconcerned at the same time. He wrote down his thoughts on the Greeks. These formed the core of the curious, almost inaccessible book to which this belated prologue (or epilogue) is devoted. A few weeks later, he found himself beneath the walls of Metz. He was still wrestling with the questions he had raised about the supposed "cheerfulness" of the Greeks and Greek art. At last, during that month of deep suspense when peace was being debated at Versailles, he too made peace with himself. Slowly recovering from an illness brought home from the battlefield, he finally made up his mind about the "Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music." From music? Music and Tragedy? Greeks and tragic music? Greeks and the artwork of pessimism? The Greeks, a race of men more finely formed, beautiful, envied, and inspiring of life than any other race before them, really? Did the Greeks need tragedy? Yes, and art? Why Greek art?...

We can thus guess where the great note of interrogation concerning the value of existence had been set. Is pessimism necessarily the sign of decline, of decay, of failure, of exhausted and weakened instincts?—as was the case with the Indians, as is, to all appearance, the case with us "modern" men and Europeans? Is there a pessimism of strength? An intellectual predilection for what is hard, awful, evil, problematical in existence, owing to well-being, to exuberant health, to fullness of existence? Is there perhaps suffering in overfullness itself? A seductive fortitude with the keenest of glances, which yearns for the terrible, as for the enemy, the worthy enemy, with whom it may try its strength? from whom it is willing to learn what "fear" is? What means tragic myth to the Greeks of the best, strongest, bravest era? And the prodigious phenomenon of the Dionysian? And that which was born thereof, tragedy?—And again: that of which tragedy died, the Socratism of morality, the dialectics, contentedness and cheerfulness of the theoretical man—indeed? might not this very Socratism be a sign of decline, of weariness, of disease, of anarchically disintegrating instincts? And the "Hellenic cheerfulness" of the later Hellenism merely a glowing sunset? The Epicurean will counter to pessimism merely a precaution of the sufferer? And science itself, our science—ay, viewed as a symptom of life, what really signifies all science? Whither, worse still, whence—all science? Well? Is scientism perhaps only fear and evasion of pessimism? A subtle defence against—truth! Morally speaking, something like falsehood and cowardice? And, unmorally speaking, an artifice? O Socrates, Socrates, was this perhaps thy secret? Oh mysterious ironist, was this perhaps thine—irony?...

We can therefore guess where the great question mark was placed over the value of existence. Is pessimism necessarily a sign of decline, decay, failure, and exhausted and weakened instincts? This was the case with the Indians. It also seems to be the case with us "modern" men and Europeans. Is there a pessimism of strength? Can well-being, exuberant health, and the fullness of existence make the mind drawn to what is hard, awful, evil, and troubling in life? Is there perhaps suffering in having too much? Is there a seductive courage with the sharpest vision that yearns for the terrible as an enemy? A worthy enemy against which it can test its strength? An enemy from which it is willing to learn what "fear" is? What does tragic myth mean to the Greeks of their best, strongest, bravest era? And what does the extraordinary phenomenon of the Dionysian mean? And what of tragedy, which was born from it? And again, what of the things that killed tragedy? The Socratism of morality, dialectics, and the contentment and cheerfulness of the theoretical man? Could this very Socratism be a sign of decline, weariness, disease, and instincts breaking apart in chaos? Could the "Hellenic cheerfulness" of later Hellenism be merely a glowing sunset? Could the Epicurean will against pessimism be merely a precaution taken by someone who suffers? And science itself, our science, what does all science really mean when viewed as a symptom of life? Where is all science going? Worse still, where does it come from? Well? Is scientism perhaps only fear of pessimism and an escape from it? A subtle defense against truth! Morally speaking, is it something like falsehood and cowardice? And, speaking without regard to morality, is it a trick? O Socrates, Socrates, was this perhaps your secret? Oh mysterious ironist, was this perhaps your irony?...

What I then laid hands on, something terrible and dangerous, a problem with horns, not necessarily a bull itself, but at all events a new problem: I should say to-day it was the problem of science itself—science conceived for the first time as problematic, as questionable. But the book, in which my youthful ardour and suspicion then discharged themselves—what an impossible book must needs grow out of a task so disagreeable to youth. Constructed of nought but precocious, unripened self-experiences, all of which lay close to the threshold of the communicable, based on the groundwork of art—for the problem of science cannot be discerned on the groundwork of science,—a book perhaps for artists, with collateral analytical and retrospective aptitudes (that is, an exceptional kind of artists, for whom one must seek and does not even care to seek ...), full of psychological innovations and artists' secrets, with an artists' metaphysics in the background, a work of youth, full of youth's mettle and youth's melancholy, independent, defiantly self-sufficient even when it seems to bow to some authority and self-veneration; in short, a firstling-work, even in every bad sense of the term; in spite of its senile problem, affected with every fault of youth, above all with youth's prolixity and youth's "storm and stress": on the other hand, in view of the success it had (especially with the great artist to whom it addressed itself, as it were, in a duologue, Richard Wagner) a demonstrated book, I mean a book which, at any rate, sufficed "for the best of its time." On this account, if for no other reason, it should be treated with some consideration and reserve; yet I shall not altogether conceal how disagreeable it now appears to me, how after sixteen years it stands a total stranger before me,—before an eye which is more mature, and a hundred times more fastidious, but which has by no means grown colder nor lost any of its interest in that self-same task essayed for the first time by this daring book,—to view science through the optics of the artist, and art moreover through the optics of life....

What I seized upon then was something terrible and dangerous, a problem with horns. It was not necessarily a bull, but it was certainly a new problem. Today I would call it the problem of science itself. For the first time, science was understood as a problem, as something open to question. But what an impossible book must have come from that task, so ill suited to youth! My youthful passion and suspicion poured themselves out in it. The book was built entirely from premature, immature personal experiences, all of them close to the limits of what can be communicated. It was based on art, because the problem of science cannot be seen from the standpoint of science. Perhaps it was a book for artists who also had a gift for analysis and reflection. Those are exceptional artists, the kind one must search for and does not even care to search for ... The book was full of psychological discoveries and artists' secrets, with an artist's metaphysics in the background. It was a work of youth, full of youthful spirit and melancholy. It was independent, defiantly self-sufficient and self-worshipping, even when it seemed to bow to some authority. In short, it was a first book, even in every bad sense of the term. Despite its old person's problem, it had every fault of youth, above all youth's wordiness and its "storm and stress". On the other hand, its success made it a proven book. This was especially true of its success with Richard Wagner, the great artist to whom it addressed itself, as if in a dialogue. I mean that, at any rate, the book was good enough "for the best of its time." If for no other reason, it deserves to be treated with some consideration and restraint. Yet I will not entirely hide how unpleasant it now seems to me. After sixteen years, it stands before me as a total stranger. My eye is more mature and a hundred times more discerning. But it has by no means grown colder or lost any interest in the very task this daring book first attempted: to view science through the eyes of the artist, and art in turn through the eyes of life....

I say again, to-day it is an impossible book to me,—I call it badly written, heavy, painful, image-angling and image-entangling, maudlin, sugared at times even to femininism, uneven in tempo, void of the will to logical cleanliness, very convinced and therefore rising above the necessity of demonstration, distrustful even of the propriety of demonstration, as being a book for initiates, as "music" for those who are baptised with the name of Music, who are united from the beginning of things by common ties of rare experiences in art, as a countersign for blood-relations in artibus.—a haughty and fantastic book, which from the very first withdraws even more from the profanum vulgus of the "cultured" than from the "people," but which also, as its effect has shown and still shows, knows very well how to seek fellow-enthusiasts and lure them to new by-ways and dancing-grounds. Here, at any rate—thus much was acknowledged with curiosity as well as with aversion—a strange voice spoke, the disciple of a still "unknown God," who for the time being had hidden himself under the hood of the scholar, under the German's gravity and disinclination for dialectics, even under the bad manners of the Wagnerian; here was a spirit with strange and still nameless needs, a memory bristling with questions, experiences and obscurities, beside which stood the name Dionysos like one more note of interrogation; here spoke—people said to themselves with misgivings— something like a mystic and almost mænadic soul, which, undecided whether it should disclose or conceal itself, stammers with an effort and capriciously as in a strange tongue. It should have sung, this "new soul"—and not spoken! What a pity, that I did not dare to say what I then had to say, as a poet: I could have done so perhaps! Or at least as a philologist:—for even at the present day well-nigh everything in this domain remains to be discovered and disinterred by the philologist! Above all the problem, that here there is a problem before us,—and that, so long as we have no answer to the question "what is Dionysian?" the Greeks are now as ever wholly unknown and inconceivable....

I say again, today I find this book impossible. I call it badly written, heavy and painful. It fishes for images and tangles them together. It is sentimental, at times so sweet as to be even feminine. Its pace is uneven, and it shows no desire for logical clarity. It is utterly convinced of its views and therefore feels no need to prove them. It even doubts the propriety of proving them. It is a book for initiates, “music” for those baptized in the name of Music. They have been bound together from the beginning by shared, rare experiences of art. The book is a password for blood relatives in artibus. It is a proud and fanciful book. From the start, it keeps its distance from the profanum vulgus of the “cultured” even more than from the “people.” Yet, as its effect has shown and still shows, it knows how to find fellow enthusiasts. It lures them onto new side paths and dancing grounds. At any rate, people recognized one thing here, with curiosity as well as aversion. A strange voice was speaking, the voice of a disciple of a still “unknown God.” For the time being, this disciple had hidden himself beneath the scholar’s hood. He had hidden beneath the German’s seriousness and dislike of dialectic, and even beneath the Wagnerian’s bad manners. Here was a spirit with strange and still unnamed needs. Here was a memory bristling with questions, experiences and obscurities. Beside them stood the name Dionysos, like another question mark. Here, people said to themselves with misgivings, spoke something like a mystical and almost maenadic soul. It could not decide whether to reveal or conceal itself. It stammered with effort and on impulse, as if speaking a strange language. This “new soul” should have sung, not spoken! What a pity that I did not dare to say what I then had to say as a poet. Perhaps I could have done it! Or at least I could have spoken as a philologist. For even today, almost everything in this field remains for the philologist to discover and dig up! Above all, there is the problem of recognizing that we have a problem here. As long as we have no answer to the question “what is Dionysian?” the Greeks remain, now as ever, wholly unknown and inconceivable....

Ay, what is Dionysian?—In this book may be found an answer,—a "knowing one" speaks here, the votary and disciple of his god. Perhaps I should now speak more guardedly and less eloquently of a psychological question so difficult as the origin of tragedy among the Greeks. A fundamental question is the relation of the Greek to pain, his degree of sensibility,—did this relation remain constant? or did it veer about?—the question, whether his ever-increasing longing for beauty, for festivals, gaieties, new cults, did really grow out of want, privation, melancholy, pain? For suppose even this to be true—and Pericles (or Thucydides) intimates as much in the great Funeral Speech:—whence then the opposite longing, which appeared first in the order of time, the longing for the ugly, the good, resolute desire of the Old Hellene for pessimism, for tragic myth, for the picture of all that is terrible, evil, enigmatical, destructive, fatal at the basis of existence,—whence then must tragedy have sprung? Perhaps from joy, from strength, from exuberant health, from over-fullness. And what then, physiologically speaking, is the meaning of that madness, out of which comic as well as tragic art has grown, the Dionysian madness? What? perhaps madness is not necessarily the symptom of degeneration, of decline, of belated culture? Perhaps there are—a question for alienists—neuroses of health? of folk-youth and youthfulness? What does that synthesis of god and goat in the Satyr point to? What self-experience what "stress," made the Greek think of the Dionysian reveller and primitive man as a satyr? And as regards the origin of the tragic chorus: perhaps there were endemic ecstasies in the eras when the Greek body bloomed and the Greek soul brimmed over with life? Visions and hallucinations, which took hold of entire communities, entire cult-assemblies? What if the Greeks in the very wealth of their youth had the will to be tragic and were pessimists? What if it was madness itself, to use a word of Plato's, which brought the greatest blessings upon Hellas? And what if, on the other hand and conversely, at the very time of their dissolution and weakness, the Greeks became always more optimistic, more superficial, more histrionic, also more ardent for logic and the logicising of the world,—consequently at the same time more "cheerful" and more "scientific"? Ay, despite all "modern ideas" and prejudices of the democratic taste, may not the triumph of optimism, the common sense that has gained the upper hand, the practical and theoretical utilitarianism, like democracy itself, with which it is synchronous—be symptomatic of declining vigour, of approaching age, of physiological weariness? And not at all—pessimism? Was Epicurus an optimist—because a sufferer?... We see it is a whole bundle of weighty questions which this book has taken upon itself,—let us not fail to add its weightiest question! Viewed through the optics of life, what is the meaning of—morality?...

Yes, what is Dionysian? In this book, an answer can be found. A "knowing one" speaks here, a devotee and disciple of his god. Today I might speak more cautiously and less eloquently about so difficult a psychological question as the origin of Greek tragedy. One fundamental question concerns the Greek and his relation to pain, his degree of sensitivity. Did this relation remain constant, or did it change? Did his ever-growing longing for beauty, for festivals, gaieties, and new cults, really grow out of need, deprivation, melancholy, and pain? Suppose this were true. Pericles (or Thucydides) suggests as much in the great Funeral Speech. What, then, gave rise to the opposite longing, which came first? I mean the longing for the ugly, the good, determined desire of the Old Hellene for pessimism and tragic myth. It was a desire for a picture of all that is terrible, evil, mysterious, destructive, and fatal at the foundation of existence. Where, then, must tragedy have come from? Perhaps from joy, from strength, from overflowing health, from an abundance of life. And what, in physiological terms, is the meaning of the madness from which both comic and tragic art have grown? What is the meaning of Dionysian madness? What? Perhaps madness is not necessarily a symptom of degeneration, decline, or a culture in its late stages? Perhaps there are, a question for psychiatrists, neuroses of health? Neuroses of a people's youth and youthful vigor? What does the fusion of god and goat in the Satyr suggest? What personal experience, what "stress," led the Greek to imagine the Dionysian reveler and primitive man as a satyr? And what about the origin of the tragic chorus? Perhaps ecstasies swept through communities in the times when the Greek body flourished and the Greek soul overflowed with life? Perhaps visions and hallucinations seized entire communities, entire gatherings of worshippers? What if the Greeks, in the very abundance of their youth, had the will to be tragic and were pessimists? What if madness itself, to use Plato's word, brought the greatest blessings upon Hellas? And what if, conversely, as the Greeks declined and grew weak, they became increasingly optimistic, superficial, and theatrical? What if they also became more eager for logic and for making the world conform to logic? And so, at the same time, more "cheerful" and more "scientific"? Yes, despite all "modern ideas" and prejudices of democratic taste, might the triumph of optimism be a symptom of declining vigor, approaching age, and physical exhaustion? Might the same be true of the common sense that has gained the upper hand? And of practical and theoretical utilitarianism? And of democracy itself, which arose at the same time? And might pessimism not be such a symptom at all? Was Epicurus an optimist because he was a sufferer?... We see that this book has taken on a whole bundle of weighty questions. Let us not forget to add its weightiest question! Seen through the lens of life, what is the meaning of morality?...

Already in the foreword to Richard Wagner, art—-and not morality—is set down as the properly metaphysical activity of man; in the book itself the piquant proposition recurs time and again, that the existence of the world is justified only as an æsthetic phenomenon. Indeed, the entire book recognises only an artist-thought and artist-after-thought behind all occurrences,—a "God," if you will, but certainly only an altogether thoughtless and unmoral artist-God, who, in construction as in destruction, in good as in evil, desires to become conscious of his own equable joy and sovereign glory; who, in creating worlds, frees himself from the anguish of fullness and overfullness, from the suffering of the contradictions concentrated within him. The world, that is, the redemption of God attained at every moment, as the perpetually changing, perpetually new vision of the most suffering, most antithetical, most contradictory being, who contrives to redeem himself only in appearance: this entire artist-metaphysics, call it arbitrary, idle, fantastic, if you will,—the point is, that it already betrays a spirit, which is determined some day, at all hazards, to make a stand against the moral interpretation and significance of life. Here, perhaps for the first time, a pessimism "Beyond Good and Evil" announces itself, here that "perverseness of disposition" obtains expression and formulation, against which Schopenhauer never grew tired of hurling beforehand his angriest imprecations and thunderbolts,—a philosophy which dares to put, derogatorily put, morality itself in the world of phenomena, and not only among "phenomena" (in the sense of the idealistic terminus technicus), but among the "illusions," as appearance, semblance, error, interpretation, accommodation, art. Perhaps the depth of this antimoral tendency may be best estimated from the guarded and hostile silence with which Christianity is treated throughout this book,—Christianity, as being the most extravagant burlesque of the moral theme to which mankind has hitherto been obliged to listen. In fact, to the purely æsthetic world-interpretation and justification taught in this book, there is no greater antithesis than the Christian dogma, which is only and will be only moral, and which, with its absolute standards, for instance, its truthfulness of God, relegates—that is, disowns, convicts, condemns—art, all art, to the realm of falsehood. Behind such a mode of thought and valuation, which, if at all genuine, must be hostile to art, I always experienced what was hostile to life, the wrathful, vindictive counterwill to life itself: for all life rests on appearance, art, illusion, optics, necessity of perspective and error. From the very first Christianity was, essentially and thoroughly, the nausea and surfeit of Life for Life, which only disguised, concealed and decked itself out under the belief in "another" or "better" life. The hatred of the "world," the curse on the affections, the fear of beauty and sensuality, another world, invented for the purpose of slandering this world the more, at bottom a longing for. Nothingness, for the end, for rest, for the "Sabbath of Sabbaths"—all this, as also the unconditional will of Christianity to recognise only moral values, has always appeared to me as the most dangerous and ominous of all possible forms of a "will to perish"; at the least, as the symptom of a most fatal disease, of profoundest weariness, despondency, exhaustion, impoverishment of life,—for before the tribunal of morality (especially Christian, that is, unconditional morality) life must constantly and inevitably be the loser, because life is something essentially unmoral,—indeed, oppressed with the weight of contempt and the everlasting No, life must finally be regarded as unworthy of desire, as in itself unworthy. Morality itself what?—may not morality be a "will to disown life," a secret instinct for annihilation, a principle of decay, of depreciation, of slander, a beginning of the end? And, consequently, the danger of dangers?... It was against morality, therefore, that my instinct, as an intercessory-instinct for life, turned in this questionable book, inventing for itself a fundamental counter—dogma and counter-valuation of life, purely artistic, purely anti-Christian. What should I call it? As a philologist and man of words I baptised it, not without some liberty—for who could be sure of the proper name of the Antichrist?—with the name of a Greek god: I called it Dionysian.

In the foreword to Richard Wagner, art, not morality, is already presented as humanity’s true metaphysical activity. Throughout the book, the provocative claim returns again and again that the world’s existence is justified only as an aesthetic phenomenon. Indeed, the book sees only an artist’s thought and afterthought behind everything that happens. This artist is a "God," if you like, but certainly an utterly thoughtless and amoral artist-God. In creating and destroying, in good and evil, he wants to become aware of his own constant joy and sovereign glory. By creating worlds, he frees himself from the anguish of fullness and overfullness and from the suffering of the contradictions concentrated within him. The world, then, is God’s redemption, achieved at every moment. It is the endlessly changing, endlessly new vision of the most suffering, most divided, most contradictory being. This being manages to redeem himself only in appearance. Call this whole artist-metaphysics arbitrary, pointless, or fantastic, if you like. The point is that it already reveals a spirit determined to stand against the moral interpretation and meaning of life someday, whatever the cost. Here, perhaps for the first time, a pessimism "Beyond Good and Evil" announces itself. Here that "perverseness of disposition" finds expression and form. Schopenhauer never tired of hurling his angriest curses and thunderbolts against it in advance. This philosophy dares to place morality itself, and to place it disparagingly, in the world of phenomena. It places morality not only among "phenomena" (in the sense of the idealist technical term), but among the "illusions": as appearance, semblance, error, interpretation, adaptation, art. Perhaps we can best judge the depth of this antimoral tendency by the guarded, hostile silence surrounding Christianity throughout the book. Christianity is the most extravagant parody of the moral theme that humanity has ever been forced to hear. Indeed, nothing could be more opposed to the purely aesthetic interpretation and justification of the world taught in this book than Christian dogma. Christian dogma is only moral and always will be. With its absolute standards, such as the truthfulness of God, it banishes art, all art, to the realm of falsehood. That is, it disowns, convicts, and condemns art. Behind such a way of thinking and judging, which must be hostile to art if it is genuine at all, I always sensed something hostile to life. I sensed an angry, vindictive will set against life itself. For all life rests on appearance, art, illusion, optics, and the necessity of perspective and error. From the very first, Christianity was, essentially and thoroughly, life’s disgust and weariness with itself. It merely disguised, concealed, and dressed up this disgust in the belief in "another" or "better" life. There is the hatred of the "world," the curse on the affections, and the fear of beauty and sensuality. There is another world, invented to slander this world all the more. At bottom, there is a longing for Nothingness, for the end, for rest, for the "Sabbath of Sabbaths". All this, along with Christianity’s absolute determination to recognize only moral values, has always seemed to me the most dangerous and ominous of all possible forms of a "will to perish". At the very least, it seems a symptom of a most deadly disease, of the deepest weariness, despair, exhaustion, and impoverishment of life. For before the tribunal of morality, especially Christian morality, which is unconditional, life must always and inevitably lose, because life is essentially amoral. Indeed, weighed down by contempt and the everlasting No, life must finally be seen as undesirable, as unworthy in itself. And morality itself? Might morality be a "will to disown life," a secret instinct for annihilation? Might it be a principle of decay, devaluation, and slander, a beginning of the end? And, consequently, the danger of dangers?... In this questionable book, then, my instinct turned against morality as an instinct pleading for life. It invented a fundamental counter-dogma and counter-valuation of life, one that was purely artistic, purely anti-Christian. What should I call it? As a philologist and a man of words, I named it after a Greek god. I took some liberty in doing so, for who could be sure of the proper name of the Antichrist? I called it Dionysian.

You see which problem I ventured to touch upon in this early work?... How I now regret, that I had not then the courage (or immodesty?) to allow myself, in all respects, the use of an individual language for such individual contemplations and ventures in the field of thought—that I laboured to express, in Kantian and Schopenhauerian formulæ, strange and new valuations, which ran fundamentally counter to the spirit of Kant and Schopenhauer, as well as to their taste! What, forsooth, were Schopenhauer's views on tragedy? "What gives"—he says in Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, II. 495—"to all tragedy that singular swing towards elevation, is the awakening of the knowledge that the world, that life, cannot satisfy us thoroughly, and consequently is not worthy of our attachment In this consists the tragic spirit: it therefore leads to resignation." Oh, how differently Dionysos spoke to me! Oh how far from me then was just this entire resignationism!—But there is something far worse in this book, which I now regret even more than having obscured and spoiled Dionysian anticipations with Schopenhauerian formulæ: to wit, that, in general, I spoiled the grand Hellenic problem, as it had opened up before me, by the admixture of the most modern things! That I entertained hopes, where nothing was to be hoped for, where everything pointed all-too-clearly to an approaching end! That, on the basis of our latter-day German music, I began to fable about the "spirit of Teutonism," as if it were on the point of discovering and returning to itself,—ay, at the very time that the German spirit which not so very long before had had the will to the lordship over Europe, the strength to lead and govern Europe, testamentarily and conclusively resigned and, under the pompous pretence of empire-founding, effected its transition to mediocritisation, democracy, and "modern ideas." In very fact, I have since learned to regard this "spirit of Teutonism" as something to be despaired of and unsparingly treated, as also our present German music, which is Romanticism through and through and the most un-Grecian of all possible forms of art: and moreover a first-rate nerve-destroyer, doubly dangerous for a people given to drinking and revering the unclear as a virtue, namely, in its twofold capacity of an intoxicating and stupefying narcotic. Of course, apart from all precipitate hopes and faulty applications to matters specially modern, with which I then spoiled my first book, the great Dionysian note of interrogation, as set down therein, continues standing on and on, even with reference to music: how must we conceive of a music, which is no longer of Romantic origin, like the German; but of Dionysian?...

You can see which problem I ventured to explore in this early work?... How I now regret that I lacked the courage (or the immodesty?) to use an entirely individual language for such individual reflections and intellectual ventures! Instead, I labored to express strange new values in Kantian and Schopenhauerian formulas. Yet these values ran fundamentally counter to the spirit and taste of both Kant and Schopenhauer! What, after all, were Schopenhauer's views on tragedy? In Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, II. 495, he says: "What gives all tragedy its peculiar uplifting effect is the awakening of the knowledge that the world, that life, cannot fully satisfy us. Life is therefore not worthy of our attachment. This is the tragic spirit. It therefore leads to resignation." Oh, how differently Dionysos spoke to me! How far I was then from this whole doctrine of resignation! But there is something far worse in this book. I now regret it even more than obscuring and spoiling Dionysian insights with Schopenhauerian formulas. I spoiled the great Hellenic problem, as it had opened up before me, by mixing it with the most modern things! I entertained hopes where there was nothing to hope for, where everything pointed all too clearly to an approaching end! Drawing on our recent German music, I began to weave tales about the "spirit of Teutonism," as if it were about to discover and return to itself. Yet, at that very time, the German spirit finally and decisively resigned, as if in a last will and testament. Not so long before, it had possessed the will to rule Europe and the strength to lead and govern it. Now, under the pompous pretense of founding an empire, it made the transition to mediocrity, democracy, and "modern ideas." In fact, I have since learned to regard this "spirit of Teutonism" as something to despair of and treat without mercy. The same goes for our present German music. It is Romanticism through and through, the most un-Grecian of all possible art forms. It is also an excellent destroyer of nerves, doubly dangerous for a people given to drinking and to revering what is unclear as a virtue. For this music is both an intoxicating and a stupefying narcotic. Of course, I spoiled my first book with hasty hopes and mistaken attempts to apply its ideas to specifically modern matters. But apart from those mistakes, the great Dionysian question it posed still stands, even with regard to music: how are we to conceive of music that is no longer Romantic in origin, like German music, but Dionysian?...

—But, my dear Sir, if your book is not Romanticism, what in the world is? Can the deep hatred of the present, of "reality" and "modern ideas" be pushed farther than has been done in your artist-metaphysics?—which would rather believe in Nothing, or in the devil, than in the "Now"? Does not a radical bass of wrath and annihilative pleasure growl on beneath all your contrapuntal vocal art and aural seduction, a mad determination to oppose all that "now" is, a will which is not so very far removed from practical nihilism and which seems to say: "rather let nothing be true, than that you should be in the right, than that your truth should prevail!" Hear, yourself, my dear Sir Pessimist and art-deifier, with ever so unlocked ears, a single select passage of your own book, that not ineloquent dragon-slayer passage, which may sound insidiously rat-charming to young ears and hearts. What? is not that the true blue romanticist-confession of 1830 under the mask of the pessimism of 1850? After which, of course, the usual romanticist finale at once strikes up,—rupture, collapse, return and prostration before an old belief, before the old God.... What? is not your pessimist book itself a piece of anti-Hellenism and Romanticism, something "equally intoxicating and befogging," a narcotic at all events, ay, a piece of music, of German music? But listen:

But, my dear Sir, if your book is not Romanticism, what on earth is? Could your artist-metaphysics show any deeper hatred of the present, of "reality" and "modern ideas"? It would rather believe in Nothing, or in the devil, than in the "Now." Beneath all your intricate vocal art and seductive sounds, doesn’t a deep bass of rage and destructive pleasure growl? Doesn’t it express a mad determination to oppose everything that belongs to the "now"? This will is not far from practical nihilism. It seems to say: "I would rather nothing were true than that you should be right, than that your truth should prevail!" Listen for yourself, my dear Sir Pessimist and worshipper of art. Open your ears wide to a single passage from your own book. I mean that rather eloquent passage about the dragon-slayer. It may sound slyly enchanting to young ears and hearts, like a tune charming rats. What? Isn’t that a true-blue romantic confession from 1830, wearing the mask of pessimism from 1850? After that, of course, the usual romantic finale begins at once: a break, a collapse, a return, and humble submission before an old belief, before the old God.... What? Isn’t your pessimist book itself a piece of anti-Hellenism and Romanticism, something "equally intoxicating and befogging"? At any rate, isn’t it a narcotic? Yes, a piece of music, of German music? But listen:

"Would it not be necessary?" ... No, thrice no! ye young romanticists: it would not be necessary! But it is very probable, that things may end thus, that ye may end thus, namely "comforted," as it is written, in spite of all self-discipline to earnestness and terror; metaphysically comforted, in short, as Romanticists are wont to end, as Christians.... No! ye should first of all learn the art of earthly comfort, ye should learn to laugh, my young friends, if ye are at all determined to remain pessimists: if so, you will perhaps, as laughing ones, eventually send all metaphysical comfortism to the devil—and metaphysics first of all! Or, to say it in the language of that Dionysian ogre, called Zarathustra:

"Would it not be necessary?" ... No, no, and no! You young romanticists, it would not be necessary! But it is very likely that things may end this way, that you may end this way, namely "comforted," as it is written. This may happen despite all your efforts to discipline yourselves to face seriousness and terror. In short, you may end up metaphysically comforted, as Romanticists usually end up, as Christians.... No! First, you should learn the art of earthly comfort. You should learn to laugh, my young friends, if you are determined to remain pessimists at all. If so, perhaps you will eventually laugh and send all metaphysical comfortism to the devil, and metaphysics first of all! Or, to put it in the language of that Dionysian ogre called Zarathustra:

SILS-MARIA, OBERENGADIN, August 1886.

SILS-MARIA, OBERENGADIN, August 1886.