Nietzsche on the Eternal Recurrence
| Thus Spake Zarathustra | Also Sprach Zarathustra |
...
XLVI. THE VISION AND THE ENIGMA. |
Vom Gesicht und Räthsel |
| 1. | 1. |
| When it got abroad among the sailors that Zarathustra was on board the ship--for a man who came from the Happy Isles had gone on board along with him,--there was great curiosity and expectation. But Zarathustra kept silent for two days, and was cold and deaf with sadness; so that he neither answered looks nor questions. On the evening of the second day, however, he again opened his ears, though he still kept silent: for there were many curious and dangerous things to be heard on board the ship, which came from afar, and was to go still further. Zarathustra, however, was fond of all those who make distant voyages, and dislike to live without danger. And behold! when listening, his own tongue was at last loosened, and the ice of his heart broke. Then did he begin to speak thus: | Als es unter den Schiffsleuten ruchbar wurde, dass Zarathustra auf dem Schiffe sei, - denn es war ein Mann zugleich mit ihm an Bord gegangen, der von den glückseligen Inseln kam - da entstand eine grosse Neugierde und Erwartung. Aber Zarathustra schwieg zwei Tage und war kalt und taub vor Traurigkeit, also, dass er weder auf Blicke noch auf Fragen antwortete. Am Abende aber des zweiten Tages that er seine Ohren wieder auf, ob er gleich noch schwieg: denn es gab viel Seltsames und Gefährliches auf diesem Schiffe anzuhören, welches weither kam und noch weiterhin wollte. Zarathustra aber war ein Freund aller Solchen, die weite Reisen thun und nicht ohne Gefahr leben mögen. Und siehe! zuletzt wurde ihm im Zuhören die eigne Zunge gelöst, und das Eis seines Herzens brach: - da begann er also zu reden: |
| To you, the daring venturers and adventurers, and whoever hath embarked with cunning sails upon frightful seas,-- | Euch, den kühnen Suchern, Versuchern, und wer je sich mit listigen Segeln auf furchtbare Meere einschiffte, - |
| To you the enigma-intoxicated, the twilight-enjoyers, whose souls are allured by flutes to every treacherous gulf: | euch, den Räthsel-Trunkenen, den Zwielicht-Frohen, deren Seele mit Flöten zu jedem Irr-Schlunde gelockt wird: |
| --For ye dislike to grope at a thread with cowardly hand; and where ye can DIVINE, there do ye hate to CALCULATE-- | - denn nicht wollt ihr mit feiger Hand einem Faden nachtasten; und, wo ihr errathen könnt, da hasst ihr es, zu erschliessen - |
| To you only do I tell the enigma that I SAW--the vision of the lonesomest one.-- | euch allein erzähle ich das Räthsel, das ich sah, - das Gesicht des Einsamsten. - |
| Gloomily walked I lately in corpse-coloured twilight--gloomily and sternly, with compressed lips. Not only one sun had set for me. | Düster gierig ich jüngst durch leichenfarbne Dämmerung, - düster und hart, mit gepressten Lippen. Nicht nur Eine Sonne war mir untergegangen. |
| A path which ascended daringly among boulders, an evil, lonesome path, which neither herb nor shrub any longer cheered, a mountain-path, crunched under the daring of my foot. | Ein Pfad, der trotzig durch Geröll stieg, ein boshafter, einsamer, dem nicht Kraut, nicht Strauch mehr zusprach: ein Bergpfad knirschte unter dem Trotz meines Fusses. |
| Mutely marching over the scornful clinking of pebbles, trampling the stone that let it slip: thus did my foot force its way upwards. | Stumm über höhnischem Geklirr von Kieseln schreitend, den Stein zertretend, der ihn gleiten liess: also zwang mein Fuss sich aufwärts. |
| Upwards:--in spite of the spirit that drew it downwards, towards the abyss, the spirit of gravity, my devil and arch-enemy. | Aufwärts: - dem Geiste zum Trotz, der ihn abwärts zog, abgrundwärts zog, dem Geiste der Schwere, meinem Teufel und Erzfeinde. |
| Upwards:--although it sat upon me, half-dwarf, half-mole; paralysed, paralysing; dripping lead in mine ear, and thoughts like drops of lead into my brain. | Aufwärts: - obwohl er auf mir sass, halb Zwerg, halb Maulwurf; lahm; lähmend; Blei durch mein Ohr, Bleitropfen-Gedanken in mein Hirn träufelnd. |
| "O Zarathustra," it whispered scornfully, syllable by syllable, "thou stone of wisdom! Thou threwest thyself high, but every thrown stone must--fall! | ``Oh Zarathustra, raunte er höhnisch Silb' um Silbe, du Stein der Weisheit! Du warfst dich hoch, aber jeder geworfene Stein muss - fallen! |
| O Zarathustra, thou stone of wisdom, thou sling-stone, thou star-destroyer! Thyself threwest thou so high,--but every thrown stone--must fall! | Oh Zarathustra, du Stein der Weisheit, du Schleuderstein, du Stern-Zertrümmerer! Dich selber warfst du so hoch, - aber jeder geworfene Stein - muss fallen! |
| Condemned of thyself, and to thine own stoning: O Zarathustra, far indeed threwest thou thy stone--but upon THYSELF will it recoil!" | Verurtheilt zu dir selber und zur eignen Steinigung: oh Zarathustra, weit warfst du ja den Stein, - aber auf dich wird er zurückfallen!'' |
| Then was the dwarf silent; and it lasted long. The silence, however, oppressed me; and to be thus in pairs, one is verily lonesomer than when alone! | Drauf schwieg der Zwerg; und das währte lange. Sein Schweigen aber drückte mich; und solchermaassen zu Zwein ist man wahrlich einsamer als zu Einem! |
| I ascended, I ascended, I dreamt, I thought,--but everything oppressed me. A sick one did I resemble, whom bad torture wearieth, and a worse dream reawakeneth out of his first sleep.-- | Ich stieg, ich stieg, ich träumte, ich dachte, - aber Alles drückte mich. Einem Kranken glich ich, den seine schlimme Marter müde macht, und den wieder ein schlimmerer Traum aus dem Einschlafen weckt. - |
| But there is something in me which I call courage: it hath hitherto slain for me every dejection. This courage at last bade me stand still and say: "Dwarf! Thou! Or I!"-- | Aber es giebt Etwas in mir, das ich Muth heisse: das schlug bisher mir jeden Unmuth todt. Dieser Muth hiess mich endlich stille stehn und sprechen: ``Zwerg! Du! Oder ich!'' - |
| For courage is the best slayer,--courage which ATTACKETH: for in every attack there is sound of triumph. | Muth nämlich ist der beste Todtschläger, - Muth, welcher angreift : denn in jedem Angriffe ist klingendes Spiel. |
| Man, however, is the most courageous animal: thereby hath he overcome every animal. With sound of triumph hath he overcome every pain; human pain, however, is the sorest pain. | Der Mensch aber ist das muthigste Thier: damit überwand er jedes Thier. Mit klingendem Spiele überwand er noch jeden Schmerz; Menschen-Schmerz aber ist der tiefste Schmerz. |
| Courage slayeth also giddiness at abysses: and where doth man not stand at abysses! Is not seeing itself--seeing abysses? | Der Muth schlägt auch den Schwindel todt an Abgründen: und wo stünde der Mensch nicht an Abgründen! Ist Sehen nicht selber - Abgründe sehen? |
| Courage is the best slayer: courage slayeth also fellow-suffering. Fellow-suffering, however, is the deepest abyss: as deeply as man looketh into life, so deeply also doth he look into suffering. | Muth ist der beste Todtschläger: der Muth schlägt auch das Mitleiden todt. Mitleiden aber ist der tiefste Abgrund: so tief der Mensch in das Leben sieht, so tief sieht er auch in das Leiden. |
| Courage, however, is the best slayer, courage which attacketh: it slayeth even death itself; for it saith: "WAS THAT life? Well! Once more!" | Muth aber ist der beste Todtschläger, Muth, der angreift: der schlägt noch den Tod todt, denn er spricht: ``War das das Leben? Wohlan! Noch Ein Mal!'' |
| In such speech, however, there is much sound of triumph. He who hath ears to hear, let him hear.-- | In solchem Spruche aber ist viel klingendes Spiel. Wer Ohren hat, der höre. - |
| 2. | 2. |
| "Halt, dwarf!" said I. "Either I--or thou! I, however, am the stronger of the two:--thou knowest not mine abysmal thought! IT--couldst thou not endure!" | ``Halt! Zwerg! sprach ich. Ich! Oder du! Ich aber bin der Stärkere von uns Beiden -: du kennst meinen abgründlichen Gedanken nicht! Den - könntest du nicht tragen!'' - |
| Then happened that which made me lighter: for the dwarf sprang from my shoulder, the prying sprite! And it squatted on a stone in front of me. There was however a gateway just where we halted. | Da geschah, was mich leichter machte: denn der Zwerg sprang mir von der Schulter, der Neugierige! Und er hockte sich auf einen Stein vor mich hin. Es war aber gerade da ein Thorweg, wo wir hielten. |
| "Look at this gateway! Dwarf!" I continued, "it hath two faces. Two roads come together here: these hath no one yet gone to the end of. | ``Siehe diesen Thorweg! Zwerg! sprach ich weiter: der hat zwei Gesichter. Zwei Wege kommen hier zusammen: die gieng noch Niemand zu Ende. |
| This long lane backwards: it continueth for an eternity. And that long lane forward--that is another eternity. | Diese lange Gasse zurück: die währt eine Ewigkeit. Und jene lange Gasse hinaus - das ist eine andre Ewigkeit. |
| They are antithetical to one another, these roads; they directly abut on one another:--and it is here, at this gateway, that they come together. The name of the gateway is inscribed above: 'This Moment.' | Sie widersprechen sich, diese Wege; sie stossen sich gerade vor den Kopf: - und hier, an diesem Thorwege, ist es, wo sie zusammen kommen. Der Name des Thorwegs steht oben geschrieben: ``Augenblick''. |
| But should one follow them further--and ever further and further on, thinkest thou, dwarf, that these roads would be eternally antithetical?"-- | Aber wer Einen von ihnen weiter gienge - und immer weiter und immer ferner: glaubst du, Zwerg, dass diese Wege sich ewig widersprechen?'' - |
| "Everything straight lieth," murmured the dwarf, contemptuously. "All truth is crooked; time itself is a circle." | ``Alles Gerade lügt, murmelte verächtlich der Zwerg. Alle Wahrheit ist krumm, die Zeit selber ist ein Kreis.'' |
| "Thou spirit of gravity!" said I wrathfully, "do not take it too lightly! Or I shall let thee squat where thou squattest, Haltfoot,--and I carried thee HIGH!" | ``Du Geist der Schwere! sprach ich zürnend, mache dir es nicht zu leicht! Oder ich lasse dich hocken, wo du hockst, Lahmfuss, - und ich trug dich hoch! |
| "Observe," continued I, "This Moment! From the gateway, This Moment, there runneth a long eternal lane BACKWARDS: behind us lieth an eternity. | Siehe, sprach ich weiter, diesen Augenblick! Von diesem Thorwege Augenblick läuft eine lange ewige Gasse rückwärts hinter uns liegt eine Ewigkeit. |
| Must not whatever CAN run its course of all things, have already run along that lane? Must not whatever CAN happen of all things have already happened, resulted, and gone by? | Muss nicht, was laufen kann von allen Dingen, schon einmal diese Gasse gelaufen sein? Muss nicht, was geschehn kann von allen Dingen, schon einmal geschehn, gethan, vorübergelaufen sein? |
| And if everything have already existed, what thinkest thou, dwarf, of This Moment? Must not this gateway also--have already existed? | Und wenn Alles schon dagewesen ist: was hältst du Zwerg von diesem Augenblick? Muss auch dieser Thorweg nicht schon - dagewesen sein? |
| And are not all things closely bound together in such wise that This Moment draweth all coming things after it? CONSEQUENTLY--itself also? | Und sind nicht solchermaassen fest alle Dinge verknotet, dass dieser Augenblick alle kommenden Dinge nach sich zieht? Also - - sich selber noch? |
| For whatever CAN run its course of all things, also in this long lane OUTWARD--MUST it once more run!-- | Denn, was laufen kann von allen Dingen: auch in dieser langen Gasse hinaus - muss es einmal noch laufen! - |
| And this slow spider which creepeth in the moonlight, and this moonlight itself, and thou and I in this gateway whispering together, whispering of eternal things--must we not all have already existed? | Und diese langsame Spinne, die im Mondscheine kriecht, und dieser Mondschein selber, und ich und du im Thorwege, zusammen flüsternd, von ewigen Dingen flüsternd - müssen wir nicht Alle schon dagewesen sein? |
| --And must we not return and run in that other lane out before us, that long weird lane--must we not eternally return?"-- | - und wiederkommen und in jener anderen Gasse laufen, hinaus, vor uns, in dieser langen schaurigen Gasse - müssen wir nicht ewig wiederkommen? -'' |
| Thus did I speak, and always more softly: for I was afraid of mine own thoughts, and arrear-thoughts. Then, suddenly did I hear a dog HOWL near me. | Also redete ich, und immer leiser: denn ich fürchtete mich vor meinen eignen Gedanken und Hintergedanken. Da, plötzlich, hörte ich einen Hund nahe heulen. |
| Had I ever heard a dog howl thus? My thoughts ran back. Yes! When I was a child, in my most distant childhood: | Hörte ich jemals einen Hund so heulen? Mein Gedanke lief zurück. Ja! Als ich Kind war, in fernster Kindheit: |
| --Then did I hear a dog howl thus. And saw it also, with hair bristling, its head upwards, trembling in the stillest midnight, when even dogs believe in ghosts: | - da hörte ich einen Hund so heulen. Und sah ihn auch, gesträubt, den Kopf nach Oben, zitternd, in stillster Mitternacht, wo auch Hunde an Gespenster glauben: |
| --So that it excited my commiseration. For just then went the full moon, silent as death, over the house; just then did it stand still, a glowing globe--at rest on the flat roof, as if on some one's property:-- | - also dass es mich erbarmte. Eben nämlich gieng der volle Mond, todtschweigsam, über das Haus, eben stand er still, eine runde Gluth, - still auf flachem Dache, gleich als auf fremdem Eigenthume: - |
| Thereby had the dog been terrified: for dogs believe in thieves and ghosts. And when I again heard such howling, then did it excite my commiseration once more. | darob entsetzte sich damals der Hund: denn Hunde glauben an Diebe und Gespenster. Und als ich wieder so heulen hörte, da erbarmte es mich abermals. |
| Where was now the dwarf? And the gateway? And the spider? And all the whispering? Had I dreamt? Had I awakened? 'Twixt rugged rocks did I suddenly stand alone, dreary in the dreariest moonlight. | Wohin war jetzt Zwerg? und Thorweg? Und Spinne? Und alles Flüstern? Träumte ich denn? Wachte ich auf? Zwischen wilden Klippen stand ich mit Einem Male, allein, öde, im ödesten Mondscheine. |
| BUT THERE LAY A MAN! And there! The dog leaping, bristling, whining--now did it see me coming--then did it howl again, then did it CRY:--had I ever heard a dog cry so for help? | Aber da lag ein Mensch! Und da! Der Hund, springend, gesträubt, winselnd, - jetzt sah er mich kommen - da heulte er wieder, da schrie er: - hörte ich je einen Hund so Hülfe schrein? |
| And verily, what I saw, the like had I never seen. A young shepherd did I see, writhing, choking, quivering, with distorted countenance, and with a heavy black serpent hanging out of his mouth. | Und, wahrlich, was ich sah, desgleichen sah ich nie. Einen jungen Hirten sah ich, sich windend, würgend, zuckend, verzerrten Antlitzes, dem eine schwarze schwere Schlange aus dem Munde hieng. |
| Had I ever seen so much loathing and pale horror on one countenance? He had perhaps gone to sleep? Then had the serpent crawled into his throat-- there had it bitten itself fast. | Sah ich je so viel Ekel und bleiches Grauen auf Einem Antlitze? Er hatte wohl geschlafen? Da kroch ihm die Schlange in den Schlund - da biss sie sich fest. |
| My hand pulled at the serpent, and pulled:--in vain! I failed to pull the serpent out of his throat. Then there cried out of me: "Bite! Bite! | Meine Hand riss die Schlange und riss: - umsonst! sie riss die Schlange nicht aus dem Schlunde. Da schrie es aus mir: ``Beiss zu! Beiss zu! |
| Its head off! Bite!"--so cried it out of me; my horror, my hatred, my loathing, my pity, all my good and my bad cried with one voice out of me.-- | Den Kopf ab! Beiss zu!'' - so schrie es aus mir, mein Grauen, mein Hass, mein Ekel, mein Erbarmen, all mein Gutes und Schlimmes schrie mit Einem Schrei aus mir. - |
| Ye daring ones around me! Ye venturers and adventurers, and whoever of you have embarked with cunning sails on unexplored seas! Ye enigma-enjoyers! | Ihr Kühnen um mich! Ihr Sucher, Versucher, und wer von euch mit listigen Segeln sich in unerforschte Meere einschiffte! Ihr Räthsel-Frohen! |
| Solve unto me the enigma that I then beheld, interpret unto me the vision of the lonesomest one! | So rathet mir doch das Räthsel, das ich damals schaute, so deutet mir doch das Gesicht des Einsamsten! |
| For it was a vision and a foresight:--WHAT did I then behold in parable? And WHO is it that must come some day? | Denn ein Gesicht war's und ein Vorhersehn: - was sah ich damals im Gleichnisse? Und wer ist, der einst noch kommen muss? |
| WHO is the shepherd into whose throat the serpent thus crawled? WHO is the man into whose throat all the heaviest and blackest will thus crawl? | Wer ist der Hirt, dem also die Schlange in den Schlund kroch? Wer ist der Mensch, dem also alles Schwerste, Schwärzeste in den Schlund kriechen wird? |
| --The shepherd however bit as my cry had admonished him; he bit with a strong bite! Far away did he spit the head of the serpent--: and sprang up.-- | - Der Hirt aber biss, wie mein Schrei ihm rieth; er biss mit gutem Bisse! Weit weg spie er den Kopf der Schlange -: und sprang empor. - |
| No longer shepherd, no longer man--a transfigured being, a light-surrounded being, that LAUGHED! Never on earth laughed a man as HE laughed! | Nicht mehr Hirt, nicht mehr Mensch, - ein Verwandelter, ein Umleuchteter, welcher lachte ! Niemals noch auf Erden lachte je ein Mensch, wie er lachte! |
| O my brethren, I heard a laughter which was no human laughter,--and now gnaweth a thirst at me, a longing that is never allayed. | Oh meine Brüder, ich hörte ein Lachen, das keines Menschen Lachen war, - - und nun frisst ein Durst an mir, eine Sehnsucht, die nimmer stille wird. |
| My longing for that laughter gnaweth at me: oh, how can I still endure to live! And how could I endure to die at present!-- | Meine Sehnsucht nach diesem Lachen frisst an mir: oh wie ertrage ich noch zu leben! Und wie ertrüge ich's, jetzt zu sterben! - |
| Thus spake Zarathustra. | Also sprach Zarathustra. |
The Gay Science
Friedrich Nietzsche [ 1887 ]
...
341
The Greatest Burden. What if a demon crept after thee into thy loneliest loneliness some day or night, and said to thee: "This life, as thou livest it at present, and hast lived it, thou must live it once more, and also innumerable times; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and every sigh, and all the unspeakably small and great in thy life must come to thee again, and all in the same series and sequence-and similarly this spider and this moonlight among the trees, and similarly this moment, and I myself. The eternal sand-glass of existence will ever be turned once more, and thou with it, thou speck of dust!"- Wouldst thou not throw thyself down and gnash thy teeth, and curse the demon that so spake? Or hast thou once experienced a tremendous moment in which thou wouldst answer him: "Thou art a God, and never did I hear anything so divine! "If that thought acquired power over thee as thou art, it would transform thee, and perhaps crush thee; the question with regard to all and everything: "Dost thou want this once more, and also for innumerable times?" would lie as the heaviest burden upon thy activity! Or, how wouldst thou have to become favorably inclined to thyself and to life, so as to long for nothing more ardently than for this last eternal sanctioning and sealing?
Die Götzen-Dämmerung - Twilight of the Idols
Friedrich Nietzsche [ 1895 ]
...
WHAT I OWE TO THE ANCIENTS
| 1 | In conclusion, a word about that world to which I sought interpretations, for which I have perhaps found a new interpretation--the ancient world. My taste, which may be the opposite of a tolerant taste, is in this case very far from saying Yes indiscriminately: it does not like to say Yes; better to say No, but best of all to say nothing. That applies to whole cultures, it applies to books--also to places and landscapes. In the end there are very few ancient books that count in my life: the most famous are not among them. My sense of style, of the epigram as a style, was awakened almost instantly when I came into contact with Sallust. Compact, severe, with as much substance as possible, a cold sarcasm toward "beautiful words" and "beautiful sentiments"--here I found myself. And even in my Zarathustra one will recognize my very serious effort to achieve a Roman style, for the aere perennius [more enduring than bronze] in style. |
| Nor was my experience any different in my first contact with Horace. To this day, no other poet has given me the same artistic delight that a Horatian ode gave me from the first. In certain languages that which Horace has achieved could not even be attempted. This mosaic of words, in which every word--as sound, as place, as concept--pours out its strength right and left and over the whole, this minimum in the extent and number of the signs, and the maximum thereby attained in the energy of the signs--all that is Roman and, if you will believe me, noble par excellence. All the rest of poetry becomes, in contrast, something too popular--mere sentimental blather. | |
| 2 | From the Greeks I have not at all felt similarly strong impressions, and to be blunt, they cannot mean as much to me us the Romans. We do not learn from the Greeks--their manner is too foreign and too fluid to create a commanding, "classical" effect. Who could ever have learned to write from a Greek? Who could ever have learned to write without the Romans? |
| Please do not throw Plato at me. I am a complete skeptic about Plato, and I have never been able to join in the customary scholarly admiration for Plato the artist. The subtlest judges of taste among the ancients themselves are here on my side. Plato, it seems to me, throws all stylistic forms together and is thus a first-rate decadent in style: his responsibility is thus comparable to that of the Cynics, who invented the satura Menippea. To be attracted to the Platonic dialogue, this horribly self-satisfied and childish kind of dialectic, one must never have read good French writers--Fontenelle, for example. Plato is boring. In the end, my mistrust of Plato goes deep: he represents such an aberration from all the basic Greek instincts, is so moralistic, so pseudo-Christian (he already takes the concept of "the good" as the highest concept) that I would prefer the harsh phrase "higher swindle" or, if it sounds better, "idealism" for the whole phenomenon of Plato. We have paid dearly for the fact that this Athenian got his schooling from the Egyptians (or from the Jews in Egypt?). In that great calamity called Christianity, Plato represents that ambiguity and fascination, called an "ideal," which made it possible for the nobler spirits of antiquity to misunderstand themselves and to set foot on the bridge leading to the Cross. And how much Plato there still is in the concept "church," in the construction, system, and practice of the church! | |
| My recreation, my preference, my cure from all Platonism has always been Thucydides. Thucydides and, perhaps, Machiavelli's Il Principe are most closely related to me by the unconditional will not to delude oneself, but to see reason in reality--not in "reason," still less in "morality." For that wretched distortion of the Greeks into a cultural ideal, which the "classically educated" youth carries into life as a reward for all his classroom lessons, there is no more complete cure than Thucydides. One must follow him line by line and read no less clearly between the lines: there are few thinkers who say so much between the lines. With him the culture of the Sophists, by which I mean the culture of the realists, reaches its perfect expression--this inestimable movement amid the moralistic and idealistic swindle set loose on all sides by the Socratic schools. Greek philosophy: the decadence of the Greek instinct. Thucydides: the great sum, the last revelation of that strong, severe, hard factuality which was instinctive with the older Greeks. In the end, it is courage in the face of reality that distinguishes a man like Thucydides from a man like Plato: Plato is a coward before reality, consequently he flees into the ideal; Thucydides has control of himself, consequently he also maintains control of things. | |
| 3 | To sniff out "beautiful souls," "golden means," and other perfections in the Greeks, or to admire their triumphant calm, their ideal cast of mind, their noble simplicity--my psychological skills protected me against such "noble simplicity," a niaiserie allemande in any case. I saw their strongest instinct, the will to power: I saw them tremble before the indomitable force of this drive--I saw how all their institutions developed as protections against this inner impulsion. The tremendous inward tension that resulted discharged itself in terrible and ruthless hostility toward the outside world: the city-states tore each other apart as the citizens tried to find resolution to this will to power they all felt. One needed to be strong: danger was near, it lurked everywhere. The magnificent physical suppleness, the audacious realism and immoralism which distinguished the Greek constituted a need, not "nature." It was an outcome, it was not there from the start. And with festivals and the arts they also aimed at nothing other than to feel on top, to show themselves on top. These are means of glorifying oneself, and in certain cases, of inspiring fear of oneself. |
| How could one possibly judge the Greeks by their philosophers, as the Germans have done, or use the Philistine moralism of the Socratic schools as a clue to what was basically Hellenic! After all, the philosophers are the decadents of Greek culture, the counter-movement against the ancient, noble taste (against the agonistic instinct, against the polis, against the value of race, against the authority of descent). The Socratic virtues were preached because the Greeks had lost them: excitable, timid, fickle comedians every one of them, they had a few reasons too many for having morals preached to them. Not that it did any good--but big words and attitudes suit decadents so well. | |
| 4 | As the key to understanding the older, inexhaustibly rich and even overflowing Greek instinct, I was the first to take seriously that wonderful phenomenon which bears the name of Dionysus, which is only explicable in terms of an excess of force. Whoever followed the Greeks, like that most profound student of their culture in our time, Jacob Burckhardt in Basel, knew immediately that something had been achieved thereby; and Burckhardt added a special section on this phenomenon to his Civilization of the Greeks. To see the counter example, one should look at the almost amusing poverty of instinct among the German philologists when they approach the Dionysian. The famous Lobeck, above all, crawled into this world of mysterious states with all the venerable sureness of a worm dried up between books, and persuaded himself that it was scientific of him to be glib and childish to the point of nausea--and with the utmost erudition, Lobeck gave us to understand that all these curiosities really did not amount to anything. In fact, the priests could have told the participants in such orgies some not altogether worthless things; for example, that wine excites lust, that men can sometimes live on fruit, that plants bloom in the spring and wither in the fall. And the astonishing wealth of rites, symbols, and myths of orgiastic origin, with which the ancient world is literally overrun, gave Lobeck an opportunity to become still more ingenious. "The Greeks," he said (Aglaophamus I, 672), "when they had nothing else to do, laughed, jumped, and ran around; or, since man sometimes feels that urge too, they sat down, cried, and lamented. Others came later on and sought some reason for this spectacular behavior; and thus there originated, as explanations for these customs, countless traditions concerning feasts and myths. On the other hand, it was believed that this droll ado, which took place on the feast days after all, must also form a necessary part of the festival and therefore it was maintained as an indispensable feature of the religious service." This is contemptible prattle; a Lobeck simply cannot be taken seriously for a moment. |
| I have quite a different feeling toward the concept "Greek" that was developed by Winckelmann and Goethe; to me it is incompatible with the orgiastic element out of which Dionysian art grows. In fact I believe that Goethe excluded as a matter of principle any orgiastic feelings from his concept of the Greek spirit. Consequently Goethe did not understand the Greeks. For it is only in the Dionysian mysteries, in the psychology of the Dionysian state, that the basic fact of the Hellenic instinct finds expression--its "will to life." What was it that the Hellene guaranteed himself by means of these mysteries? Eternal life, the eternal return of life, the future promised and hallowed in the past; the triumphant Yes to life beyond all death and change; true life as the continuation of life through procreation, through the mysteries of sex. For the Greeks a sexual symbol was therefore the most sacred symbol, the real profundity in the whole of ancient piety. Every single element in the act of procreation, of pregnancy, and of birth aroused the highest and most solemn feelings. In the doctrine of the mysteries, pain is pronounced holy: the pangs of the woman giving birth consecrate all pain; and conversely all becoming and growing--all that guarantees a future--involves pain. That there may be the eternal joy of creating, that the will to life may eternally affirm itself, the agony of the woman giving birth must also be there eternally. | |
| All this is meant by the word Dionysus: I know no higher symbolism than this Greek symbolism of the Dionysian festivals. Here the most profound instinct of life, that directed toward the future of life, the eternity of life, is experienced religiously--and the way to life, procreation, as the holy way. It was Christianity, with its heartfelt resentment against life, that first made something unclean of sexuality: it threw filth on the origin, on the essential fact of our life. | |
| 5 | The psychology of the orgiastic as an overflowing feeling of life and strength, where even pain still has the effect of a stimulus, gave me the key to the concept of tragic feeling, which had been misunderstood both by Aristotle and even more by modern pessimists. Tragedy is so far from being a proof of the pessimism (in Schopenhauer's sense) of the Greeks that it may, on the contrary, be considered a decisive rebuttal and counterexample. Saying Yes to life even in its strangest and most painful episodes, the will to life rejoicing in its own inexhaustible vitality even as it witnesses the destruction of its greatest heros--that is what I called Dionysian, that is what I guessed to be the bridge to the psychology of the tragic poet. Not in order to be liberated from terror and pity, not in order to purge oneself of a dangerous affect by its vehement discharge--which is how Aristotle understood tragedy--but in order to celebrate oneself the eternal joy of becoming, beyond all terror and pity--that tragic joy included even joy in destruction. |
| And with that I again touch on my earliest point of departure: The Birth of Tragedy was my first revaluation of all values. And on that point I again stand on the earth out of which my intention, my ability grows--I, the last disciple of the philosopher Dionysus--I, the teacher of the eternal recurrence. | |