Tragedy (n.) makes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its spectator see the hero in epic beauty and delight in his destruction; understand the action to its core and fly joyfully into the incomprehensible; see more than ever and wish he were blind.

Tragedy (n.) destroys ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the hero, the highest manifestation of the will, and we are happy — for he is only an illusion, and the will's eternal life is undisturbed.

Tragedy (n.) transfigures ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the reality of the world least of all — it says, 'Look here! This is your life! This is the hour hand on the clock of your existence!'

Tragedy (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the Dionysian chorus discharging itself again and again in an Apollonian world of images.

Art (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the essential metaphysical activity of man — not morality.

Art (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not only an imitation of natural reality but a metaphysical supplement to it, set beside it in order to overcome it.

Art (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠known to us only as painted soldiers know the battle on the canvas.

Art (n.) approaches ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠as a saving, healing magician when the will is in the highest danger, turning disgust at existence into constructs that let living continue.

Music (n.) stripped ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠of its myth-building spirit is left as either a stimulant for jaded nerves or sound painting.

Music (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not the will — or it would be banished from art — but it appears as the will in the mirror of images.

Music (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the essential idea of the word; drama is only its reflection, its isolated silhouette.

Music (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠tragic myth play with the sting of joylessness and so justify the existence of even the 'worst of worlds.'

Dionysian (n.) bedrock ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠may enter consciousness only as far as Apollo's transfiguring power can overcome it again; the two grow in strict proportion.

The Dionysian (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its rapture makes us for a short time the primordial essence itself, so that the destruction of forms seems necessary because of the world-will's exuberant fecundity, and in spite of fear and pity we are fortunate vital beings.

Dionysian (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the awe of seeing the principle of reason fail, plus the ecstatic rapture that rises from the same collapse of individuation out of the depths of nature.

Dionysian (n.) flood ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠periodically destroys the small circles in which Apollo confines the Greek spirit, lest form freeze into Egyptian stiffness.

Apollo (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠Dionysus in tragedy: Dionysus speaks the language of Apollo, but Apollo finally speaks the language of Dionysus — and with that the highest goal of art is reached.

Apollo (n.) long ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠held up the Medusa's head against the crude Dionysian force — and finally made peace by taking the destructive weapon out of his opponent's hand.

Apollo (n.) keeps ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the delicate line the dream image must not cross — the boundary of moderation without which illusion would deceive us as crude reality.

Apollo (n.) the ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠Delphic god thought such magic necessary to heal the Greeks' dithyrambic madness, and that shows how great Dionysus must have been among them.

A Myth (n.) lost ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠leaves a hunger — modern man stands eternally hungry among all past ages, digging for roots in the remotest antiquity; his historical hunger reveals the loss of the mythic homeland.

A Myth (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the horizon that completes a culture: its images are the unseen sentries under whose care the young soul matures — without myth a culture forfeits its creative power.

A Myth (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠tragedy rose once more like a wounded hero, the excess power and wise tranquillity of a dying man burning in its eyes.

A Myth (n.) protects ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠us from the music while giving the music its highest freedom; in return music gives myth a metaphysical significance words and pictures never could.

Euripides (n.) wrote ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠for only two spectators — Euripides the thinker, and Socrates — and heard victory in their verdict even when the public condemned him.

Euripides (n.) abandoned ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠Dionysus and so was abandoned by Apollo: his heroes have only counterfeit, masked passions and speak a counterfeit, masked dialogue.

Euripides (n.) brought ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the spectator up onto the stage: the man of ordinary life pushed out of the seats, and the mirror that had shown great bold features now reflected nature's failures.

Euripides (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the actor with the beating heart and hair on end: he plans as a Socratic thinker and performs as a passionate actor — his drama at once freezing and burning.

Socrates (n.) chose ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠death over exile and went to it as he left the Symposium — the last drinker at dawn, while his companions slept on to dream of him.

Socrates (n.) inverts ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the creative order: in productive men instinct creates and consciousness cautions; in him instinct is the critic and consciousness the creator — a monstrosity per defectum.

Socrates (n.) was ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the new-born daemon speaking through the mask of Euripides — neither Dionysus nor Apollo; from the clash of Dionysian and Socratic, tragedy perished.

Socrates (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the specific non-mystic, in whom the logical drive grew as monstrously as instinct does in the mystic — a natural force behind him like a drive wheel.

The Greeks (n.) are ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠eternal children — and in tragic art, children who do not know what sublime toy has arisen under their hands, and that it will be destroyed.

The Greeks (n.) make ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠every later age feel its achievements shrivel into copies and caricatures — hence the recurring rage to be rid of them, and no hemlock strong enough.

The Greeks (n.) probably ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠dreamed in clear lines and colours like their best bas-reliefs — the dreaming Greek a Homer, Homer a dreaming Greek.

The Greeks (n.) are ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the charioteers of every culture, but the horses and wagon are always inferior material — so the drivers whip their team into the abyss and leap over it themselves.

Science (n.) may ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be only a fear and an excuse in the face of pessimism — a delicate self-defence against the Truth; morally, cowardice; unmorally, a clever trick.

Science (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its spirit is the belief, first seen in Socrates, that nature can be rationally understood and that knowledge carries a universal healing power, and that spirit destroyed myth and left poetry homeless.

Science (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be understood on the basis of science: look at science from the perspective of the artist, and at art from the perspective of life.

Science (n.) would ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not exist if it cared only for the naked goddess Truth; it would be like digging a hole straight to the antipodes, each man's piece covered over by the next.