Thoughts out of Season, Part I: David Strauss, the Confessor and the Writer - Richard Wagner in Bayreuth.Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm
PhilosophyPhilosophy
Thoughts out of Season, Part I: David Strauss, the Confessor and the Writer - Richard Wagner in Bayreuth.
Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm
Strauss, David Friedrich, 1808-1874; Wagner, Richard, 1813-1883
of years; and which to Wagner himself is but a cloud of distress,
care, meditation, and grief, a fresh passionate outbreak of
antagonistic elements, but all bathed in the starlight of _selfless
fidelity_, and changed by this light into indescribable joy.
It scarcely need be said that it is the breath of tragedy that fills
the lungs of the world. And every one whose innermost soul has a
presentiment of this, every one unto whom the yoke of tragic deception
concerning the aim of life, the distortion and shattering of
intentions, renunciation and purification through love, are not
unknown things, must be conscious of a vague reminiscence of Wagner's
own heroic life, in the masterpieces with which the great man now
presents us. We shall feel as though Siegfried from some place far
away were relating his deeds to us: the most blissful of touching
recollections are always draped in the deep mourning of waning summer,
when all nature lies still in the sable twilight.
IX.
All those to whom the thought of Wagner's development as a man may
have caused pain will find it both restful and healing to reflect upon
what he was as an artist, and to observe how his ability and daring
attained to such a high degree of independence. If art mean only the
faculty of communicating to others what one has oneself experienced,
and if every work of art confutes itself which does not succeed in
making itself understood, then Wagner's greatness as an artist would
certainly lie in the almost demoniacal power of his nature to
communicate with others, to express itself in all languages at once,
and to make known its most intimate and personal experience with the
greatest amount of distinctness possible. His appearance in the
history of art resembles nothing so much as a volcanic eruption of the
united artistic faculties of Nature herself, after mankind had grown
to regard the practice of a special art as a necessary rule. It is
therefore a somewhat moot point whether he ought to be classified as a
poet, a painter, or a musician, even using each these words in its
widest sense, or whether a new word ought not to be invented in order
to describe him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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