The Birth of Tragedy; or, Hellenism and Pessimism — Nietzsche — John Shaqi
The Birth of Tragedy; or, Hellenism and Pessimism
Nietzsche · en
Here there interpose between our highest musical excitement and the
music in question the tragic myth and the tragic hero--in reality only
as symbols of the most universal facts, of which music alone can speak
directly. If, however, we felt as purely Dionysian beings, myth as a
symbol would stand by us absolutely ineffective and unnoticed, and
would never for a moment prevent us from giving ear to the re-echo of
the _universalia ante rem._ Here, however, the _Apollonian_ power, with
a view to the restoration of the well-nigh shattered individual, bursts
forth with the healing balm of a blissful illusion: all of a sudden
we imagine we see only Tristan, motionless, with hushed voice saying
to himself: "the old tune, why does it wake me?" And what formerly
interested us like a hollow sigh from the heart of being, seems now
only to tell us how "waste and void is the sea." And when, breathless,
we thought to expire by a convulsive distention of all our feelings,
and only a slender tie bound us to our present existence, we now hear
and see only the hero wounded to death and still not dying, with his
despairing cry: "Longing! Longing! In dying still longing! for longing
not dying!" And if formerly, after such a surplus and superabundance of
consuming agonies, the jubilation of the born rent our hearts almost
like the very acme of agony, the rejoicing Kurwenal now stands between
us and the "jubilation as such," with face turned toward the ship which
carries Isolde. However powerfully fellow-suffering encroaches upon us,
it nevertheless delivers us in a manner from the primordial suffering
of the world, just as the symbol-image of the myth delivers us from the
immediate perception of the highest cosmic idea, just as the thought
and word deliver us from the unchecked effusion of the unconscious
will. The glorious Apollonian illusion makes it appear as if the very
realm of tones presented itself to us as a plastic cosmos, as if even
the fate of Tristan and Isolde had been merely formed and moulded
therein as out of some most delicate and impressible material.