by Corry Shores
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[Nietzsche’s Birth of Tragedy, entry directory]
[The following is summary. Bracketed commentary and boldface in quotations are my own additions. Paragraph enumerations are my own, but they follow the paragraph divisions of the German text. Proofreading is incomplete, so you will encounter typos and other distracting and problematic errors, including such things as inaccurate page citations for example. So please trust the original sources over my summarization and citation. Notes on Deleuze’s commentary is given in this shade of red.]
Summary of
Friedrich Nietzsche
Die Geburt der Tragödie
The Birth of Tragedy
L’origine de la tragédie
Section
1
[On the Apolline/Dionysiac distinction and on the primordial unity between humans and between them and nature.]
Brief summary:
There is a primordial unity where all things and people are joined together without sharp distinctions separating them. And there are two main tendencies in Ancient Greek art:
{1} The Apolline. It is associated with image- or sculpture-based art and with poetry. To Apollo belongs the world of dream and semblance. It is a source of intelligibility and pleasure, even when the images are dark and gloomy. In this realm of semblance, things are intelligible and have forms that on the one hand allow for different things to be distinguished from one another and that on the other hand allow human individuals to distinguish themselves from both other human individuals and from the world as a whole. Thus even though the Apolline involves a realm of semblance, appearance, and illusion, one never enters into a pathological [delirious] state where one confuses dream and reality and blur together the things in the world, including oneself and others. One thus checks one’s “wilder impulses” and instead has the “wise calm” of Apollo, while holding on to the principle of individuation (principium individuationis) that allows intelligible distinctions to hold. [Thus the Apolline tendency in artistic practice breaks one from the primordial unity.]
{2} The Dionysiac. It is associated with the imageless art of music. To Dionysus belongs the realm Bacchic intoxication and revelry, where the principle of individuation does not hold. Here one loses one’s sense of distinction between the things in the world, including between oneself and the world and between oneself and other people. Yet, unlike the danger of delirium under the Apolline mode, this state of intoxication is healthy and not at all pathological. Thus the Dionysiac tendency in artistic practice renews the primordial unity.
These two Ancient Greek artistic modes are oppositional, and through their intense competition they eventually gave rise to Attic tragedy, which involves an equal measure of both factors
Brief summary of Deleuze’s commentary:
{1} Deleuze notes the opposition that Nietzsche sets up “between primitive unity and individuation” / “de l’unité primitive et de l’individuation” (Deleuze NP, 1962: 11 / 2006: 13).
{2} Dionysiac intoxication (l’ivresse bachique) [which renews the primitive unity] is an affect that increases the power to exist, and it can be understood as the will to power. (Deleuze Cours 1983–12–13. Session 49.2 of “Cinéma / Vérité et temps – La puissance du faux”; Cours 1984–11–20. Session 70.2 of “Cinéma / Pensée”)
Summary
1.1
[There are two main tendencies in Ancient Greek art: The Apolline, which is associated with image or sculpture based art, and the Dionysiac, which is associated with the imageless art of music. The two factors are oppositional, and through their competition they eventually gave rise to Attic tragedy, which involves an equal measure of both factors.]
The “continuous evolution of art is bound up with the duality of the Apolline and the Dionysiac” (14). For the Ancient Greeks, Apollo and Dionysus were “[t]heir two dieties of art” (14). There is an “an enormous opposition, both in origin and goals” between the two art Gods. To Apollo we associate the “art of the image-maker or sculptor (Bildner)” and to Dionysus “the imageless art of music” (14). Nietzsche characterizes these two artistic tendencies as drives (Tribe) that are oppositional and competing in a fruitful way, and through the Hellenic “Will” their competition produces Attic tragedy, which has equal measures of both factors: “These two very different drives (Triebe) exist side by side, mostly in open conflict, stimulating and provoking (reizen) one another to give birth to ever-new, more vigorous offspring in whom they perpetuate the conflict inherent in the opposition between them, an opposition only apparently bridged by the common term ‘art’ – until eventually, by a metaphysical miracle of the Hellenic ‘Will’, they appear paired and, in this pairing, finally engender a work of art which is Dionysiac and Apolline in equal measure: Attic tragedy” (Speirs 14).
Wir werden viel für die aesthetische Wissenschaft gewonnen haben, wenn wir nicht nur zur logischen Einsicht, sondern zur unmittelbaren Sicherheit der Anschauung gekommen sind, dass die Fortentwickelung der Kunst an die Duplicität des Apollinischen und des Dionysischen gebunden ist: in ähnlicher Weise, wie die Generation von der Zweiheit der Geschlechter, bei fortwährendem Kampfe und nur periodisch eintretender Versöhnung, abhängt. Diese Namen entlehnen wir von den Griechen, welche die tiefsinnigen Geheimlehren ihrer Kunstanschauung zwar nicht in Begriffen, aber in den eindringlich deutlichen Gestalten ihrer Götterwelt dem Einsichtigen vernehmbar machen. An ihre beiden Kunstgottheiten, Apollo und Dionysus, knüpft sich unsere Erkenntniss, dass in der griechischen Welt ein ungeheurer Gegensatz, nach Ursprung und Zielen, zwischen der Kunst des Bildners, der apollinischen, und der unbildlichen Kunst der Musik, als der des Dionysus, besteht: beide so verschiedne Triebe gehen neben einander her, zumeist im offnen Zwiespalt mit einander und sich gegenseitig zu immer neuen kräftigeren Geburten reizend, um in ihnen den Kampf jenes Gegensatzes zu perpetuiren, den das gemeinsame Wort “Kunst” nur scheinbar überbrückt; bis sie endlich, durch einen metaphysischen Wunderakt des | hellenischen “Willens”, mit einander gepaart erscheinen und in dieser Paarung zuletzt das ebenso dionysische als apollinische Kunstwerk der attischen Tragödie erzeugen.
(Werke 19-20. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
We shall have gained much for the science of aesthetics when we have come to realize, not just through logical insight but also with the certainty of something directly apprehended (Anschauung), that the continuous evolution of art is bound up with the duality of the Apolline and the Dionysiac in much the same way as reproduction depends on there being two sexes which co-exist in a state of perpetual conflict interrupted only occasionally by periods of reconciliation. We have borrowed these names from the Greeks who reveal the profound mysteries of their view of art to those with insight, not in concepts, admittedly, but through the penetratingly vivid figures of their gods. Their two deities of art, Apollo and Dionysos, provide the starting-point for our recognition that there exists in the world of the Greeks an enormous opposition, both in origin and goals, between the Apolline art of the image-maker or sculptor (Bildner) and the imageless art of music, which is that of Dionysos. These two very different drives (Triebe) exist side by side, mostly in open conflict, stimulating and provoking (reizen) one another to give birth to ever-new, more vigorous offspring in whom they perpetuate the conflict inherent in the opposition between them, an opposition only apparently bridged by the common term ‘art’ – until eventually, by a metaphysical miracle of the Hellenic ‘Will’, they appear paired and, in this pairing, finally engender a work of art which is Dionysiac and Apolline in equal measure: Attic tragedy.
(Speirs 14)
We shall have gained much for the science of aesthetics, once we perceive not merely by logical inference, but with the immediate certainty of vision, that the continuous development of art is bound up with the Apollinian and Dionysian duality—just as procreation depends on the duality of the sexes, involving perpetual strife with only periodically intervening reconciliations. The terms Dionysian and Apollinian we borrow from the Greeks, who disclose to the discerning mind the profound mysteries of their view of art, not, to be sure, in concepts, but in the intensely clear figures of their gods. Through Apollo and Dionysus, the two art deities of the Greeks, we come to recognize that in the Greek world there existed a tremendous opposition, in origin and aims, between the Apollinian art of sculpture, and the nonimagistic, Dionysian art of music. These two different tendencies run parallel to each other, for the most part openly at variance; and they continually incite each other to new and more powerful births, which perpetuate an antagonism, only superficially reconciled by the common term “art”; till eventually, by a metaphysical miracle of the Hellenic “will,” they appear coupled with each other, and through this coupling ultimately generate an equally Dionysian and Apollinian form of art—Attic tragedy.
(Kaufmann, Basic Writings 33. Text copied from Readsbird)
We shall have gained much for the science of æsthetics, when once we have perceived not only by logical inference, but by the immediate certainty of intuition, that the continuous development of art is bound up with the duplexity of the Apollonian and the Dionysian: in like manner as procreation is dependent on the duality of the sexes, involving perpetual conflicts with only periodically intervening reconciliations. These names we borrow from the Greeks, who disclose to the intelligent observer the profound mysteries of their view of art, not indeed in concepts, but in the impressively clear figures of their world of deities. It is in connection with Apollo and Dionysus, the two art-deities of the Greeks, that we learn that there existed in the Grecian world a wide antithesis, in origin and aims, between the art of the shaper, the Apollonian, and the non-plastic art of music, that of Dionysus: both these so heterogeneous tendencies run parallel to each other, for the most part openly at variance, and continually inciting each other to new and more powerful births, to perpetuate in | them the strife of this antithesis, which is but seemingly bridged over by their mutual term “Art”; till at last, by a metaphysical miracle of the Hellenic will, they appear paired with each other, and through this pairing eventually generate the equally Dionysian and Apollonian art-work of Attic tragedy.
(Haussmann, Complete Works 21-22. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
Nous aurons fait un grand pas en ce qui concerne la science esthétique, quand nous en serons arrivés non seulement à l’induction logique, mais encore à la certitude immédiate de cette pensée : que l’évolution progressive de l’art est le résultat du double caractère de l’esprit apollinien et de l’esprit dionysien, de la même manière que la dualité des sexes engendre la vie au milieu de luttes perpétuelles et par des rapprochements seulement périodiques. Ces noms, nous les empruntons aux Grecs qui ont rendu intelligible au penseur le sens occulte et profond de leur conception de l’art, non pas au moyen de notions, mais à l’aide des figures nettement significatives du monde de leurs dieux. C’est à leurs deux divinités des arts, Apollon et Dionysos, que se rattache notre conscience de l’extraordinaire antagonisme, tant d’origine que de fins, qui exista dans le monde grec entre l’art plastique apollinien et l’art dénué de formes, la musique, l’art de Dionysos. Ces deux instincts impulsifs s’en vont côte à côte, en guerre ouverte le plus souvent, et s’excitant mutuellement à des créations nouvelles, toujours plus robustes, pour perpétuer | par elles le conflit de cet antagonisme que l’appellation « art », qui leur est commune, ne fait que masquer, jusqu’à ce qu’enfin, par un miracle métaphysique de la « Volonté » hellénique, ils apparaissent accouplés, et que, dans cet accouplement, ils engendrent alors l’œuvre à la fois dionysienne et apollinienne de la tragédie attique.
(Marnold and Morland 25-26. Text copied from Wikisource. PDF at Gallica.)
1.2
[To Apollo belongs the world of dream, and to Dionysus, intoxication. In dream the artist and poet view the form of the divine.]
Nietzsche analyzes these two tendencies in Greek art by considering them in terms of their respective worlds, which are characterized by physiological states: to Apollo belongs the world of dream, and to Dionysus, intoxication. [“the separate art-worlds of dream and intoxication | (Rausch)”; “les mondes esthétiques différents du rêve et de l’ivresse”. Deleuze’s commentary. Deleuze speaks of Nietzsche’s notion of Bacchic intoxication as affect that increases the power to exist, and it can be understood as the will to power:
L’affect qui augmente une force de vie, Nietzsche en parle très souvent et lui donne un nom particulier. Il l’appelle ivresse. L’ivresse, c’est donc pas boire, c’est pas la drogue, bien que boire et la drogue puissent...on sait pas, Nietzsche y fait allusion parfois. Est-ce que ça produit de telles augmentations ou pas ? Est ce que l’on paie ces augmentations d’une diminution aussi considérable, etc.... Et tous ces problèmes ? Faudrait les voir dans chaque cas. - Mais, il l’appellera ivresse, toute intensification, tout processus d’intensification qui augmente la puissance de vie. [...] Voyez bien que tous ce qu’il appelle volonté de puissance, Nietzsche, on commence à le comprendre. C’est bien la même chose que l’ivresse, c’est-à-dire l’augmentation de la puissance d’exister.
(Deleuze Cours 1983–12–13. Session 49.2 of “Cinéma / Vérité et temps – La puissance du faux”)
C’est aussi l’ivresse bachique qui pénètre toutes les parties. C’est le délire, c’est l’ivresse bachique, le double, la double figure, le repos translucide et simple et l’ivresse bachique.
(Deleuze Cours 1984–11–20. Session 70.2 of “Cinéma / Pensée”)
] [The next point I do not firmly grasp, so please consult the texts below. It seems the idea is that in dreams, artists and poets gain certain kinds of inspiration, including a view of the forms of the gods, with their well-proportioned bodies.]
Um uns jene beiden Triebe näher zu bringen, denken wir sie uns zunächst als die getrennten Kunstwelten des Traumes und des Rausches; zwischen welchen physiologischen Erscheinungen ein entsprechender Gegensatz, wie zwischen dem Apollinischen und dem Dionysischen zu bemerken ist. Im Traume traten zuerst, nach der Vorstellung des Lucretius, die herrlichen Göttergestalten vor die Seelen der Menschen, im Traume sah der grosse Bildner den entzückenden Gliederbau übermenschlicher Wesen, und der hellenische Dichter, um die Geheimnisse der poetischen Zeugung befragt, würde ebenfalls an den Traum erinnert und eine ähnliche Belehrung gegeben haben, wie sie Hans Sachs in den Meistersingern giebt:
Mein Freund, das grad' ist Dichters Werk,
dass er sein Träumen deut' und merk'.
Glaubt mir, des Menschen wahrster Wahn
wird ihm im Traume aufgethan:
all' Dichtkunst und Poëterei
ist nichts als Wahrtraum-Deuterei.
(Werke 19-20. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
In order to gain a closer understanding of these two drives, let us think of them in the first place as the separate art-worlds of dream and intoxication | (Rausch). Between these two physiological phenomena an opposition can be observed which corresponds to that between the Apolline and the Dionysiac. As Lucretius envisages it, it was in dream that the magnificent figures of the gods first appeared before the souls of men; in dream the great image-maker saw the delightfully proportioned bodies of superhuman beings; and the Hellenic poet, if asked about the secrets of poetic procreation, would likewise have reminded us of dream and would have given an account much like that given by Hans Sachs in the Meistersinger:
My friend, it is the poet's taskTo mark his dreams, their meaning ask.
Trust me, the truest phantom man doth know
Hath meaning only dreams may show:
The arts of verse and poetry
Tell nought but dreaming's prophecy.
(Speirs 14-15)
In order to grasp these two tendencies, let us first conceive of them as the separate art worlds of dreams and intoxication. These physiological phenomena present a contrast analogous to that existing between the Apollinian and the Dionysian. It was in dreams, says Lucretius, that the glorious divine figures first appeared to the souls of men; in dreams the great shaper beheld the splendid bodies of superhuman beings; and the Hellenic poet, if questioned about the mysteries of poetic inspiration, would likewise have suggested | dreams and he might have given an explanation like that of Hans Sachs in the Meistersinger:
The poet’s task is this, my friend,to read his dreams and comprehend.
The truest human fancy seems
to be revealed to us in dreams:
all poems and versification
are but true dreams’ interpretation.
(Kaufmann, Basic Writings 33-34. Text copied from Readsbird)
In order to bring these two tendencies within closer range, let us conceive them first of all as the separate art-worlds of dreamland and drunkenness; between which physiological phenomena a contrast may be observed analogous to that existing between the Apollonian and the Dionysian. In dreams, according to the conception of Lucretius, the glorious divine figures first appeared to the souls of men, in dreams the great shaper beheld the charming corporeal structure of superhuman beings, and the Hellenic poet, if consulted on the mysteries of poetic inspiration, would likewise have suggested dreams and would have offered an explanation resembling that of Hans Sachs in the Meistersingers:—
Mein Freund, das grad' ist Dichters Werk,
dass er sein Träumen deut' und merk'.
Glaubt mir, des Menschen wahrster Wahn
wird ihm im Traume aufgethan:
all' Dichtkunst und Poeterei
ist nichts als Wahrtraum-Deuterei.
(Haussmann, Complete Works 22. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
Figurons-nous tout d’abord, pour les mieux comprendre, ces deux instincts comme les mondes esthétiques différents du rêve et de l’ivresse, phénomènes physiologiques entre lesquels on remarque un contraste analogue à celui qui distingue l’un de l’autre l’esprit apollinien et l’esprit dionysien. C’est dans le rêve que, suivant l’expression de Lucrèce, les splendides images des dieux se manifestèrent pour la première fois à l’âme des hommes, c’est dans le rêve que le grand sculpteur perçut les proportions divines de créatures surhumaines, et le poète hellène, interrogé sur les secrets créateurs de son art, eût évoqué lui aussi le souvenir du rêve et répondu comme Hans Sachs dans les Maîtres Chanteurs :
Ami, l’ouvrage véritable du poète
Est de noter et de traduire ses rêves.
Croyez-moi, l’illusion la plus sûre de l’homme,
S’épanouit pour lui dans le rêve :
Tout l’art des vers et du poète
N’est que l’expression de la vérité du rêve.
(Marnold and Morland 26. Text copied from Wikisource. PDF at Gallica.)
1.3
[The world of dream is a world of semblance. It is a source of intelligibility and pleasure, even though the images may even be dark and gloomy.]
When in our state of dream we are creating our dream world, we are fully being an artist. And the semblance of dream is “the precondition of all the arts of image-making, including, as we shall see, an important half of poetry”. Yet even when “this dream-reality is most alive, we nevertheless retain a pervasive sense that it is semblance”. Some philosophers have even come to regard our own world as a semblance of some deeper reality: “Philosophical natures even have a presentiment that hidden beneath the reality in which we live and have our being there also lies a second, quite different reality; in other words, this reality too is a semblance”. Schopenhauer had a similar sort of idea. Artists use the reality of dream as a source of pleasure and they use dream images “to interpret life”. But along with pleasant images that give the artist “this feeling of complete intelligibility”, they also see “passing before him things which are grave, gloomy, sad, dark, sudden blocks, teasings of chance, anxious expectations”. But even these darker images are understood to be semblances.
Der schöne Schein der Traumwelten, in deren Erzeugung jeder Mensch voller Künstler ist, ist die Voraussetzung aller bildenden Kunst, ja auch, wie wir sehen werden, einer wichtigen Hälfte der Poesie. Wir geniessen im unmittelbaren Verständnisse der Gestalt, alle Formen sprechen zu uns, es giebt nichts Gleichgültiges und Unnöthiges. Bei dem höchsten Leben dieser Traumwirklichkeit haben wir doch noch die durchschimmernde Empfindung ihres Scheins: wenigstens ist dies meine Erfahrung, für deren Häufigkeit, ja Normalität, ich manches Zeugniss und die Aussprüche der Dichter beizubringen hätte. Der philosophische Mensch hat sogar das Vorgefühl, dass auch unter dieser Wirklichkeit, in der wir leben und sind, eine zweite ganz andre verborgen liege, dass also auch sie ein Schein sei; und Schopenhauer bezeichnet geradezu die Gabe, dass Einem zu Zeiten die Menschen und alle Dinge als blosse Phantome oder Traumbilder vorkommen, als das Kennzeichen philosophischer Befähigung. Wie nun der Philosoph zur Wirklichkeit des Daseins, so verhält sich der künstlerisch erregbare Mensch zur Wirklichkeit des Traumes; er sieht genau und gern zu: denn aus diesen Bildern deutet er sich das Leben, an diesen Vorgängen übt er sich für das Leben. Nicht etwa nur die angenehmen und freundlichen Bilder sind es, die er mit jener Allverständigkeit an sich erfährt: auch das Ernste, Trübe, Traurige, Finstere, die plötzlichen Hemmungen, die Neckereien des Zufalls, die bänglichen Erwartungen, kurz die ganze "göttliche Komödie" des Lebens, mit dem Inferno, zieht an ihm vorbei, nicht nur wie ein Schattenspiel - denn er lebt und leidet mit in diesen Scenen - und doch auch nicht ohne jene flüchtige Empfindung des Scheins; und vielleicht erinnert sich Mancher, gleich mir, in den Gefährlichkeiten und Schrecken des Traumes sich mitunter ermuthigend und mit Erfolg zugerufen zu haben: "Es ist ein Traum! Ich will ihn weiter träumen!" Wie man mir auch von Personen erzählt hat, die die Causalität eines und desselben Traumes über drei und mehr aufeinanderfolgende Nächte hin fortzusetzen im Stande waren: Thatsachen, welche deutlich Zeugniss dafür abgeben, dass unser innerstes Wesen, der gemeinsame Untergrund von uns allen, mit tiefer Lust und freudiger Nothwendigkeit den Traum an sich erfährt.
(Werke 20-21. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
Every human being is fully an artist when creating the worlds of dream, and the lovely semblance of dream is the precondition of all the arts of image-making, including, as we shall see, an important half of poetry. We take pleasure in dreaming, understanding its figures without mediation; all forms speak to us; nothing is indifferent or unnecessary. Yet even while this dream-reality is most alive, we nevertheless retain a pervasive sense that it is semblance; at least this is my experience, and I could adduce a good deal of evidence and the statements of poets to attest to the frequency, indeed normality, of my experience. Philosophical natures even have a presentiment that hidden beneath the reality in which we live and have our being there also lies a second, quite different reality; in other words, this reality too is a semblance. Indeed Schopenhauer actually states that the mark of a person's capacity for philosophy is the gift for feeling occasionally as if people and all things were mere phantoms or dream-images. A person with artistic sensibility relates to the reality of dream in the same way as a philosopher relates to the reality of existence: he attends to it closely and with pleasure, using these images to interpret life, and practising for life with the help of these events. Not that it is only the pleasant and friendly images which give him this feeling of complete intelligibility; he also sees passing before him things which are grave, gloomy, sad, dark, sudden blocks, teasings of chance, anxious | expectations, in short the entire ‘Divine Comedy’ of life, including the Inferno, but not like some mere shadow-play - for he, too, lives in these scenes and shares in the suffering - and yet never without that fleeting sense of its character as semblance. Perhaps others will recall, as I do, shouting out, sometimes successfully, words of encouragement in the midst of the perils and terrors of a dream: ‘It is a dream! I will dream on!’ I have even heard of people who were capable of continuing the causality of one and the same dream through three and more successive nights. All of these facts are clear evidence that our innermost being, the deep ground (Untergrund) common to all our lives, experiences the state of dreaming with profound pleasure (Lust) and joyous necessity.
(Speirs 15-16)
The beautiful illusion of the dream worlds, in the creation of which every man is truly an artist, is the prerequisite of all plastic art, and, as we shall see, of an important part of poetry also. In our dreams we delight in the immediate understanding of figures; all forms speak to us; there is nothing unimportant or superfluous. But even when this dream reality is most intense, we still have, glimmering through it, the sensation that it is mere appearance: at least this is my experience, and for its frequency—indeed, normality—I could adduce many proofs, including the sayings of the poets.
Philosophical men even have a presentiment that the reality in which we live and have our being is also mere appearance, and that another, quite different reality lies beneath it. Schopenhauer actually indicates as the criterion of philosophical ability the occasional ability to view men and things as mere phantoms or dream images. Thus the aesthetically sensitive man stands in the same relation to the reality of dreams as the philosopher does to the reality of existence; he is a close and willing observer, for these images afford him an interpretation of life, and by reflecting on these processes he trains himself for life.
It is not only the agreeable and friendly images that he experiences as something universally intelligible: the serious, the trou-| bled, the sad, the gloomy, the sudden restraints, the tricks of accident, anxious expectations, in short, the whole divine comedy of life, including the inferno, also pass before him, not like mere shadows on a wall—for he lives and suffers with | these scenes—and yet not without that fleeting sensation of illusion. And perhaps many will, like myself, recall how amid the dangers and terrors of dreams they have occasionally said to themselves in self-encouragement, and not without success: “It is a dream! I will dream on!” I have likewise heard of people who were able to continue one and the same dream for three and even more successive nights—facts which indicate clearly how our innermost being, our common ground, experiences dreams with profound delight and a joyous necessity.
(Kaufmann, Basic Writings 34-35. Text copied from Readsbird)
The beauteous appearance of the dream-worlds, in the production of which every man is a perfect artist, is the presupposition of all plastic art, and in fact, as we shall see, of an important half of poetry also. We take delight in the immediate apprehension of form; all forms speak to us; there is nothing indifferent, nothing superfluous. But, together with the highest life of this dream-reality we also have, glimmering through it, the sensation of its appearance: such at least is my experience, as to the frequency, ay, normality of which I could adduce many proofs, as also the sayings of the poets. Indeed, the man of philosophic turn has a foreboding that underneath this reality in which we live and have our being, another and altogether different reality lies concealed, and that therefore it is also an appearance; and Schopenhauer actually designates the gift of occasionally regarding men and things as mere phantoms and dream-pictures as the criterion of philosophical ability. Accordingly, the man susceptible to art stands in the same relation to the reality of dreams as the philosopher to the reality of existence; he is a close and willing observer, for from these pictures he reads the meaning of life, and by these processes he trains himself for life. And it is perhaps not only the agreeable and friendly pictures that he realises in himself with such perfect understanding: the earnest, the troubled, the dreary, the gloomy, the sudden checks, the tricks of fortune, the uneasy presentiments, in short, the whole "Divine Comedy" of life, and the Inferno, also pass before him, not merely like | pictures on the wall—for he too lives and suffers in these scenes,—and yet not without that fleeting sensation of appearance. And perhaps many a one will, like myself, recollect having sometimes called out cheeringly and not without success amid the dangers and terrors of dream-life: "It is a dream! I will dream on!" I have likewise been told of persons capable of continuing the causality of one and the same dream for three and even more successive nights: all of which facts clearly testify that our innermost being, the common substratum of all of us, experiences our dreams with deep joy and cheerful acquiescence.
(Haussmann, Complete Works 23-24. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
L’apparence pleine de beauté des mondes du | rêve, dans la production desquels tout homme est un artiste complet, est la condition préalable de tout art plastique, et certainement aussi, comme nous le verrons, d’une partie essentielle de la poésie. Nous éprouvons de la jouissance à la compréhension immédiate de la forme, toutes les formes nous parlent, nulle n’est indifférente, aucune n’est inutile. Et pourtant la vie la plus intense de cette réalité de rêve nous laisse encore le sentiment confus qu’elle n’est qu’une apparence. C’est du moins le résultat de ma propre expérience et je pourrais citer maints témoignages et aussi les déclarations des poètes pour montrer combien cette impression est normale et répandue. L’homme doué d’un esprit philosophique a même le pressentiment que, derrière la réalité dans laquelle nous existons et vivons, il s’en cache une autre toute différente, et que, par conséquent, la première n’est, elle aussi, qu’une apparence ; et Schopenhauer définit formellement, comme étant le signe distinctif de l’aptitude philosophique, la faculté pour certains de se représenter parfois les hommes et toutes les choses comme de purs fantômes, des images de rêve. Eh bien, l’homme doué d’une sensibilité artistique se comporte à l’égard de la réalité du rêve de la même manière que le philosophe en face de la réalité de l’existence ; il l’examine minutieusement et volontiers ; car, dans ces tableaux, il découvre une interprétation de la vie ; à l’aide de ces exemples, | il s’exerce pour la vie. Ce ne sont pas seulement, comme on pourrait croire, les images agréables et plaisantes qu’il retrouve en soi-même avec cette absolue lucidité : le sévère, le sombre, le triste, le sinistre, les obstacles soudains, les railleries du hasard, les attentes angoissées, en un mot toute la Divine Comédie de la vie, avec son Inferno, se déroule aussi devant lui, non pas seulement comme un spectacle de fantômes, d’ombres, — car, ces scènes, il les vit et les souffre, — et cependant sans qu’il puisse écarter tout à fait cette impression fugitive qu’elles ne sont qu’une apparence. Et peut-être quelques-uns se souviendront comme moi de s’être écrié, en se rassurant au milieu des périls et des terreurs d’un rêve : « C’est un rêve ! Je ne veux pas qu’il cesse ! Je veux le rêver encore ! » J’ai entendu dire aussi que certaines personnes possédaient la faculté de prolonger la causalité d’un seul et même rêve pendant trois nuits successives et plus. Ces faits attestent avec évidence que notre nature la plus intime, l’arrière-fond commun de nous tous, trouve dans le rêve un plaisir profond et une joie nécessaire.
(Marnold and Morland 26-28. Text copied from Wikisource. PDF at Gallica.)
1.4
[The Apolline is a matter of dream, illusion, and appearance. This opens the possibility that one under its influence descends into a state of madness or delirium where one gives into wilder impulses and is unable to discern dream from reality or even things from each other. Yet, as part of the Apolline artistic influence, one retains a wise calm that prevents this pathology.]
Apollo, “the god of all image-making energies,” is “also the god of prophecy”. And, Apollo is the god of light and thus of semblance and fantasy. [I do not know German, unfortunately, but we might note a terminological overlap between illumination and semblance. Apollo is “the luminous one” (der Scheinende), and he is associated with the realm of semblance (Schein). Schein is “semblance” in Speirs, “illusion” in Kaufmann, “appearance” in Haussmann, and “l’apparence” in Marnold and Morland.] [I may not follow the next point, so please consult the quotations below. The idea might be the following. So far we have associated Apollo with dream. But we can mistake dreams for reality, especially in states of delirium. Nietzsche now says that the Apolline contains a certain limiting structure that prevents the artist from confusing dream and reality, and to also check “wilder impulses” and to instead have the “wise calm” of Apollo. This calm is somehow related to “the consecrated quality of lovely semblance” and to what Schopenhauer says about humans who are trapped in the veil of maya. Here in a stormy sea, the boatman sits calmly. He is supported by and trusts the principium individuationis. I am not sure what the idea is there, but I will guess it is the following. The realm of dream can become confused with reality, and it opens the possibility that one loses control over one’s mind, as it descends into a delirium or madness. In that state, perhaps, one’s own self or the things around oneself can lose their stable identities. But those under the Apolline artistic influence trust in the principle that distinguishes things formally from one another. But I get the sense that the principium individuationis here is also the factor that allows one to distinguish oneself from the surrounding world, as the next section will suggest. Let me quote for you now.]
Diese freudige Nothwendigkeit der Traumerfahrung ist gleichfalls von den Griechen in ihrem Apollo ausgedrückt worden: Apollo, als der Gott aller bildnerischen Kräfte, ist zugleich der wahrsagende Gott. Er, der seiner Wurzel nach der "Scheinende", die Lichtgottheit ist, beherrscht auch den schönen Schein der inneren Phantasie-Welt. Die höhere Wahrheit, die Vollkommenheit dieser Zustände im Gegensatz zu der lückenhaft verständlichen Tageswirklichkeit, sodann das tiefe Bewusstsein von der in Schlaf und Traum heilenden und helfenden Natur ist zugleich das symbolische Analogon der wahrsagenden Fähigkeit und überhaupt der Künste, durch die das Leben möglich und lebenswerth gemacht wird. Aber auch jene zarte Linie, die das Traumbild nicht überschreiten darf, um nicht pathologisch zu wirken, widrigenfalls der Schein als plumpe Wirklichkeit uns betrügen würde - darf nicht im Bilde des Apollo fehlen: jene maassvolle Begrenzung, jene Freiheit von den wilderen Regungen, jene weisheitsvolle Ruhe des Bildnergottes. Sein Auge muss "sonnenhaft", gemäss seinem Ursprunge, sein; auch wenn es zürnt und unmuthig blickt, liegt die Weihe des schönen Scheines auf ihm. Und so möchte von Apollo in einem excentrischen Sinne das gelten, was Schopenhauer von dem im Schleier der Maja befangenen Menschen sagt. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung I, S. 416 "Wie auf dem tobenden Meere, das, nach allen Seiten unbegränzt, heulend Wellenberge erhebt und senkt, auf einem Kahn ein Schiffer sitzt, dem schwachen Fahrzeug vertrauend; so sitzt, mitten in einer Welt von Qualen, ruhig der einzelne Mensch, gestützt und vertrauend auf das principium individuationis". Ja es wäre von Apollo zu sagen, dass in ihm das unerschütterte Vertrauen auf jenes principium und das ruhige Dasitzen des in ihm | Befangenen seinen erhabensten Ausdruck bekommen habe, und man möchte selbst Apollo als das herrliche Götterbild des principii individuationis bezeichnen, aus dessen Gebärden und Blicken die ganze Lust und Weisheit des "Scheines", sammt seiner Schönheit, zu uns spräche.
(Werke 22-23. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
The Greeks also expressed the joyous necessity of dream-experience in their Apollo: as the god of all image-making energies, Apollo is also the god of prophecy. According to the etymological root of his name, he is 'the luminous one' (der Scheinende), the god of light; as such, he also governs the lovely semblance produced by the inner world of fantasy. The higher truth, the perfection of these dream-states in contrast to the only partially intelligible reality of the daylight world, together with the profound consciousness of the helping and healing powers of nature in sleep and dream, is simultaneously the symbolic analogue of the ability to prophesy and indeed of all the arts through which life is made possible and worth living. But the image of Apollo must also contain that delicate line which the dream-image may not overstep if its effect is not to become pathological, so that, in the worst case, the semblance would deceive us as if it were crude reality; his image (Bild) must include that measured limitation (maßvolle Begrenzung), that freedom from wilder impulses, that wise calm of the image-making god. In accordance with his origin, his eye must be 'sunlike'; even when its gaze is angry and shows displeasure, it exhibits the consecrated quality of lovely semblance. Thus, in an eccentric sense, one could apply to Apollo what Schopenhauer says about human beings trapped in the veil of maya:
Just as the boatman sits in his small boat, trusting his frail craft in a stormy sea that is boundless in every direction, rising and falling with the howling, mountainous waves, so in the midst of a world full of suffering and misery the individual man | calmly sits, supported by and trusting in the principium individuationis [ . . . ]
(World as Will and Representation, I, p. 416)
Indeed one could say that Apollo is the most sublime expression of imperturbable trust in this principle and of the calm sitting-there of the person trapped within it; one might even describe Apollo as the magnificent divine image (Götterbild) of the principium individuationis, whose gestures and gaze speak to us of all the intense pleasure, wisdom and beauty of 'semblance'
(Speirs 16-17)
This joyous necessity of the dream experience has been embodied by the Greeks in their Apollo: Apollo, the god of all plastic energies, is at the same time the soothsaying god. He, who (as the etymology of the name indicates) is the “shining one,” the deity of light, is also ruler over the beautiful illusion of the inner world of fantasy. The higher truth, the perfection of these states in contrast to the incompletely intelligible everyday world, this deep consciousness of nature, healing and helping in sleep and dreams, is at the same time the symbolical analogue of the soothsaying faculty and of the arts generally, which make life possible and worth living. But we must also include in our image of Apollo that delicate boundary which the dream image must not overstep lest it have a pathological effect (in which case mere appearance would deceive us as if it were crude reality). We must keep in mind that measured restraint, that freedom from the wilder emotions, that calm of the sculptor god. His eye must be “sunlike,” as befits his origin; even when it is angry and distempered it is still hallowed by beautiful illusion. And so, in one sense, we might apply to Apollo the words of Schopenhauer when he speaks of the man wrapped in the veil of māyā (Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, I, p. 416): “Just as in a | stormy sea that, unbounded in all directions, raises and drops mountainous waves, howling, a sailor sits in a boat and trusts in his frail bark: so in the midst of a world of torments the individual human being sits quietly, supported by and trusting in the principium individuationis.” In fact, we might say of Apollo that in him the unshaken faith in this principium and the calm repose of the man wrapped up in it receive their most sublime expression; and we might call Apollo himself the glorious divine image of the principium individuationis, through whose gestures and eyes all the joy and wisdom of “illusion,” together with its beauty, speak to us.
(Kaufmann, Basic Writings 35-36. Text copied from Readsbird)
This cheerful acquiescence in the dream-experience has likewise been embodied by the Greeks in their Apollo: for Apollo, as the god of all shaping energies, is also the soothsaying god. He, who (as the etymology of the name indicates) is the "shining one," the deity of light, also rules over the fair appearance of the inner world of fantasies. The higher truth, the perfection of these states in contrast to the only partially intelligible everyday world, ay, the deep consciousness of nature, healing and helping in sleep and dream, is at the same time the symbolical analogue of the faculty of soothsaying and, in general, of the arts, through which life is made possible and worth living. But also that delicate line, which the dream-picture must not overstep—lest it act pathologically (in which case appearance, being reality pure and simple, would impose upon us)—must not be wanting in the picture of Apollo: that measured limitation, that freedom | from the wilder emotions, that philosophical calmness of the sculptor-god. His eye must be "sunlike," according to his origin; even when it is angry and looks displeased, the sacredness of his beauteous appearance is still there. And so we might apply to Apollo, in an eccentric sense, what Schopenhauer says of the man wrapt in the veil of Mâyâ: Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, I. p. 416: "Just as in a stormy sea, unbounded in every direction, rising and falling with howling mountainous waves, a sailor sits in a boat and trusts in his frail barque: so in the midst of a world of sorrows the individual sits quietly supported by and trusting in his principium individuationis." Indeed, we might say of Apollo, that in him the unshaken faith in this principium and the quiet sitting of the man wrapt therein have received their sublimest expression; and we might even designate Apollo as the glorious divine image of the principium individuationis, from out of the gestures and looks of which all the joy and wisdom of "appearance," together with its beauty, speak to us.
(Haussmann, Complete Works 24-25. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
De même les Grecs ont représenté sous la figure de leur Apollon ce désir joyeux du rêve : Apollon, en tant que dieu de toutes les facultés créatrices de formes, est en même temps le dieu divinateur. Lui qui, d’après son origine, est « l’apparence » rayonnante, la divinité de la lumière, il règne aussi sur | l’apparence pleine de beauté du monde intérieur de l’imagination. La vérité plus haute, la perfection de ce monde, opposées à la réalité imparfaitement intelligible de tous les jours, enfin la conscience profonde de la réparatrice et salutaire nature du sommeil et du rêve, sont symboliquement l'analogue, à la fois, de l’aptitude à la divination, et des arts en général, par lesquels la vie est rendue possible et digne d’être vécue. Mais elle ne doit pas manquer à l’image d’Apollon, cette ligne délicate que la vision perçue dans le rêve ne saurait franchir sans que son effet ne devienne pathologique, et qu’alors l’apparence ne nous donne l’illusion d’une grossière réalité ; je veux dire cette pondération, cette libre aisance dans les émotions les plus violentes, cette sereine sagesse du dieu de la forme. Conformément à son origine, son regard doit être « rayonnant comme le soleil » ; même alors qu’il exprime le souci ou la colère, le reflet sacré de la vision de beauté n’en doit pas disparaître. Et l’on pourrait ainsi appliquer à Apollon, dans un sens excentrique, les paroles de Schopenhauer sur l’homme enveloppé du voile de Maïa (Monde comme Volonté et comme Représentation, I, 416) : « Comme un pêcheur dans un esquif, tranquille et plein de confiance en sa frêle embarcation, au milieu d’une mer démontée qui, sans bornes et sans obstacles, soulève et abat en mugissant des montagnes de flots écumants, | l’homme individuel, au milieu d’un monde de douleurs, demeure impassible et serein, appuyé avec confiance sur le principium individuationis ». Oui, on pourrait dire que l’inébranlable confiance en ce principe et la calme sécurité de celui qui en est pénétré ont trouvé dans Apollon leur expression la plus sublime, et on pourrait même reconnaître en Apollon l’image divine et splendide du principe d’individuation, par les gestes et les regards de laquelle nous parlent toute la joie et la sagesse de « l’apparence », en même temps que sa beauté.
(Marnold and Morland 28-30. Text copied from Wikisource. PDF at Gallica.)
1.5
[But the Dionysiac, under the Bacchic state of intoxication, in fact does involve this breakdown in one’s sense of distinction between the things of the world and between oneself and the world. This state of intoxication is healthy and not pathological.]
Nietzsche then says that in the above quoted part of World as Will and Representation, Schopenhauer also describes a profound state of horror that overcomes people “when they suddenly become confused and lose faith in the cognitive forms of the phenomenal world because the principle of sufficient reason, in one or other of its modes, appears to sustain an exception”. [I am not familiar with Schopenhauer’s text, so I do not know how the principle of sufficient reason is involved in the cognitive forms of the phenomenal world. I also do not know what it means for the principle of sufficient reason to sustain an exception. The idea here seems to be that on account of some cause, one loses the ability to draw distinctions between the things that appear in their world and between themselves and that world.] Along with this horror, one may also [on account of similar causes or reasons] experience “the blissful ecstasy which arises from the innermost ground of man, indeed of nature itself, whenever this breakdown of the principium individuationis occurs, we catch a glimpse of the essence of the Dionysiac, which is best conveyed by the analogy of intoxication”. [We saw that with the Apolline, one does not enter this state of loss of distinctions between things and between oneself and the world. But such a state in inherent to the Dionysiac influence.] “These Dionysiac stirrings, which, as they grow in intensity, cause subjectivity to vanish to the point of complete self-forgetting, awaken either under the influence of narcotic drink, of which all human beings and peoples who are close to the origin of things speak in their hymns, or at the approach of spring when the whole of nature is pervaded by lust for life”. This sort of Bacchic state was also seen later in the German Middle Ages. The Bacchic state is a vital and healthy one and not necessarily a matter of pathology.
An derselben Stelle hat uns Schopenhauer das ungeheure Grausen geschildert, welches den Menschen ergreift, wenn er plötzlich an den Erkenntnissformen der Erscheinung irre wird, indem der Satz vom Grunde, in irgend einer seiner Gestaltungen, eine Ausnahme zu erleiden scheint. Wenn wir zu diesem Grausen die wonnevolle Verzückung hinzunehmen, die bei demselben Zerbrechen des principii individuationis aus dem innersten Grunde des Menschen, ja der Natur emporsteigt, so thun wir einen Blick in das Wesen des Dionysischen, das uns am nächsten noch durch die Analogie des Rausches gebracht wird. Entweder durch den Einfluss des narkotischen Getränkes, von dem alle ursprünglichen Menschen und Völker in Hymnen sprechen, oder bei dem gewaltigen, die ganze Natur lustvoll durchdringenden Nahen des Frühlings erwachen jene dionysischen Regungen, in deren Steigerung das Subjective zu völliger Selbstvergessenheit hinschwindet. Auch im deutschen Mittelalter wälzten sich unter der gleichen dionysischen Gewalt immer wachsende Schaaren, singend und tanzend, von Ort zu Ort: in diesen Sanct-Johann- und Sanct-Veittänzern erkennen wir die bacchischen Chöre der Griechen wieder, mit ihrer Vorgeschichte in Kleinasien, bis hin zu Babylon und den orgiastischen Sakäen. Es giebt Menschen, die, aus Mangel an Erfahrung oder aus Stumpfsinn, sich von solchen Erscheinungen wie von "Volkskrankheiten", spöttisch oder bedauernd im Gefühl der eigenen Gesundheit abwenden: die Armen ahnen freilich nicht, wie leichenfarbig | und gespenstisch eben diese ihre "Gesundheit" sich ausnimmt, wenn an ihnen das glühende Leben dionysischer Schwärmer vorüberbraust.
(Werke 23-24. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
In the same passage Schopenhauer has described for us the enormous horror which seizes people when they suddenly become confused and lose faith in the cognitive forms of the phenomenal world because the principle of sufficient reason, in one or other of its modes, appears to sustain an exception. If we add to this horror the blissful ecstasy which arises from the innermost ground of man, indeed of nature itself, whenever this breakdown of the principium individuationis occurs, we catch a glimpse of the essence of the Dionysiac, which is best conveyed by the analogy of intoxication. These Dionysiac stirrings, which, as they grow in intensity, cause subjectivity to vanish to the point of complete self-forgetting, awaken either under the influence of narcotic drink, of which all human beings and peoples who are close to the origin of things speak in their hymns, or at the approach of spring when the whole of nature is pervaded by lust for life. In the German Middle Ages, too, ever-growing throngs roamed from place to place, impelled by the same Dionysiac power, singing and dancing as they went; in these St John's and St Vitus' dancers we recognize the Bacchic choruses of the Greeks, with their pre-history in Asia Minor, extending to Babylon and the orgiastic Sacaea. There are those who, | whether from lack of experience or from dullness of spirit, turn away in scorn or pity from such phenomena, regarding them as 'popular diseases' while believing in their own good health; of course, these poor creatures have not the slightest inkling of how spectral and deathly pale their 'health' seems when the glowing life of Dionysiac enthusiasts storms past them.
(Speirs 17-18)
In the same work Schopenhauer has depicted for us the tremendous terror which seizes man when he is suddenly dumfounded by the cognitive form of phenomena because the principle of sufficient reason, in some one of its manifestations, seems to suffer an exception. If we add to this terror the blissful ecstasy that wells from the innermost depths of man, indeed of nature, at this collapse of the principium individuationis, we steal a glimpse into the nature of the Dionysian, which is brought home to us most intimately by the analogy of intoxication.
Either under the influence of the narcotic draught, of which the songs of all primitive men and peoples speak, or with the potent coming of spring that penetrates all nature with joy, these Dionysian emotions awake, and as they grow in intensity everything subjective vanishes into complete self-forgetfulness. In the German Middle Ages, too, singing and dancing crowds, ever increasing in number, whirled themselves from place to place under this same Dionysian impulse. In these dancers of St. John and St. Vitus, we rediscover the Bacchic choruses of the Greeks, with their prehistory in Asia Minor, as far back as Babylon and the orgiastic Sacaea. There are some who, from obtuseness or lack of experience, | turn away from such phenomena as from “folk-diseases,” with contempt or pity born of the consciousness of their own “healthy-mindedness.” But of course such poor wretches have no idea how corpselike and ghostly their so-called “healthy-mindedness” looks when the glowing life of the Dionysian revelers roars past them.
(Kaufmann, Basic Writings 36-37. Text copied from Readsbird)
In the same work Schopenhauer has described to us the stupendous awe which seizes upon man, when of a sudden he is at a loss to account for the cognitive forms of a phenomenon, in that the principle of reason, in some one of its manifestations, seems to admit of an exception. Add to this awe the blissful ecstasy which rises from the | innermost depths of man, ay, of nature, at this same collapse of the principium individuationis, and we shall gain an insight into the being of the Dionysian, which is brought within closest ken perhaps by the analogy of drunkenness. It is either under the influence of the narcotic draught, of which the hymns of all primitive men and peoples tell us, or by the powerful approach of spring penetrating all nature with joy, that those Dionysian emotions awake, in the augmentation of which the subjective vanishes to complete self-forgetfulness. So also in the German Middle Ages singing and dancing crowds, ever increasing in number, were borne from place to place under this same Dionysian power. In these St. John's and St. Vitus's dancers we again perceive the Bacchic choruses of the Greeks, with their previous history in Asia Minor, as far back as Babylon and the orgiastic Sacæa. There are some, who, from lack of experience or obtuseness, will turn away from such phenomena as "folk-diseases" with a smile of contempt or pity prompted by the consciousness of their own health: of course, the poor wretches do not divine what a cadaverous-looking and ghastly aspect this very "health" of theirs presents when the glowing life of the Dionysian revellers rushes past them.
(Haussmann, Complete Works 25-26. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
À la même page, Schopenhauer nous a dépeint l’épouvantable horreur qui saisit l’homme, dérouté soudain par les formes apparentes des phénomènes, alors que le principe de causalité, dans une de ses manifestations quelconques, semble souffrir une exception. Si, outre cette horreur, nous considérons l’extase transportée qui, devant cet effondrement du principe d’individuation, s’élève du plus profond de l’homme, du plus profond de la nature elle-même, alors nous commençons à entrevoir en quoi consiste l’état dionysiaque, que nous comprendrons mieux encore par l’analogie de l’ivresse. C’est par la puissance du breuvage narcotique que tous les hommes et tous les peuples primitifs ont chanté dans leurs hymnes, ou bien par la force despotique du renouveau printanier pénétrant joyeusement la nature entière, que s’éveille cette exaltation dionysienne qui entraîne dans son essor | l’individu subjectif jusqu’à l’anéantir en un complet oubli de soi-même. Encore pendant le moyen âge allemand, des multitudes toujours plus nombreuses tournoyèrent sous le souffle de cette même puissance dionysiaque, chantant et dansant, de place en place : dans ces danseurs de la Saint-Jean et de la Saint-Guy nous reconnaissons les chœurs bachiques des Grecs, dont l’origine se perd, à travers l’Asie Mineure, jusqu’à Babylone et jusqu’aux orgies sacéennes. Il est des gens qui, par ignorance ou étroitesse d’esprit, se détournent de semblables phénomènes, comme ils s’écarteraient de « maladies contagieuses », et, dans la sûre conscience de leur propre santé, les raillent ou les prennent en pitié. Les malheureux ne se doutent pas de la pâleur cadavérique et de l’air de spectre de leur « santé », lorsque passe devant eux l’ouragan de vie ardente des rêveurs dionysiens.
(Marnold and Morland 30-31. Text copied from Wikisource. PDF at Gallica.)
1.6
[The primordial unity between humans and between humans and nature is disrupted in Dionysiac celebration.]
[There apparently was a primordial bond between humans that is disrupted by the principle of individuation, because the Dionysiac renews that bond. And as well, there was apparently a primordial bond between humans and nature, because the Dionysiac renews that as well. Many subjugating bonds between humans are broken, as are any other bounds of distinction between people, by means of the Bacchic revelry.] [Deleuze commentary. Deleuze notes the opposition that Nietzsche sets up “between primitive unity and individuation” / “de l’unité primitive et de l’individuation” (1962: 11 / 2006: 13).]
Unter dem Zauber des Dionysischen schliesst sich nicht nur der Bund zwischen Mensch und Mensch wieder zusammen: auch die entfremdete, feindliche oder unterjochte Natur feiert wieder ihr Versöhnungsfest mit ihrem verlorenen Sohne, dem Menschen. Freiwillig beut die Erde ihre Gaben, und friedfertig nahen die Raubthiere der Felsen und der Wüste. Mit Blumen und Kränzen ist der Wagen des Dionysus überschüttet: unter seinem Joche schreiten Panther und Tiger. Man verwandele das Beethoven'sche Jubellied der "Freude" in ein Gemälde und bleibe mit seiner Einbildungskraft nicht zurück, wenn die Millionen schauervoll in den Staub sinken: so kann man sich dem Dionysischen nähern. Jetzt ist der Sclave freier Mann, jetzt zerbrechen alle die starren, feindseligen Abgrenzungen, die Noth, Willkür oder "freche Mode" zwischen den Menschen festgesetzt haben. Jetzt, bei dem Evangelium der Weltenharmonie, fühlt sich Jeder mit seinem Nächsten nicht nur vereinigt, versöhnt, verschmolzen, sondern eins, als ob der Schleier der Maja zerrissen wäre und nur noch in Fetzen vor dem geheimnissvollen Ur-Einen herumflattere. Singend und tanzend äussert sich der Mensch als Mitglied einer höheren Gemeinsamkeit: er hat das Gehen und das Sprechen verlernt und ist auf dem Wege, tanzend in die Lüfte emporzufliegen. Aus seinen Gebärden spricht die Verzauberung. Wie jetzt die Thiere reden, und die Erde Milch und Honig giebt, so tönt auch aus ihm etwas Uebernatürliches: als Gott fühlt er sich, er selbst wandelt jetzt so verzückt und erhoben, wie er die Götter im Traume wandeln sah. Der Mensch ist nicht mehr Künstler, er ist Kunstwerk geworden: die Kunstgewalt der ganzen Natur, zur höchsten Wonnebefriedigung des Ur-Einen, offenbart sich hier unter den Schauern des Rausches. Der edelste Thon, der kostbarste Marmor wird hier geknetet und behauen, der Mensch, und zu den Meisselschlägen des dionysischen Weltenkünstlers tönt der eleusinische Mysterienruf: "Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen? Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?" -
(Werke 23-24. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
Not only is the bond between human beings renewed by the magic of the Dionysiac, but nature, alienated, inimical, or subjugated, celebrates once more her festival of reconciliation with her lost son, humankind. Freely the earth offers up her gifts, and the beasts of prey from mountain and desert approach in peace. The chariot of Dionysos is laden with flowers and wreaths; beneath its yoke stride panther and tiger. If one were to transform Beethoven's jubilant 'Hymn to Joy' into a painting and place no constraints on one's imagination as the millions sink into the dust, shivering in awe, then one could begin to approach the Dionysiac. Now the slave is a freeman, now all the rigid, hostile barriers, which necessity, caprice, or 'impudent fashion' have established between human beings, break asunder. Now, hearing this gospel of universal harmony, each person feels himself to be not simply united, reconciled or merged with his neighbour, but quite literally one with him, as if the veil of maya had been torn apart, so that mere shreds of it flutter before the mysterious primordial unity (das Ur-Eine). Singing and dancing, man expresses his sense of belonging to a higher community; he has forgotten how to walk and talk and is on the brink of flying and dancing, up and away into the air above. His gestures speak of his enchantment. Just as the animals now talk and the earth gives milk and honey, there now sounds out from within man something supernatural: he feels himself to be a god, he himself now moves in such ecstasy and sublimity as once he saw the gods move in his dreams. Man is no longer an artist, he has become a work of art: all nature's artistic power reveals itself here, amidst shivers of intoxication, to the highest, most blissful satisfaction of the primordial unity. Here man, the noblest clay, the most precious marble, is kneaded and carved and, to the accompaniment of the chisel-blows of the Dionysiac world-artist, the call of the Eleusinian | Mysteries rings out: 'Fall ye to the ground, ye millions? Feelst thou thy Creator, world? '
(Speirs 18-19)
Under the charm of the Dionysian not only is the union between man and man reaffirmed, but nature which has become alienated, hostile, or subjugated, celebrates once more her reconciliation with her lost son,25 man. Freely, earth proffers her gifts, and peacefully the beasts of prey of the rocks and desert approach. The chariot of Dionysus is covered with flowers and garlands; panthers and tigers walk under its yoke. Transform Beethoven’s “Hymn to Joy” into a painting; let your imagination conceive the multitudes bowing to the dust, awestruck—then you will approach the Dionysian. Now the slave is a free man; now all the rigid, hostile barriers that necessity, caprice, or “impudent convention”26 have fixed between man and man are broken. Now, with the gospel of universal harmony, each one feels himself not only united, reconciled, and fused with his neighbor, but as one with him, as if the veil of māyā had been torn aside and were now merely fluttering in tatters before the mysterious primordial unity.
In song and in dance man expresses himself as a member of a higher community; he has forgotten how to walk and speak and is on the way toward flying into the air, dancing. His very gestures express enchantment. Just as the animals now talk, and the earth yields milk and honey, supernatural sounds emanate from him, too: he feels himself a god, he himself now walks about enchanted, in ecstasy, like the gods he saw walking in his dreams. He is no longer an artist, he has become a work of art: in these paroxysms of intoxication the artistic power of all nature reveals itself to the highest gratification of the primordial unity. The noblest clay, the most costly marble, man, is here kneaded and cut, and to the sound of the chisel strokes of the Dionysian world-artist rings out the cry | of the Eleusinian mysteries: “Do you prostrate yourselves, millions? Do you sense your Maker, world?”
(Kaufmann, Basic Writings 37-38. Text copied from Readsbird)
Under the charm of the Dionysian not only is the covenant between man and man again established, but also estranged, hostile or subjugated nature again celebrates her reconciliation with her lost son, man. Of her own accord earth proffers her gifts, and peacefully the beasts of| prey approach from the desert and the rocks. The chariot of Dionysus is bedecked with flowers and garlands: panthers and tigers pass beneath his yoke. Change Beethoven's "jubilee-song" into a painting, and, if your imagination be equal to the occasion when the awestruck millions sink into the dust, you will then be able to approach the Dionysian. Now is the slave a free man, now all the stubborn, hostile barriers, which necessity, caprice, or "shameless fashion" has set up between man and man, are broken down. Now, at the evangel of cosmic harmony, each one feels himself not only united, reconciled, blended with his neighbour, but as one with him, as if the veil of Mâyâ has been torn and were now merely fluttering in tatters before the mysterious Primordial Unity. In song and in dance man exhibits himself as a member of a higher community, he has forgotten how to walk and speak, and is on the point of taking a dancing flight into the air. His gestures bespeak enchantment. Even as the animals now talk, and as the earth yields milk and honey, so also something super-natural sounds forth from him: he feels himself a god, he himself now walks about enchanted and elated even as the gods whom he saw walking about in his dreams. Man is no longer an artist, he has become a work of art: the artistic power of all nature here reveals itself in the tremors of drunkenness to the highest gratification of the Primordial Unity. The noblest clay, the costliest marble, namely man, is here kneaded and cut, and the chisel strokes of | the Dionysian world-artist are accompanied with the cry of the Eleusinian mysteries: "Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen? Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?"
Te bow in the dust, oh millions?
Thy maker, mortal, dost divine?
Cf. Schiller's "Hymn to Joy"; and Beethoven, Ninth Symphony.—TR.(Haussmann, Complete Works 26-28. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
Ce n’est pas seulement l’alliance de l’homme avec l’homme qui est scellée de nouveau sous le charme de l’enchantement dionysien : la nature aliénée, ennemie ou asservie, célèbre elle aussi sa réconciliation avec son enfant prodigue, l’homme. Spontanément, la terre offre ses dons, et les fauves des rochers et du désert s’approchent pacifiques. Le char de Dionysos disparaît sous les fleurs et les couronnes : des panthères et des tigres s’avancent sous son joug. Que l’on métamorphose en tableau l’hymne à la « joie » de Beethoven, et, donnant carrière à son imagination, que l’on contemple les millions d’êtres prosternés frémissants dans la poussière : à ce moment l’ivresse dionysienne sera proche. Alors l’esclave est libre, alors se brisent toutes les barrières rigides et hostiles que la misère, l’arbitraire ou la « mode insolente » ont établies entre les hommes. Maintenant, par l’évangile de l’harmonie universelle, chacun se sent, avec son prochain, non seulement réuni, réconcilié, fondu, mais encore identique en soi, comme si s’était déchiré le voile de Maïa, et comme s’il n’en flottait plus que des lambeaux devant le mystérieux Un-primordial. Chantant et dansant, l’homme se manifeste comme membre d’une communauté supérieure : il a désappris de marcher et de parler, et est sur le point de s’envoler à travers les airs, en dansant. Ses gestes décèlent une enchanteresse béatitude. De même que maintenant les animaux parlent, et que la terre produit du lait et du miel, la voix de l’homme, elle aussi, résonne comme quelque chose de surnaturel : il se sent Dieu ; maintenant son allure est aussi noble et pleine d’extase que celle des dieux qu’il a vus dans ses rêves. L’homme n’est plus artiste, il est devenu œuvre d’art : la puissance esthétique de la nature entière, pour la plus haute béatitude et la plus noble satisfaction de l’Un-primordial, se révèle ici sous le frémissement de l’ivresse. La plus noble argile, le marbre le plus précieux, l’homme, est ici pétri et façonné ; et, aux coups du ciseau de l’artiste des mondes dionysiens, répond le cri des Mystères d’Éleusis : « Vous tombez prosternés à genoux, millions d’êtres ? Monde, pressens-tu le Créateur ?»
(Marnold and Morland 30-31. Text copied from Wikisource. PDF at Gallica.)
Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1899. Die Geburt der Tragödie. In Nietzsche’s Werke, Erste Abtheilung, Band 1. Leibzig: Naumann.
PDF available at:
https://archive.org/details/werke01niet
Online text of Die Geburt der Tragödie available at:
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7206
Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1999. The Birth of Tragedy. In The Birth of Tragedy and Other Writings, edited by Raymond Geuss and Ronald Speirs, English translation by Ronald Speirs, pp.1-116. Cambridge: Cambridge University.
Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1968. The Birth of Tragedy. In Basic Writings of Nietzsche, edited by Walter Kaufmann, English translation by Walter Kaufmann, pp.3-178. New York: Modern Library.
Text available online at:
http://www.readsbird.com/basic-writings-nietzsche-friedrich-wilhelm-nietzsche-walter-arnold-kaufmann
Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1923. The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, vol.1: The Birth of Tragedy, edited by Oscar Levy, English translation by WM. A. Haussmann. New York: George Allen & Unwin.
PDF available at:
https://archive.org/details/thebirthoftraged00nietuoft
Online text available at:
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51356
Another English translation online text at:
http://nietzsche.holtof.com/select.htm
http://nietzsche.holtof.com/Nietzsche_the_birth_of_tragedy/index.htm
http://nietzsche.holtof.com/Nietzsche_the_birth_of_tragedy/the_birth_of_tragedy.htm
Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1901. L’origine de la tragédie, ou Hellénisme et pessimisme. French translation by Jean Marnold et Jacques Morland. Paris: Mercure de France.
PDF available at:
http://catalogue.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/cb310183772
http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k97691395/f19.image
Online text available at:
https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/%C5%92uvres_compl%C3%A8tes_de_Fr%C3%A9d%C3%A9ric_Nietzsche
https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/L%E2%80%99Origine_de_la_Trag%C3%A9die
Also cited:
Deleuze, Gilles. 1983. Cours 1983–12–13. Session 49.2 of “Cinéma / Vérité et temps – La puissance du faux”.
http://www2.univ-paris8.fr/deleuze/article.php3?id_article=272
Deleuze, Gilles. 1984. Cours 1984–11–20. Session 70.2 of “Cinéma / Pensée”.
http://www2.univ-paris8.fr/deleuze/article.php3?id_article=368
Deleuze, Gilles. 1962 [6th edn, 1983]. Nietzsche et la philosophie. Paris: PUF.
Deleuze, Gilles. 2006 [Text 1983 Athlone; foreward and index 2006 Colombia University]. Nietzsche and Philosophy. New York: Colombia University / Athlone.
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