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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
2
[The Greek people as expressers of the Apolline and Dionysiac artistic forces of nature. Music and dance as Dionysiac.]
Brief summary:
The Dionysiac and the Apolline are artistic powers of nature. They come together in Greek tragedy, where the tragic character’s intoxicated reunion with the primordial unity is dramatically enacted while also intelligibly stated by the chorus. In Ancient Greece, there was a time when there was just the Apolline tendency, which caused the Greeks to become unaware of the deeper and more originary primordial unity. Regarding the Apollonian dream component of Greek art, we note that the Greek’s vision had a plastic power, and the Greeks delighted in color. Thus their dreams also had a logic of line, contour, color, grouping, and sequence (like the scenes of a bas-relief). Then at some point in history, the Dionysian mode of intoxicated worship spread throughout Greece. The Dionysiac tendency uses the power of music to break down the sense of distinction between oneself and other things or people and to return to the primordial unity. The Dionysiac sentiment is often dual, being an expression both of pain and of pleasure.
Brief summary of Deleuze’s commentary:
[See both points of commentary ({1} intoxication and {2} primordial unity) from section 1. They hold as well for this section.]
{3} Nietzsche’s philosophy saw a development. It begins with quasi-dialectical oppositions, like that “between primitive unity and individuation” / “de l’unité primitive et de l’individuation” (Deleuze NP, 1962: 11 / 2006: 13). This particular opposition involves {A} an initial “good” state of primordial unity that gives way to {B} an artificial “bad” state where one is separated from that unity through the individuating powers of the Apolline artistic tendency, and it is then restored to {C} a “good” state of renewed primordial unity through the Dionysian artistic tendency. As such, in this early conception, Nietzsche construes the world as if the way it is given is somehow blameworthy. “Life needs to be justified, that is to say redeemed from suffering and contradiction. The Birth of Tragedy is developed in the shadow of the Christian dialectic; justification, redemption and reconciliation” (Deleuze NP, 1962: 11 / 2006: 13). Later Nietzsche will move past dialectical oppositions and emphasize the role of the affirmation of life rather than its judgment and condemnation.
{4} But already in The Birth of Tragedy, we see the beginnings of this development in the role of pain. The Dionysiac, although it involves a return to a primordial unity, also involves a pain that is not resolved into a higher and suprapersonal pleasure but is rather felt distinctly by the individual herself. This is perhaps a way that Dionysus distributes himself into the multiplicity of people entering the Dionysiac state, rather than him resolving into a unity (the primordial unity). Also, perhaps the pain that is felt in this state should be seen not as the suffering of individuation but rather as the pain of growth of the individual who is transforming herself through the ecstatic state; and, as a transformative factor of growth, this pain is affirmative of life:
But even in the Birth of Tragedy a thousand | pointers make us sense the approach of a new conception which has little to do with this schema. From the outset Dionysus is insistently presented as the affirmative and affirming god. He is not content with “resolving” pain in a higher and supra personal pleasure but rather he affirms it and turns it into someone's pleasure. This is why Dionysus is himself transformed in multiple affirmations, rather than being dissolved in original being or reabsorbing multiplicity into primeval depths. He affirms the pains of growth rather than reproducing the sufferings of individuation. He is the god who affirms life, for whom life must be affirmed, but not justified or redeemed.
(Deleuze NP, 2006: 12-13)
Mais déjà, dans l’Origine de la tragédie, mille choses pointent, qui nous font sentir l’approche d’une conception nouvelle peu conforme à ce schéma. Et d’abord, Dionysos est présenté avec insistance comme le dieu affirmatif et affirmateur. Il ne se contente pas de « résoudre » la douleur en un plaisir supérieur et supra-personnel, il affirme la douleur et en fait le plaisir de quelqu’un. C’est pourquoi Dionysos se métamorphose lui-même en affirmations multiples, plus qu’il ne se résout dans l’être originel ou ne résorbe le multiple dans un fond primitif. Il affirme les douleurs de la croissance, plus qu’il ne reproduit les souffrances de l’individuation. Il est le dieu qui affirme la vie, pour qui la vie a à être affirmée, mais non pas justifiée ni rachetée.
(Deleuze NP, 1962: 14)
Summary
2.1
[The Dionysian and the Apolline come together in Greek tragedy, where the tragic character’s intoxicated reunion with the primordial unity is dramatically enacted while also intelligibly stated by the chorus.]
Nietzsche recalls some of the important ideas from section 1. Two artistic powers “erupt from nature itself”, the Apolline and the Dionysiac. Nietzsche says they erupt “without the mediation of any human artist”. [I am not certain what is meant by that. I suppose the idea is that nature speaks through the artists, and thus they are like drives expressing themselves through the artists. See section 1.1.] Nietzsche says that nature herself has artistic drives, and they attain their first, immediate satisfaction in these two artistic powers. By means of the Apolline, nature attains satisfaction of its artistic drives through their expression in the image-world of dream. [Nietzsche says that the perfection of this world “is not linked to an individual’s intellectual level or artistic formation (Bildung)”, but I am not sure what he means. I will guess that the idea is the following. This realm of dreams contains intelligible forms. They should be considered as clear and complete in themselves, even if the artist or her cultural practices are unprepared to discern those forms in their completeness.] And through the Dionysiac, nature attains satisfaction of its artistic drives through their expression in “intoxicated reality”. [Deleuze commentary: see section 1 for comments on intoxication.] The Dionysiac has no regard for the individual [as something distinct from other things], because it seeks to “annihilate, redeem, and release him by imparting a mystical sense of oneness”. [Note here the notion of redemption. Deleuze commentary. Deleuze says that in BT, Nietzsche sets up certain dialectic-like oppositions, including that “between primitive unity and individuation” / “de l’unité primitive et de l’individuation” (Deleuze NP, 1962: 11 / 2006: 13). It is indicative of a view that life is somehow incomplete or wrong. In this case, Nietzsche establishes a primitive unity that is the good state: it was “wrong” to veer away from it, and it would be better were we to return to it. “Life needs to be justified, that is to say redeemed from suffering and contradiction. The Birth of Tragedy is developed in the shadow of the Christian dialectic; justification, redemption and reconciliation” (Deleuze NP, 1962: 11 / 2006: 13). Deleuze makes this point because he shows how Nietzsche’s philosophy later develops the idea of affirming life and not judging it as inadequate or wrong.] [I may not get the next ideas right, so please consult the quotation below. Nietzsche says that these are unmediated artistic states in nature. But they are expressed still through the direct artistic behavior of the artist, perhaps in states of artistic inspiration or original creation, but I am not sure. Thus the artist when expressing the unmediated artistic states of nature is simply imitating either Apollo by being a dream-artist or Dionysus as being an artist of intoxication. (Recall from section 1.1 that the two competing artistic tendencies ultimately come together in Attic tragedy.) In Greek tragedy, one can be (or imitate) an artist of both dream and intoxication at the same time. (I am especially guessing at the next point. Let us think of a specific situation: the scene in Sophocle’s Oedipus Rex when Oedipus emerges freshly blinded. He says at one point:
OEDIPUS: Oh, Ohh–
the agony! I am agony–
where am I going? where on earth?
where does all this agony hurl me?
where’s my voice?–
winging, swept away on a dark tide–
My destiny, my dark power, what a leap you made!
CHORUS: To the depths of terror, too dark to hear, to see.
OEDIPUS: Dark, horror of darkness
my darkness, drowning, swirling around me
Crashing wave on wave – unspeakable, irresistible
headwind, fatal harbor! Oh again,
the misery, all at once, over and over
the stabbing daggers, stab of memory
raking me insane.
CHORUS: No wonder you suffer |
twice over, the pain of your wounds,
the lasting grief of pain.
(351-352)
Here we might imagine the actor playing Oedipus in a passionate state where it might seem like his world and he himself are completely coming apart. It could thus be that “he sinks to the ground in Dionysiac drunkenness and mystical self-abandon”. The Chorus, however, retains the Apolline “wise calm” (see section 1.4) and reveals Oedipus’ oneness with the primordial unity but by using the clear imagery of the Apolline: “the enthusiastic choruses, at which point, under the Apolline influence of dream, his own condition, which is to say, his oneness with the innermost ground of the world, reveals itself to him in a symbolic (gleichnishaft) dream-image.” So I am not sure, but the idea might be that the Dionysian and Apolline can come together in these interactions of tragic characters and chorus.]
Wir haben bis jetzt das Apollinische und seinen Gegensatz, das Dionysische, als künstlerische Mächte betrachtet, die aus der Natur selbst, ohne Vermittelung des menschlichen Künstlers, hervorbrechen, und in denen sich ihre Kunsttriebe zunächst und auf directem Wege befriedigen: einmal als die Bilderwelt des Traumes, deren Vollkommenheit ohne jeden Zusammenhang mit der intellectuellen Höhe oder künstlerischen Bildung des Einzelnen ist, andererseits als rauschvolle Wirklichkeit, die wiederum des Einzelnen nicht achtet, sondern sogar das Individuum zu vernichten und durch eine mystische Einheitsempfindung zu erlösen sucht. Diesen unmittelbaren Kunstzuständen der Natur gegenüber ist jeder Künstler “Nachahmer”, und zwar entweder apollinischer Traumkünstler oder dionysischer Rauschkünstler oder endlich – wie beispielsweise in der griechischen Tragödie – zugleich Rausch- und Traumkünstler: als welchen wir uns etwa zu denken haben, wie er, in der dionysischen Trunkenheit und mystischen Selbstentäusserung, einsam und abseits von den schwärmenden Chören niedersinkt und wie sich ihm nun, durch apollinische Traumeinwirkung, sein eigener Zustand d.h. seine Einheit mit dem innersten Grunde der Welt in einem gleichnissartigen Traumbilde offenbart.
(Werke 25. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
So far we have considered the Apolline and its opposite, the Dionysiac, as artistic powers which erupt from nature itself, without the mediation of any human artist, and in which nature’s artistic drives attain their first, immediate satisfaction: on the one hand as the image-world of dream, the perfection of which is not linked to an individual’s intellectual level or artistic formation (Bildung); and on the other hand as intoxicated reality, which has just as little regard for the individual, even seeking to annihilate, redeem, and release him by imparting a mystical sense of oneness. In relation to these unmediated artistic states in nature every artist is an ‘imitator’, and indeed either an Apolline dream-artist or a Dionysiac artist of intoxication or finally – as, for example, in Greek tragedy – an artist of both dream and intoxication at once. This is how we must think of him as he sinks to the ground in Dionysiac drunkenness and mystical self-abandon, alone and apart from the enthusiastic choruses, at which point, under the Apolline influence of dream, his own condition, which is to say, his oneness with the innermost ground of the world, reveals itself to him in a symbolic (gleichnishaft) dream-image.
(Speirs 19)
Thus far we have considered the Apollinian and its opposite, the Dionysian, as artistic energies which burst forth from nature herself, without the mediation of the human artist—energies in which nature’s art impulses are satisfied in the most immediate and direct way—first in the image world of dreams, whose completeness is not dependent upon the intellectual attitude or the artistic culture of any single being; and then as intoxicated reality, which likewise does not heed the single unit, but even seeks to destroy the individual and redeem him by a mystic feeling of oneness. With reference to these immediate art-states of nature, every artist is an “imitator,” that is to say, either an Apollinian artist in dreams, or a Dionysian artist in ecstasies, or finally—as for example in Greek tragedy—at once artist in both dreams and ecstasies; so we may perhaps picture him sinking down in his Dionysian intoxication and mystical self-abnegation, alone and apart from the singing revelers, and we may imagine how, through Apollinian dream-inspiration, his own state, i.e., his oneness with the inmost ground of the world, is revealed to him in a symbolical dream image.
(Kaufmann, Basic Writings 38. Text copied from Readsbird)
Thus far we have considered the Apollonian and his antithesis, the Dionysian, as artistic powers, which burst forth from nature herself, without the mediation of the human artist, and in which her art-impulses are satisfied in the most immediate and direct way: first, as the pictorial world of dreams, the perfection of which has no connection whatever with the intellectual height or artistic culture of the unit man, and again, as drunken reality, which likewise does not heed the unit man, but even seeks to destroy the individual and redeem him by a mystic feeling of Oneness. Anent these immediate art-states of nature every artist is either an “imitator,” to wit, either an Apollonian, an artist in dreams, or a Dionysian, an artist in ecstasies, or finally—as for instance in Greek tragedy—an artist in both dreams and ecstasies: so we may perhaps picture him, as in his Dionysian drunkenness and mystical self-abnegation, lonesome and apart from the revelling choruses, he sinks down, and how now, through Apollonian dream-inspiration, his own state, i.e., | his oneness with the primal source of the universe, reveals itself to him in a symbolical dream-picture.
(Haussmann, Complete Works 28-29. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
Nous avons jusqu’à présent considéré l’esprit apollinien et son contraire, l’esprit dionysien, comme des forces artistiques qui jaillissent du sein de la nature elle-même, sans l’intermédiaire de l’artiste humain, des forces par lesquelles les instincts d’art de la nature s’assouvissent tout d’abord et directement : d’une part, comme le monde d’images du rêve, dont la perfection ne dépend aucunement de la valeur intellectuelle ou de la culture artistique de l’individu, d’autre part, comme une réalité pleine d’ivresse qui, à son tour, ne se préoccupe pas de l’individu, poursuit même l’anéantissement de l’individu et sa dissolution libératrice par un sentiment d’identification mystique. Par rapport à ces phénomènes artistiques immédiats de la nature, tout artiste est un « imitateur », c’est-à-dire soit l’artiste du rêve apollinien, soit l’artiste de l’ivresse dionysienne, ou enfin, — par exemple dans la tragédie grecque, — à la fois l’ar- | tiste de l’ivresse et l’artiste du rêve. C’est comme tel que nous devons le considérer, quand, exalté par l’ivresse dionysiaque jusqu’au mystique renoncement de soi-même, il s’affaisse solitaire, à l’écart des chœurs en délire, et qu’alors, par la puissance du rêve apollinien, son propre état, c’est-à-dire son unité, son identification avec les forces primordiales les plus essentielles du monde, lui est révélé dans une vision symbolique.
(Marnold and Morland 33-34. Text copied from Wikisource. PDF at Gallica.)
2.2
[The Greeks expressed the artistic drives of nature. In terms of the dream component, their vision had a plastic power, and they delighted in color. Thus their dreams also had a logic of line, contour, color, grouping, and sequence (of scenes).]
Nietzsche will now evaluate “the degree and level to which those artistic drives of nature were developed in” the Greeks. [The next idea might be that nature or its artistic forces are the models for artistic creation, and the artist as we said above is an imitator of these forces. By examining the degree and level to which the artistic drives of nature were developed in the Greeks, we will see how it is that they modeled themselves off of these sources.] Nietzsche will begin by examining the nature of Greek dreaming. He says that they were especially able to see things in a plastic way. [I am not sure what that means. Maybe the Greeks were able to see things as they are while at the same time imagining how those things can be reformed, like seeing a large block of marble and envisioning the statues that could be carved from it.] They also had a “pure and honest delight in color”. From these facts we might infer that “their dreams, too, had that logical causality of line and outline, colour and grouping, and a sequence of scenes resembling their best bas-reliefs”. [But I am not sure what is meant by logical causality here.]
Nach diesen allgemeinen Voraussetzungen und Gegenüberstellungen nahen wir uns jetzt den Griechen, um zu erkennen, in welchem Grade und bis zu welcher Höhe jene Kunsttriebe der Natur in ihnen entwickelt gewesen sind: wodurch wir in den Stand gesetzt werden, das Verhältniss des griechischen Künstlers zu seinen Urbildern, oder, nach dem aristotelischen Ausdrucke, “die Nachahmung der Natur” tiefer zu verstehn und zu würdigen. Von den Träumen der Griechen ist trotz aller Traumlitteratur derselben und zahlreichen Traumanecdoten nur vermuthungsweise, aber doch mit ziemlicher Sicherheit zu sprechen: bei der unglaublich bestimmten und sicheren plastischen Befähigung ihres Auges, sammt ihrer hellen und aufrichtigen Farbenlust, wird man sich nicht entbrechen können, zur Beschämung aller Spätergeborenen, auch für ihre Träume eine logische Causalität der Linien und Umrisse, Farben und Gruppen, eine ihren besten Reliefs ähnelnde Folge der Scenen vorauszusetzen, deren Vollkommenheit uns, wenn eine Vergleichung möglich wäre, gewiss berechtigen würde, die träumenden Griechen als Homere und Homer als einen träumenden Griechen zu bezeichnen: in einem tieferen Sinne als wenn der moderne Mensch sich hinsichtlich seines Traumes mit Shakespeare zu vergleichen wagt.
(Werke 26. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
Having set out these general assumptions and contrasts, let us now consider the Greeks in order to understand the degree and level to which those artistic drives of nature were developed in them. This will enable us to gain a deeper understanding and appreciation of the relationship between the Greek artist and his models (Urbilder), or, to use Aristotle’s expression, ‘the imitation of nature’. Despite all the dream literature of the Greeks and numerous dream anecdotes, we can speak only speculatively, but with a fair degree of certainty, about the Greeks’ dreams. Given the incredibly definite and assured ability of their eye to see things in a plastic way, together with their pure and honest delight in colour, one is bound to assume, to the shame of all those born after them, that their dreams, too, had that logical causality of line and outline, colour and grouping, and a sequence of scenes resembling their best bas-reliefs, so that the perfection | of their dreams would certainly justify us, if comparison were possible, in describing the dreaming Greeks as Homers and Homer as a dreaming Greek - and in a more profound sense than if a modern dared were to compare his dreaming with that of Shakespeare.
(Speirs 19-20)
So much for these general premises and contrasts. Let us now approach the Greeks in order to learn how highly these art impulses of nature were developed in them. Thus we shall be in a position to understand and appreciate more deeply that relation of the Greek artist to his archetypes which is, according to the Aristotelian expression, “the imitation of nature.” In spite of all the dream literature and the numerous dream anecdotes of the Greeks, we can speak of their dreams only conjecturally, though with reasonable assurance. If we consider the incredibly precise and unerring plastic power of their eyes, together with their vivid, frank delight in colors, we can hardly refrain from assuming even for their dreams (to the shame of all those born later) a certain logic of line and contour, colors and groups, a certain pictorial sequence reminding us of their finest bas-reliefs whose perfection would cer- | tainly justify us, if a comparison were possible, in designating the dreaming Greeks as Homers and Homer as a dreaming Greek—in a deeper sense than that in which modern man, speaking of his dreams, ventures to compare himself with Shakespeare.
(Kaufmann, Basic Writings 38-39. Text copied from Readsbird)
After these general premisings and contrastings, let us now approach the Greeks in order to learn in what degree and to what height these art-impulses of nature were developed in them: whereby we shall be enabled to understand and appreciate more deeply the relation of the Greek artist to his archetypes, or, according to the Aristotelian expression, “the imitation of nature.” In spite of all the dream-literature and the numerous dream-anecdotes of the Greeks, we can speak only conjecturally, though with a fair degree of certainty, of their dreams. Considering the incredibly precise and unerring plastic power of their eyes, as also their manifest and sincere delight in colours, we can hardly refrain (to the shame of every one born later) from assuming for their very dreams a logical causality of lines and contours, colours and groups, a sequence of scenes resembling their best reliefs, the perfection of which would certainly justify us, if a comparison were possible, in designating the dreaming Greeks as Homers and Homer as a dreaming Greek: in a deeper sense than when modern man, in respect to his dreams, ventures to compare himself with Shakespeare.
(Haussmann, Complete Works 29. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
Après ces prémisses et ces considérations générales, cherchons à reconnaître à quel degré et dans quelle mesure ces instincts d’art de la nature ont été développés chez les Grecs : nous nous trouverons par là en état de comprendre et d’apprécier plus profondément le rapport de l’artiste grec avec ses modèles primordiaux, ou, suivant l’expression d’Aristote, « l’imitation de la nature ». On ne peut guère émettre que des hypothèses au sujet des rêves des Grecs, malgré toute la littérature spéciale et les nombreuses anecdotes qui s’y rapportent ; cependant on peut le faire avec une certaine sécurité : en présence de la précision et de la sûreté de leur vision plastique, unies à leur évidente et sincère passion de la couleur, on ne pourra se défendre, à la confusion de tous ceux qui naquirent plus tard, de supposer pour leurs rêves aussi une causalité logique des lignes et des contours, des couleurs et des groupes, un enchaînement des scènes rappelant leurs meilleurs bas-reliefs, dont la per- | fection et l’incomparable beauté nous autoriseraient certainement, si une comparaison était possible, à qualifier d’Homères les Grecs rêvant, et de Grec rêvant, Homère lui-même : et cela avec une signification plus profonde que si l’homme moderne osait, à propos de ses rêves, se comparer à Shakespeare.
(Marnold and Morland 34-35. Text copied from Wikisource. PDF at Gallica.)
2.3
[In Ancient Greece, there was a time when there was just the Apolline tendency, which caused the Greeks to become unaware of the deeper primordial unity. Then the Dionysian mode of intoxicated worship spread throughout Greece. The Dionysiac uses the power of music to break down the sense of distinction between oneself and other things or people and to return to the primordial unity. The Dionysiac sentiment is often dual: both an expression of pain and pleasure.]
Nietzsche next distinguishes the Dionysiac Greeks from the Dionysiac Barbarians. [I am not sure about this distinction. Perhaps the Dionysiac Barbarians are not any specific group but rather any group whatsoever that gives into decadent urges without that being an expression of nature’s artistic forces. Or maybe the distinction is that the Dionysiac Barbarians existed outside Greece and then “invaded” culturally speaking, thereby creating the Dionysiac Greeks. But I am just guessing on this first point. Nietzsche then says that the Greeks were protected from (Barbaric) Dionysiacism by their attention to the Apolline: “the Greeks appear, for a time, to have been completely protected and insulated from their feverish stirrings by the figure of Apollo, who reared up in all his pride”. And also, “Apollo’s attitude of majestic rejection is eternalized in Doric art”. I do not follow the next point. It seems perhaps to speak historically of the importation of the Dionysiac religion into Greek culture. The next point might be that this manifestation of Dionysian celebration and worship was of the artistic kind we have been discussing, where the artist loses the principle of individuation and renews the primordial unity. (Deleuze commentary. See section 1 for comments on the primordial unity / individuation opposition.) There is also a “strange mixture and duality in the affects of the Dionysiac enthusiast” where “pain awakens pleasure while rejoicing wrings cries of agony from the breast. From highest joy there comes a cry of horror or a yearning lament at some irredeemable loss”. (Deleuze commentary. We said in the Deleuze commentary notes above that there is a development in Nietzsche’s philosophy that moves away from dialectical oppositions and away from a condemnation of life. (It moves instead toward multiplicity and affirmation.) Deleuze sees the beginnings of this development already in the Dionysiac of BT.
But even in the Birth of Tragedy a thousand | pointers make us sense the approach of a new conception which has little to do with this schema. From the outset Dionysus is insistently presented as the affirmative and affirming god. He is not content with “resolving” pain in a higher and supra personal pleasure but rather he affirms it and turns it into someone's pleasure. This is why Dionysus is himself transformed in multiple affirmations, rather than being dissolved in original being or reabsorbing multiplicity into primeval depths. He affirms the pains of growth rather than reproducing the sufferings of individuation. He is the god who affirms life, for whom life must be affirmed, but not justified or redeemed.
(Deleuze NP, 2006: 12-13)
Mais déjà, dans l’Origine de la tragédie, mille choses pointent, qui nous font sentir l’approche d’une conception nouvelle peu conforme à ce schéma. Et d’abord, Dionysos est présenté avec insistance comme le dieu affirmatif et affirmateur. Il ne se contente pas de « résoudre » la douleur en un plaisir supérieur et supra-personnel, il affirme la douleur et en fait le plaisir de quelqu’un. C’est pourquoi Dionysos se métamorphose lui-même en affirmations multiples, plus qu’il ne se résout dans l’être originel ou ne résorbe le multiple dans un fond primitif. Il affirme les douleurs de la croissance, plus qu’il ne reproduit les souffrances de l’individuation. Il est le dieu qui affirme la vie, pour qui la vie a à être affirmée, mais non pas justifiée ni rachetée.
(Deleuze NP, 1962: 14)
It is probably too early to completely see how this works, but at this point we can note that the Dionysiac, although it involves a return to a primordial unity, also involves a pain that is not resolved into a higher and suprapersonal pleasure but is rather felt distinctly by the individual herself. This is perhaps a way that Dionysus distributes himself into the multiplicity of people entering the Dionysiac state, rather than him resolving into a unity (the primordial unity). Also, perhaps the pain that is felt in this state should be seen not as the suffering of individuation but rather as the pain of growth of the individual who is transforming herself through the ecstatic state; and, as a transformative factor of growth, this pain is affirmative of life.) Nietzsche next might be saying that this “two-fold mood” was new to the Greeks, and it was at least in part evoked by Dionysiac music, which “elicited terror and horror”. Nietzsche then seems to distinguish Apolline music from the Dionysiac. Apolline music in a sense takes us away from the real power of music, which is Dionysiac: “It keeps at a distance, as something un-Apolline, the very element which defines the character of Dionysiac music (and thus of music generally): the power of its sound to shake us to our very foundations”. (Next: “In the Dionysiac dithyramb man is stimulated to the highest intensification of his symbolic powers; something that he has never felt before urgently demands to be expressed: the destruction of the veil of maya, one-ness as the genius of humankind, indeed of nature itself.” As I understand, the primordial unity is the maya; it has been veiled over by the principle of individuation; and the Dionysiac aims to destroy that veil to return us to the primordial unity.) Nature needs to express itself symbolically through the full body in dance. The Apolline Greeks before the Dionysiac inclusion had veiled this primordial unity from their awareness, and when it was performed to their observation, they must have been astonished by the power of what went ignored.]
Dagegen brauchen wir nicht nur vermuthungsweise zu sprechen, wenn die ungeheure Kluft aufgedeckt werden soll, welche die dionysischen Griechen von den dionysischen Barbaren trennt. Aus allen Enden der alten Welt - um die neuere hier bei Seite zu lassen - von Rom bis Babylon können wir die Existenz dionysischer Feste nachweisen, deren Typus sich, besten Falls, zu dem Typus der griechischen verhält, wie der bärtige Satyr, dem der Bock Namen und Attribute verlieh, zu Dionysus [26|27] selbst. Fast überall lag das Centrum dieser Feste in einer überschwänglichen geschlechtlichen Zuchtlosigkeit, deren Wellen über jedes Familienthum und dessen ehrwürdige Satzungen hinweg flutheten; gerade die wildesten Bestien der Natur wurden hier entfesselt, bis zu jener abscheulichen Mischung von Wollust und Grausamkeit, die mir immer als der eigentliche Hexentrank erschienen ist. Gegen die fieberhaften Regungen jener Feste, deren Kenntniss auf allen Land- und Seewegen zu den Griechen drang, waren sie, scheint es, eine Zeit lang völlig gesichert und geschützt durch die hier in seinem ganzen Stolz sich aufrichtende Gestalt des Apollo, der das Medusenhaupt keiner gefährlicheren Macht entgegenhalten konnte als dieser fratzenhaft ungeschlachten dionysischen. Es ist die dorische Kunst, in der sich jene majestätisch-ablehnende Haltung des Apollo verewigt hat. Bedenklicher und sogar unmöglich wurde dieser Widerstand, als endlich aus der tiefsten Wurzel des Hellenischen heraus sich ähnliche Triebe Bahnbrachen: jetzt beschränkte sich das Wirken des delphischen Gottes darauf, dem gewaltigen Gegner durch eine zur rechten Zeit abgeschlossene Versöhnung die vernichtenden Waffen aus der Hand zu nehmen. Diese Versöhnung ist der wichtigste Moment in der Geschichte des griechischen Cultus: wohin man blickt, sind die Umwälzungen dieses Ereignisses sichtbar. Es war die Versöhnung zweier Gegner, mit scharfer Bestimmung ihrer von jetzt ab einzuhaltenden Grenzlinien und mit periodischer Uebersendung von Ehrengeschenken; im Grunde war die Kluft nicht überbrückt. Sehen wir aber, wie sich unter dem Drucke jenes Friedensschlusses die dionysische Macht offenbarte, so erkennen wir jetzt, im Vergleiche mit jenen babylonischen Sakäen und ihrem Rückschritte des Menschen zum Tiger und Affen, in den [27|28] dionysischen Orgien der Griechen die Bedeutung von Welterlösungsfesten und Verklärungstagen. Erst bei ihnen erreicht die Natur ihren künstlerischen Jubel, erst bei ihnen wird die Zerreissung des principii individuationis ein künstlerisches Phänomen. Jener scheussliche Hexentrank aus Wollust und Grausamkeit war hier ohne Kraft: nur die wundersame Mischung und Doppelheit in den Affecten der dionysischen Schwärmer erinnert an ihn - wie Heilmittel an tödtliche Gifte erinnern -, jene Erscheinung, dass Schmerzen Lust erwecken, dass der Jubel der Brust qualvolle Töne entreisst. Aus der höchsten Freude tönt der Schrei des Entsetzens oder der sehnende Klagelaut über einen unersetzlichen Verlust. In jenen griechischen Festen bricht gleichsam ein sentimentalischer Zug der Natur hervor, als ob sie über ihre Zerstückelung in Individuen zu seufzen habe. Der Gesang und die Gebärdensprache solcher zwiefach gestimmter Schwärmer war für die homerisch- griechische Welt etwas Neues und Unerhörtes: und insbesondere erregte ihr die dionysische Musik Schrecken und Grausen. Wenn die Musik scheinbar bereits als eine apollinische Kunst bekannt war, so war sie dies doch nur, genau genommen, als Wellenschlag des Rhythmus, dessen bildnerische Kraft zur Darstellung apollinischer Zustände entwickelt wurde. Die Musik des Apollo war dorische Architektonik in Tönen, aber in nur angedeuteten Tönen, wie sie der Kithara zu eigen sind. Behutsam ist gerade das Element, als unapollinisch, ferngehalten, das den Charakter der dionysischen Musik und damit der Musik überhaupt ausmacht, die erschütternde Gewalt des Tones, der einheitliche Strom des Melos und die durchaus unvergleichliche Welt der Harmonie. Im dionysischen Dithyrambus wird der Mensch zur höchsten Steigerung aller seiner symbolischen Fähigkeiten gereizt; [28|29] etwas Nieempfundenes drängt sich zur Aeusserung, die Vernichtung des Schleiers der Maja, das Einssein als Genius der Gattung, ja der Natur. Jetzt soll sich das Wesen der Natur symbolisch ausdrücken; eine neue Welt der Symbole ist nöthig, einmal die ganze leibliche Symbolik, nicht nur die Symbolik des Mundes, des Gesichts, des Wortes, sondern die volle, alle Glieder rhythmisch bewegende Tanzgebärde. Sodann wachsen die anderen symbolischen Kräfte, die der Musik, in Rhythmik, Dynamik und Harmonie, plötzlich ungestüm. Um diese Gesammtentfesselung aller symbolischen Kräfte zu fassen, muss der Mensch bereits auf jener Höhe der Selbstentäusserung angelangt sein, die in jenen Kräften sich symbolisch aussprechen will: der dithyrambische Dionysusdiener wird somit nur von Seinesgleichen verstanden! Mit welchem Erstaunen musste der apollinische Grieche auf ihn blicken! Mit einem Erstaunen, das um so grösser war, als sich ihm das Grausen beimischte, dass ihm jenes Alles doch eigentlich so fremd nicht sei, ja dass sein apollinisches Bewusstsein nur wie ein Schleier diese dionysische Welt vor ihm verdecke.
(Werke 26-29. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
By contrast, there is no need for speculation when it comes to revealing the vast gulf which separated the Dionysiac Greeks from the Dionysiac Barbarians. From all corners of the ancient world (leaving aside the modern one in this instance), from Rome to Babylon, we can demonstrate the existence of Dionysiac festivals of a type which, at best, stands in the same relation to the Greek festivals as the bearded satyr, whose name and attributes were borrowed from the goat, stands to Dionysos himself. Almost everywhere an excess of sexual indiscipline, which flooded in waves over all family life and its venerable statutes, lay at the heart of such festivals. Here the very wildest of nature’s beasts were unleashed, up to and including that repulsive mixture of sensuality and cruelty which has always struck me as the true ‘witches’ brew’. Although news of these festivals reached them by every sea- and land-route, the Greeks appear, for a time, to have been completely protected and insulated from their feverish stirrings by the figure of Apollo, who reared up in all his pride, there being no more dangerous power for him to confront with the Medusa’s head than this crude, grotesque manifestation of the Dionysiac. Apollo’s attitude of majestic rejection is eternalized in Doric art. Such resistance became more problematic and even impossible when, eventually, similar shoots sprang from the deepest root of the Hellenic character; now the work of the Delphic God was limited to taking the weapons of destruction out of the hands of his mighty opponent in a timely act of reconciliation. This reconciliation is the most important moment in the history of Greek religion; wherever one looks, one can see the revolutionary consequences of this event. It was the reconciliation of two opponents, with a precise delineation of the borders which each now had to respect and with the periodic exchange of honorific gifts; fundamentally the chasm had not been bridged. Yet if we now look at how the power of the Dionysiac manifested itself under pressure from that peace-treaty, we can see that, in contrast to the Babylonian Sacaea, where human beings regressed to the condition of tigers and monkeys, the significance of the Greeks’ Dionysiac orgies was that of festivals of universal release and redemption and days of transfiguration. Here for the first time the jubilation of nature achieves expression as art, here for the first time the tearing-apart of the principium | individuationis becomes an artistic phenomenon. That repulsive witches’ brew of sensuality and cruelty was powerless here; the only reminder of it (in the way that medicines recall deadly poisons) is to be found in the strange mixture and duality in the affects of the Dionysiac enthusiasts, that phenomenon whereby pain awakens pleasure while rejoicing wrings cries of agony from the breast. From highest joy there comes a cry of horror or a yearning lament at some irredeemable loss. In those Greek festivals there erupts what one might call a sentimental tendency in nature, as if it had cause to sigh over its dismemberment into individuals. The singing and expressive gestures of such enthusiasts in their two-fold mood was something new and unheard-of in the Homeric-Greek world; Dionysiac music in particular elicited terror and horror from them. Although it seems that music was already familiar to the Greeks as an Apolline art, they only knew it, strictly speaking, in the form of a wave-like rhythm with an image-making power which they developed to represent Apolline states. The music of Apollo was Doric architectonics in sound, but only in the kind of hinted-at tones characteristic of the cithara. It keeps at a distance, as something un-Apolline, the very element which defines the character of Dionysiac music (and thus of music generally): the power of its sound to shake us to our very foundations, the unified stream of melody and the quite incomparable world of harmony. In the Dionysiac dithyramb man is stimulated to the highest intensification of his symbolic powers; something that he has never felt before urgently demands to be expressed: the destruction of the veil of maya, one-ness as the genius of humankind, indeed of nature itself. The essence of nature is bent on expressing itself; a new world of symbols is required, firstly the symbolism of the entire body, not just of the mouth, the face, the word, but the full gesture of dance with its rhythmical movement of every limb. Then there is a sudden, tempestuous growth in music’s other symbolic powers, in rhythm, dynamics, and harmony. To comprehend this complete unchaining of all symbolic powers, a man must already have reached that height of self-abandonment which seeks symbolic expression in those powers: thus the dithyrambic servant of Dionysos can only be understood by his own kind! With what astonishment the Apolline Greeks must have regarded him! With an astonishment enlarged by the added horror of realizing that all this was not so foreign to them after all, indeed that their Apolline consciousness only hid this Dionysiac world from them like a veil.
(Speirs 20-21)
On the other hand, we need not conjecture regarding the immense gap which separates the Dionysian Greek from the Dionysian barbarian. From all quarters of the ancient world—to say nothing here of the modern—from Rome to Babylon, we can point to the existence of Dionysian festivals, types which bear, at best, the same relation to the Greek festivals which the bearded satyr, who borrowed his name and attributes from the goat, bears to Dionysus himself. In nearly every case these festivals centered in extravagant sexual licentiousness, whose waves overwhelmed all family life and its venerable traditions; the most savage natural instincts were unleashed, including even that horrible mixture of sensuality and cruelty which has always seemed to me to be the real “witches’ brew.” For some time, however, the Greeks were apparently perfectly insulated and guarded against the feverish excitements of these festivals, though knowledge of them must have come to Greece on all the routes of land and sea; for the figure of Apollo, rising full of pride, held out the Gorgon’s head to this grotesquely uncouth Dionysian power—and really could not have countered any more dangerous force. It is in Doric art that this majestically rejecting attitude of Apollo is immortalized.
The opposition between Apollo and Dionysus became more hazardous and even impossible, when similar impulses finally burst forth from the deepest roots of the Hellenic nature and made a path for themselves: the Delphic god, by a seasonably effected reconciliation, now contented himself with taking the destructive weapons from the hands of his powerful antagonist. This reconciliation is the most important moment in the history of the Greek cult: wherever we turn we note the revolutions resulting from this event. The two antagonists were reconciled; the boundary lines to be observed henceforth by each were sharply defined, and there was to be a periodical exchange of gifts of esteem. At bottom, however, the chasm was not bridged over. But if we observe how, under the pressure of this treaty of peace, the Dionysian power revealed itself, we shall now recognize in the Dionysian orgies of the Greeks, as compared with the Babylonian Sacaea with their reversion of [39|40] man to the tiger and the ape, the significance of festivals of world redemption and days of transfiguration. It is with them that nature for the first time attains her artistic jubilee; it is with them that the destruction of the principium individuationis for the first time becomes an artistic phenomenon.
The horrible “witches’ brew” of sensuality and cruelty becomes ineffective; only the curious blending and duality in the emotions of the Dionysian revelers remind us—as medicines remind us of deadly poisons—of the phenomenon that pain begets joy, that ecstasy may wring sounds of agony from us. At the very climax of joy there sounds a cry of horror or a yearning lamentation for an irretrievable loss. In these Greek festivals, nature seems to reveal a sentimental trait; it is as if she were heaving a sigh at her dismenberment into individuals. The song and pantomime of such dually-minded revelers was something new and unheard-of in the Homeric-Greek world; and the Dionysian music in particular excited awe and terror. If music, as it would seem, had been known previously as an Apollinian art, it was so, strictly speaking, only as the wave beat of rhythm, whose formative power was developed for the representation of Apollinian states. The music of Apollo was Doric architectonics in tones, but in tones that were merely suggestive, such as those of the cithara. The very element which forms the essence of Dionysian music (and hence of music in general) is carefully excluded as un-Apollinian—namely, the emotional power of the tone, the uniform flow of the melody, and the utterly incomparable world of harmony. In the Dionysian dithyramb man is incited to the greatest exaltation of all his symbolic faculties; something never before experienced struggles for utterance—the annihilation of the veil of māyā, oneness as the soul of the race and of nature itself. The essence of nature is now to be expressed symbolically; we need a new world of symbols; and the entire symbolism of the body is called into play, not the mere symbolism of the lips, face, and speech but the whole pantomime of dancing, forcing every member into rhythmic movement. Then the other symbolic powers suddenly press forward, particularly those of music, in rhythmics, dynamics, and harmony. To grasp this collective release[40|41] of all the symbolic powers, man must have already attained that height of self-abnegation which seeks to express itself symbolically through all these powers—and so the dithyrambic votary of Dionysus is understood only by his peers. With what astonishment must the Apollinian Greek have beheld him! With an astonishment that was all the greater the more it was mingled with the shuddering suspicion that all this was actually not so very alien to him after all, in fact, that it was only his Apollinian consciousness which, like a veil, hid this Dionysian world from his vision.
(Kaufmann, Basic Writings 39-41. Text copied from Readsbird)
On the other hand, we should not have to speak conjecturally, if asked to disclose the immense gap which separated the Dionysian Greek from the Dionysian barbarian. From all quarters of the Ancient World—to say nothing of the modern—from Rome as far as Babylon, we can [29|30] prove the existence of Dionysian festivals, the type of which bears, at best, the same relation to the Greek festivals as the bearded satyr, who borrowed his name and attributes from the goat, does to Dionysus himself. In nearly every instance the centre of these festivals lay in extravagant sexual licentiousness, the waves of which overwhelmed all family life and its venerable traditions; the very wildest beasts of nature were let loose here, including that detestable mixture of lust and cruelty which has always seemed to me the genuine “witches’ draught.” For some time, however, it would seem that the Greeks were perfectly secure and guarded against the feverish agitations of these festivals (—the knowledge of which entered Greece by all the channels of land and sea) by the figure of Apollo himself rising here in full pride, who could not have held out the Gorgon’s head to a more dangerous power than this grotesquely uncouth Dionysian. It is in Doric art that this majestically-rejecting attitude of Apollo perpetuated itself. This opposition became more precarious and even impossible, when, from out of the deepest root of the Hellenic nature, similar impulses finally broke forth and made way for themselves: the Delphic god, by a seasonably effected reconciliation, was now contented with taking the destructive arms from the hands of his powerful antagonist. This reconciliation marks the most important moment in the history of the Greek cult: wherever we turn our eyes we may observe the revolutions resulting from this event. It was the reconciliation of two antagonists, [30|31] with the sharp demarcation of the boundary-lines to be thenceforth observed by each, and with periodical transmission of testimonials;—in reality, the chasm was not bridged over. But if we observe how, under the pressure of this conclusion of peace, the Dionysian power manifested itself, we shall now recognise in the Dionysian orgies of the Greeks, as compared with the Babylonian Sacæa and their retrogression of man to the tiger and the ape, the significance of festivals of world-redemption and days of transfiguration. Not till then does nature attain her artistic jubilee; not till then does the rupture of the principium individuationis become an artistic phenomenon. That horrible “witches’ draught” of sensuality and cruelty was here powerless: only the curious blending and duality in the emotions of the Dionysian revellers reminds one of it—just as medicines remind one of deadly poisons,—that phenomenon, to wit, that pains beget joy, that jubilation wrings painful sounds out of the breast. From the highest joy sounds the cry of horror or the yearning wail over an irretrievable loss. In these Greek festivals a sentimental trait, as it were, breaks forth from nature, as if she must sigh over her dismemberment into individuals. The song and pantomime of such dually-minded revellers was something new and unheard-of in the Homeric-Grecian world; and the Dionysian music in particular excited awe and horror. If music, as it would seem, was previously known as an Apollonian art, it was, strictly speaking, only as the wave-beat of rhythm, the formative power of [31|32] which was developed to the representation of Apollonian conditions. The music of Apollo was Doric architectonics in tones, but in merely suggested tones, such as those of the cithara. The very element which forms the essence of Dionysian music (and hence of music in general) is carefully excluded as un-Apollonian; namely, the thrilling power of the tone, the uniform stream of the melos, and the thoroughly incomparable world of harmony. In the Dionysian dithyramb man is incited to the highest exaltation of all his symbolic faculties; something never before experienced struggles for utterance—the annihilation of the veil of Mâyâ, Oneness as genius of the race, ay, of nature. The essence of nature is now to be expressed symbolically; a new world of symbols is required; for once the entire symbolism of the body, not only the symbolism of the lips, face, and speech, but the whole pantomime of dancing which sets all the members into rhythmical motion. Thereupon the other symbolic powers, those of music, in rhythmics, dynamics, and harmony, suddenly become impetuous. To comprehend this collective discharge of all the symbolic powers, a man must have already attained that height of self-abnegation, which wills to express itself symbolically through these powers: the Dithyrambic votary of Dionysus is therefore understood only by those like himself! With what astonishment must the Apollonian Greek have beheld him! With an astonishment, which was all the greater the more it was mingled with the shuddering suspicion that all this was in [32|33] reality not so very foreign to him, yea, that, like unto a veil, his Apollonian consciousness only hid this Dionysian world from his view.
(Haussmann, Complete Works 29-33. Text copied from Project Gutenberg. PDF at Internet Archive)
En revanche, nous n’avons plus besoin de former des conjectures pour dévoiler l’immense abîme qui sépare les Grecs dionysiens des barbares dionysiens. De tous les confins du vieux monde, — pour ne pas parler ici du nouveau, — de Rome jusqu’à Babylone, nous viennent les témoignages de l’existence de fêtes dionysiennes, dont les spécimens les plus élevés sont, au regard des fêtes dionysiennes grecques, ce que le satyre barbu empruntant au bouc son nom et ses attributs est à Dionysos lui-même. Presque partout l’objet de ces réjouissances est une licence sexuelle effrénée, dont le flot exubérant brise les barrières de la consanguinité et submerge les lois vénérables de la famille : c’est vraiment la plus sauvage bestialité de la nature qui se déchaîne ici, en un mélange horrible de jouissance et de cruauté, qui m’est toujours apparu comme le véritable « philtre de Circé ». Contre la fièvre et la frénésie de ces fêtes qui pénétrèrent jusqu’à eux par tous les chemins de la terre et des eaux, les Grecs semblent avoir été défendus et victorieusement protégés pendant quelque temps par [35|36] l’orgueilleuse image d’Apollon, à laquelle la tête de Méduse était incapable d’opposer une force plus dangereuse que cette grotesque et brutale violence dionysienne. C’est dans l’art dorique que s’est éternisée cette attitude de majesté dédaigneuse d’Apollon. Mais lorsqu’enfin des racines les plus profondes de l’hellénisme se déchaînèrent de semblables instincts, la résistance devint plus difficile, et même impossible. L’action du dieu de Delphes se borna alors à arracher des mains de son redoutable ennemi, par une alliance opportune, ses armes meurtrières. Cette alliance est le moment le plus important de l’histoire du culte grec : de quelque côté que l’on regarde, on constate les bouleversements produits par cet événement. Ce fut la réconciliation de deux adversaires, avec la rigoureuse délimitation des lignes frontières que chacun, dorénavant, ne devait plus dépasser, et avec des échanges périodiques et solennels de présents ; au fond, l’abîme ne fut pas comblé. Mais si nous examinons comment, sous l’influence de cette paix finale, se manifesta la puissance dionysienne, nous reconnaîtrons dans les orgies dionysiaques des Grecs, en les comparant à la déchéance de l’homme au tigre et au singe des Sakhées babyloniennes, la signification de fêtes de rédemption libératrice du monde et de jours de transfiguration. Avec elles, pour la première fois, le joyeux délire de l’art envahit la nature ; pour la première fois, par elles, la destruc- [36|37] tion du principe d’individuation devient un phénomène artistique. L’exécrable philtre de jouissance et de cruauté devint impuissant : seul le singulier mélange qui forme le double caractère des émotions des rêveurs dionysiens en évoque le souvenir, — comme un baume salutaire rappelle le poison meurtrier, — je veux dire ce phénomène de la souffrance suscitant le plaisir, de l’allégresse arrachant des accents douloureux. De la plus haute joie jaillit le cri de l’horreur ou la plainte brûlante d’une perte irréparable. À travers ces fêtes grecques passe comme un soupir sentimental de la nature gémissant sur son morcellement en individus. Le chant et la mimique de ces rêveurs à l’âme hybride étaient pour le monde grec homérique quelque chose de nouveau et d’inouï : et en particulier, la musique dionysienne faisait naître en eux l’effroi et le frisson. Si la musique, en apparence, était déjà connue comme art apollinien, à y regarder de près, elle ne possédait cependant ce caractère qu’en qualité de battement cadencé des ondes du rythme, dont la puissance plastique eût été développée jusqu’à la représentation d’impressions apolliniennes. La musique d’Apollon était une architectonique sonore d’ordre dorique, mais dont les sons étaient fixés par avance, tels ceux des cordes de la cithare. Comme non apollinien, en fut soigneusement écarté cet élément qui est l’essence même de la musique dionysienne et de toute musique, la violence émouvante du son, le torrent unanime du mélos et le monde incomparable de l’harmonie. Dans le dithyrambe dionysien, l’homme est entraîné à l’exaltation la plus haute de toutes ses facultés symboliques ; il ressent et veut exprimer des sentiments qu’il n’a jamais éprouvés jusqu’alors : le voile de Maïa s’est déchiré devant ses yeux ; comme génie tutélaire de l’espèce, de la nature elle-même, il est devenu l’Un-absolu. Désormais, l’essence de la nature doit s’exprimer symboliquement ; un nouveau monde de symboles est nécessaire, toute la symbolique corporelle enfin ; non seulement la symbolique des lèvres, du visage, de la parole, mais encore toutes les attitudes et les gestes de la danse, rythmant les mouvements de tous les membres. Alors, avec une véhémence soudaine, les autres forces symboliques, celles de la musique, s’accroissent en rythme, dynamique et harmonie. Pour comprendre ce déchaînement simultané de toutes les forces symboliques, l’homme doit avoir atteint déjà ce haut degré de renoncement qui veut se proclamer symboliquement dans ces forces : l’adepte dithyrambique de Dionysos n’est plus alors compris que de ses pairs ! Avec quelle stupéfaction dut le considérer le Grec apollinien ! Avec une stupéfaction qui fut d’autant plus profonde qu’un frisson s’y mêlait à cette pensée, que tout cela n’était cependant pas si étranger à sa propre nature ; oui, que sa conscience apollinienne n’était qu’un voile qui lui cachait ce monde dionysien.
(Marnold and Morland 35-. 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:
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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:
Sophocles. 1987. Oedipus the King. In The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces (Fifth Continental Edition), edited by Maynard Mack et al, English translation by Robert Fagles. New York and London: Norton.
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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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”.
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