No More Learning

My
answer, condensed into an aesthetic axiom, is this:
the Will is the object of music but not the origin of it,
that is the Will in its very greatest universality, as
the most original manifestation, under which is to
be understood all Becoming. That, which we call
feeling, is with regard to this Will already permeat-
ed and saturated with conscious and unconscious
conceptions and is therefore no longer directly the
object of music; it is unthinkable then that these
feelings should be able to create music out of them-
selves. Take for instance the feelings of love, fear
and hope: music can no longer do anything with
them in a direct way, every one of them is already
so filled with conceptions. On the contrary these
feelings can serve to symbolise music, as the lyric
poet does who translates for himself into the simile-
world of feelings that conceptually and metaphori-
cally unapproachable realm of the Will, the proper
content and object of music. The lyric poet re-
sembles all those hearers of music who are conscious
of an effect of music on their emotions; the distant
and removed power of music appeals, with them,
to an intermediate realm which gives to them as it
were a foretaste, a symbolic preliminary conception
of music proper, it appeals to the intermediate
realm of the emotions. One might be permitted
to say about them, with respect to the Will, the
only object of music, that they bear the same rela-
tion to this Will, as the analogous morning-dream,


## p. 35 (#66) ##############################################

34 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
so our painter's vision, defeated by the higher, would
fade and die away. —How nevertheless could the
miracle happen? How should the Apollonian world
of the eye quite engrossed in contemplation be able
to create out of itself the tone, which on the contrary
symbolises a sphere which is excluded and con-
quered just by that very Apollonian absorption in
Appearance? The delight at Appearance cannot
raiseout of itself the pleasure at Non-appearance; the
delight of perceiving is delight only by the fact that
nothing reminds us of a sphere in which individua-
tion is broken and abolished. If we have character-
ised at all correctly the Apollonian in opposition to
the Dionysean, then the thought which attributes
to the metaphor, the idea, the appearance, in some
way the power of producing out of itself the tone,
must appear to us strangely wrong. We will not
be referred, in order to be refuted, to the musician
who writes music to existing lyric poems; for after
all that has been said we shall be compelled to
assert that the relationship between the lyric poem
and its setting must in any case be a different one
from that between a father and his child. Then
what exactly?
Here now we may be met on the ground of a
favourite aesthetic notion with the proposition, " It
is not the poem which gives birth to the setting but
the sentiment created by the poem. " I do not agree
with that; the more subtle or powerful stirring-up
of that pleasure-and-displeasure-subsoil is in the
realm of productive art the element which is in-
artistic in itself; indeed only its total exclusion
makes the complete self-absorption and disinterested



## p. 35 (#67) ##############################################

ON MUSIC AND WORDS 35
perception of the artist possible. Here perhaps one
might retaliate that I myself just now predicated
about the "Will," that in music "Will" came to an
ever more adequate symbolic expression. My
answer, condensed into an aesthetic axiom, is this:
the Will is the object of music but not the origin of it,
that is the Will in its very greatest universality, as
the most original manifestation, under which is to
be understood all Becoming. That, which we call
feeling, is with regard to this Will already permeat-
ed and saturated with conscious and unconscious
conceptions and is therefore no longer directly the
object of music; it is unthinkable then that these
feelings should be able to create music out of them-
selves. Take for instance the feelings of love, fear
and hope: music can no longer do anything with
them in a direct way, every one of them is already
so filled with conceptions. On the contrary these
feelings can serve to symbolise music, as the lyric
poet does who translates for himself into the simile-
world of feelings that conceptually and metaphori-
cally unapproachable realm of the Will, the proper
content and object of music. The lyric poet re-
sembles all those hearers of music who are conscious
of an effect of music on their emotions; the distant
and removed power of music appeals, with them,
to an intermediate realm which gives to them as it
were a foretaste, a symbolic preliminary conception
of music proper, it "appeals to the intermediate
realm of the emotions. One might be permitted
to say about them, with respect to the Will, the
only object of music, that they bear the same rela-
tion to this Will, as the analogous morning-dream,


## p. 35 (#68) ##############################################

34 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
so our painter's vision, defeated by the higher, would
fade and die away. —How nevertheless could the
miracle happen? How should the Apollonian world
of the eye quite engrossed in contemplation be able
to create out of itself the tone, which on the contrary
symbolises a sphere which is excluded and con-
quered just by that very Apollonian absorption in
Appearance? The delight at Appearance cannot
raiseout of itself the pleasure at Non-appearance; the
delight of perceiving is delight only by the fact that
nothing reminds us of a sphere in which individua-
tion is broken and abolished. If we have character-
ised at all correctly the Apollonian in opposition to
the Dionysean, then the thought which attributes
to the metaphor, the idea, the appearance, in some
way the power of producing out of itself the tone,
must appear to us strangely wrong. We will not
be referred, in order to be refuted, to the musician
who writes music to existing lyric poems; for after
all that has been said we shall be compelled to
assert that the relationship between the lyric poem
and its setting must in any case be a different one
from that between a father and his child. Then
what exactly?
Here now we may be met on the ground of a
favourite aesthetic notion with the proposition, " It
is not the poem which gives birth to the setting but
the sentiment created by the poem. " I do not agree
with that; the more subtle or powerful stirring-up
of that pleasure-and-displeasure-subsoil is in the
realm of productive art the element which is in-
artistic in itself; indeed only its total exclusion
makesthc complete self-absorption and disinterested



## p. 35 (#69) ##############################################

ON MUSIC AND WORDS 35
perception of the artist possible. Here perhaps one
might retaliate that I myself just now predicated
about the "Will," that in music "Will" came to an
ever more adequate symbolic expression. My
answer, condensed into an aesthetic axiom, is this:
the Will is the object of music but not the origin of it,
that is the Will in its very greatest universality, as
the most original manifestation, under which is to
be understood all Becoming. That, which we call
feeling, is with regard to this Will already permeat-
ed and saturated with conscious and unconscious
conceptions and is therefore no longer directly the
object of music; it is unthinkable then that these
feelings should be able to create music out of them-
selves. Take for instance the feelings of love, fear
and hope: music can no longer do anything with
them in a direct way, every one of them is already
so filled with conceptions. On the contrary these
feelings can serve to symbolise music, as the lyric
poet does who translates for himself into the simile-
world of feelings that conceptually and metaphori-
cally unapproachable realm of the Will, the proper
content and object of music. The lyric poet re-
sembles all those hearers of music who are conscious
of an effect of music on their emotions; the distant
and removed power of music appeals, with them,
to an intermediate realm which gives to them as it
were a foretaste, a symbolic preliminary conception
of music proper, it appeals to the intermediate
realm of the emotions. One might be permitted
to say about them, with respect to the Will, the
only object of music, that they bear the same rela-
tion to this Will, as the analogous morning-dream,


## p. 35 (#70) ##############################################

34 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
so our painter's vision, defeated by the higher, would
fade and die away. —How nevertheless could the
miracle happen? How should the Apollonian world
of the eye quite engrossed in contemplation be able
to create out of itself the tone, which on the contrary
symbolises a sphere which is excluded and con-
quered just by that very Apollonian absorption in
Appearance? The delight at Appearance cannot
raiseout of itself the pleasure at Non-appearance; the
delight of perceiving is delight only by the fact that
nothing reminds us of a sphere in which individua-
tion is broken and abolished. If we have character-
ised at all correctly the Apollonian in opposition to
the Dionysean, then the thought which attributes
to the metaphor, the idea, the appearance, in some
way the power of producing out of itself the tone,
must appear to us strangely wrong. We will not
be referred, in order to be refuted, to the musician
who writes music to existing lyric poems; for after
all that has been said we shall be compelled to
assert that the relationship between the lyric poem
and its setting must in any case be a different one
from that between a father and his child. Then
what exactly?
Here now we may be met on the ground of a
favourite aesthetic notion with the proposition, " It
is not the poem which gives birth to the setting but
the sentiment created by the poem. " I do not agree
with that; the more subtle or powerful stirring-up
of that pleasure-and-displeasure-subsoil is in the
realm of productive art the element which is in-
artistic in itself; indeed only its total exclusion
makes the complete self-absorption and disinterested



## p. 35 (#71) ##############################################

ON MUSIC AND WORDS 35
perception of the artist possible. Here perhaps one
might retaliate that I myself just now predicated
about the "Will," that in music "Will" came to an
ever more adequate symbolic expression. My
answer, condensed into an aesthetic axiom, is this:
the Will is the object of music but not the origin of it,
that is the Will in its very greatest universality, as
the most original manifestation, under which is to
be understood all Becoming. That, which we call
feeling, is with regard to this Will already permeat-
ed and saturated with conscious and unconscious
conceptions and is therefore no longer directly the
object of music; it is unthinkable then that these
feelings should be able to create music out of them-
selves. Take for instance the feelings of love, fear
and hope: music can no longer do anything with
them in a direct way, every one of them is already
so filled with conceptions. On the contrary these
feelings can serve to symbolise music, as the lyric
poet does who translates for himself into the simile-
world of feelings that conceptually and metaphori-
cally unapproachable realm of the Will, the proper
content and object of music. The lyric poet re-
sembles all those hearers of music who are conscious
of an effect of music on their emotions; the distant
and removed power of music appeals, with them,
to an intermediate realm which gives to them as it
were a foretaste, a symbolic preliminary conception
of music proper, it appeals to the intermediate
realm of the emotions. One might be permitted
to say about them, with respect to the Will, the
only object of music, that they bear the same rela-
tion to this Will, as the analogous morning-dream,


## p. 36 (#72) ##############################################

36 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
according to Schopenhauer's theory, bears to the
dream proper. To all those, however, who are un-
able to get at music except with their emotions,
is to be said, that they will ever remain in the
entrance-hall, and will never have access to the
sanctuary of music: which, as I said, emotion can-
not show but only symbolise.
With regard however to the origin of music, I
have already explained that that can never lie in
the Will, but must rather rest in the lap of that
force, which under the form of the " Will " creates
out of itself a visionary world: the origin of music
lies beyond all individuation, a proposition, which
after our discussion on the Dionysean is self-evident.
At this point I take the liberty of setting forth again
comprehensively side by side those decisive proposi-
tions which the antithesis of the Dionysean and A pol -
Ionian dealt with has compelled us to enunciate:
The " Will," as the most original manifestation,
is the object of music: in this sense music can be
called imitation of Nature, but of Nature in its
most general form. —
The "Will" itself and the feelings—manifesta-
tions of the Will already permeated with concep-
tions—are wholly incapable of creating music out
of themselves, just as on the other hand it is utterly
denied to music to represent feelings, or to have
feelings as its object, while Will is its only object. —
He who carries away feelings as effects of music
has within them as it were a symbolic intermediate
realm, which can give him a foretaste of music, but
excludes him at the same time from her innermost
sanctuaries. —


## p. 37 (#73) ##############################################

ON MUSIC AND WORDS 2)7
The lyric poet interprets music to himself through
the symbolic world of emotions, whereas he himself,
in the calm of the Apollonian contemplation, is
exempted from those emotions. —
When, therefore, the musician writes a setting to a
lyric poem he is moved as musician neither through
the images nor through the emotional language in
the text; but a musical inspiration coming from
quite a different sphere chooses for itself that song-
text as allegorical expression. There cannot there-
fore be any question as to a necessary relation be-
tween poem and music; for the two worlds brought
here into connection are too strange to one another
to enter into more than a superficial alliance; the
song-text is just a symbol and stands to music in
the same relation as the Egyptian hieroglyph of
bravery did to the brave warrior himself. During
the highest revelations of music we even feel in-
voluntarily the crudeness of every figurative effort
and of every emotion dragged in for purposes of
analogy; for example, the last quartets of Bee-
thoven quite put to shame all illustration and the
entire realm of empiric reality. The symbol, in face
of the god really revealing himself, has no longer
any meaning; moreover it appears as an offensive
superficiality.
One must not think any the worse of us for con-
sidering from this point of view one item so that
we may speak about it without reserve, namely the
last movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, a
movement which is unprecedented and unanalys-
able in its charms. To the dithyrambic world-
redeeming exultation of this music Schiller's poem,


## p. 38 (#74) ##############################################

38 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
"To Joy," is wholly incongruous,yea, like cold moon-
light, pales beside that sea of flame. Who would
rob me of this sure feeling? Yea, who would be able
to dispute that that feeling during the hearing of
this music does not find expression in a scream only
because we, wholly impotent through music for
metaphor and word, already hear nothing at all front
Schiller'spoem. All that noble sublimity, yea the
grandeur of Schiller's verses has, beside the truly
naive-innocent folk-melody of joy, a disturbing,
troubling, even crude and offensive effect; only the
ever fuller development of the choir's song and the
masses of the orchestra preventing us from hearing
them, keep from us that sensation of incongruity.
What therefore shall we think of that awful zesthetic
superstition that Beethoven himself made a solemn
statement as to his belief in the limits of absolute
music, in that fourth movement of the Ninth Sym-
phony, yea that he as it were with it unlocked the
portals of a new art, within which music had been
enabled to represent even metaphor and idea and
whereby music had been opened to the "conscious
mind. " And what does Beethoven himself tell us
when he has choir-song introduced by a recitative?
"Alas friends, let us intonate not these tones but
more pleasing and joyous ones! " More pleasing
and joyous ones! For that he needed the convinc-
ing tone of the human voice, for that he needed the
music of innocence in the folk-song. Not the word,
but the "more pleasing" sound, not the idea but
the most heartfelt joyful tone was chosen by the
sublime master in his longing for the most soul-
thrilling ensemble of his orchestra. And how could


## p. 39 (#75) ##############################################

ON MUSIC AND WORDS 39
one misunderstand him! Rather may the same be
said of this movement as Richard Wagner says of
the great "Missa Solemnis" which he calls "a pure
symphonic work of the most genuine Beethoven-
spirit " (Beethoven, p. 42). "The voices are treated
here quite in the sense of human instruments, in
which sense Schopenhauer quite rightly wanted
these human voices to be considered; the text
underlying them is understood by us in these great
Church compositions, not in its conceptual meaning,
but it serves in the sense of the musical work of
art, merely as material for vocal music and does not
stand to our musically determined sensation in a
disturbing position simply because it does not in-
cite in us any rational conceptions but, as its eccle-
siastical character conditions too, only touches us
with the impression of well-known symbolic creeds. "
Besides I do not doubt that Beethoven, had he
written the Tenth Symphony—of which drafts are
still extant—would have composed just the Tenth
Symphony.
Let us now approach, after these preparations, the
discussion of the opera, so as to be able to proceed
afterwards from the opera to its counterpart in the
Greek tragedy. What we had to observe in the last
movement of the Ninth, i. e. , on the highest level
of modern music-development, viz. , that the word-
content goes down unheard in the general sea of
sound, is nothing isolated and peculiar, but the gene-
ral and eternally valid norm in the vocal music of
all times, the norm which alone is adequate to the
origin of lyric song. The man in a state of Dionys-
ean excitement has a listener just as little as the


## p. 40 (#76) ##############################################

40 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
orgiastic crowd, a listener to whom he might have
something to communicate, a listener as the epic nar-
rator and generally speaking the Apollonian artist,
to be sure, presupposes. It is rather in the nature of
the Dionysean art, that it has no consideration for
the listener: the inspired servant of Dionysos is, as
I said in a former place, understood only by his com-
peers. But if we now imagine a listener at those
endemic outbursts of Dionysean excitement then
we shall have to prophesy for him a fate similar to
that which Pentheus the discovered eavesdropper
suffered, namely, to be torn to pieces by the Maenads.
The lyric musician sings "as the bird sings,"* alone,
out of innermost compulsion; when the listener
comes to him with a demand he must become dumb.
Therefore it would be altogether unnatural to ask
from the lyric musician that one should also under-
stand the text-words of his song, unnatural because
here a demand is made by the listener, who has no
right at all during the lyric outburst to claim any-
thing. Now with the poetry of the great ancient
lyric poets in your hand, put the question honestly
to yourself whether they can have even thought of
making themselves clear to the mass of the people
standing around and listening, clear with their world
of metaphors and thoughts; answer this serious
question with a look at Pindar and the iEschylian
choir songs. These most daring and obscure in-
* A reference to Goethe's ballad, The Minstrel, st. 5:
"I sing as sings the bird, whose note
The leafy bough is heard on.
The song that falters from my throat
For me is ample guerdon. " Tk.


## p. 41 (#77) ##############################################

ON MUSIC AND WORDS 41
tricacies of thought, this whirl of metaphors, ever
impetuously reproducing itself, this oracular tone of
the whole, which we, without the diversion of music
and orchestration, so often cannot penetrate even
with the closest attention—was this whole world of
miracles transparent as glass to the Greek crowd,
yea, a metaphorical-conceptual interpretation of
music? And with such mysteries of thought as
are to be found in Pindar do you think the wonder-
ful poet could have wished to elucidate the music
already strikingly distinct? Should we here not
be forced to an insight into the very nature of the
lyricist—the artistic man, who to himself must in-
terpret music through the symbolism of metaphors
and emotions, but who has nothing to communicate
to the listener; an artist who, in complete aloof-
ness, even forgets those who stand eagerly listening
near him. And as the lyricist his hymns, so the
people sing the folk-song, for themselves, out of in-
most impulse, unconcerned whether the word is com-
prehensible to him who does not join in the song.
Let us think of our own experiences in the realm
of higher art-music: what did we understand of the
text of a Mass of Palestrina, of a Cantata of Bach,
of an Oratorio of Handel, if we ourselves perhaps
did not join in singing? Only for him who joins in
singing do lyric poetry and vocal music exist; the
listener stands before it as before absolute music.
But now the opera begins, according to the clear-
est testimonies, with the demand of the listener to
understand the word.
What? The listener demands? The word is to
be understood?


## p. 42 (#78) ##############################################

42 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
But to bring music into the service of a series of
metaphors and conceptions, to use it as a means to
an end, to the strengthening and elucidation of such
conceptions and metaphors—such a peculiar pre-
sumption as is found in the concept of an "opera,"
reminds me of that ridiculous person who endeavours
to lift himself up into the air with his own arms;
that which this fool and which the opera accord-
ing to that idea attempt are absolute impossi-
bilities. That idea of the opera does not demand
perhaps an abuse from music but—as I said—
an impossibility. Music never can become a
means; one may push, screw, torture it; as tone, as
roll of the drum, in its crudest and simplest stages,
it still defeats poetry and abases the latter to its
reflection. The opera as a species of art according
to that concept is therefore not only an aber-
ration of music, but an erroneous conception of
aesthetics. If I herewith, after all, justify the nature
of the opera for aesthetics, I am of course far from
justifying at the same time bad opera music or bad
opera-verses. The worst music can still mean, as
compared with the best poetry, the Dionysean
world-subsoil, and the worst poetry can be mirror,
image and reflection of this subsoil, if together with
the best music: as certainly, namely, as the single
tone against the metaphor is already Dionysean,
and the single metaphor together with idea and
word against music is already Apollonian. Yea,
even bad music together with bad poetry can still
inform as to the nature of music and poesy.
When therefore Schopenhauer felt Bellini's
"Norma," for example, as the fulfilment of tragedy,


## p. 43 (#79) ##############################################

ON MUSIC AND WORDS 43
with regard to that opera's music and poetry, then he,
in Dionysean-Apollonian emotion and self-forgetful-
ness,was quite entitled to do so, because he perceived
music and poetry in their most general, as it were,
philosophical value, as music and poetry: but with
that judgment he showed a poorly educated taste,—
for good taste always has historical perspective. To
us, who intentionally in this investigation avoid any
question of the historic value of an art-phenomenon
and endeavour to focus only the phenomenon itself,
in its unaltered eternal meaning, and consequently
in its highest type, too,—to us the art-species of the
"opera" seems to be justified as much as the folk-
song, in so far as we find in both that union of the
Dionysean and Apollonian and are permitted to
assume for the opera—namely for the highest type
of the opera—an origin analogous to that of the
folk-song. Only in so far as the opera historically
known to us has a completely different origin from
that of the folk-song do we reject this "opera,"
which stands in the same relation to that generic
notion just defended by us, as the marionette does
to a living human being. It is certain, music never
can become a means in the service of the text,
but must always defeat the text, yet music must
become bad when the composer interrupts every
Dionysean force rising within himself by an anxious
regard for the words and gestures of his marion-
ettes. If the poet of the opera-text has offered him
nothing more than the usual schematised figures
with their Egyptian regularity, then the freer, more
unconditional, more Dionysean is the development
of the music; and the more she despises all dra-


## p. 43 (#80) ##############################################

42 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
But to bring music into the service of a series of
metaphors and conceptions, to use it as a means to
an end, to the strengthening and elucidation of such
conceptions and metaphors—such a peculiar pre-
sumption as is found in the concept of an "opera,"
reminds me of that ridiculous person who endeavours
to lift himself up into the air with his own arms;
that which this fool and which the opera accord-
ing to that idea attempt are absolute impossi-
bilities. That idea of the opera does not demand
perhaps an abuse from music but—as I said—
an impossibility. Music never can become a
means; one may push, screw, torture it; as tone, as
roll of the drum, in its crudest and simplest stages,
it still defeats poetry and abases the latter to its
reflection. The opera as a species of art according
to that concept is therefore not only an aber-
ration of music, but an erroneous conception of
aesthetics. If I herewith, after all, justify the nature
of the opera for aesthetics, I am of course far from
justifying at the same time bad opera music or bad
opera-verses. The worst music can still mean, as
compared with the best poetry, the Dionysean
world-subsoil, and the worst poetry can be mirror,
image and reflection of this subsoil, if together with
the best music: as certainly, namely, as the single
tone against the metaphor is already Dionysean,
and the single metaphor together with idea and
word against music is already Apollonian. Yea,
even bad music together with bad poetry can still
inform as to the nature of music and poesy.
When therefore Schopenhauer felt Bellini's
"Norma," for example, as the fulfilment of tragedy,



## p. 43 (#81) ##############################################

ON MUSIC AND WORDS 43
with regard to that opera's music and poetry, then he,
in Dionysean-Apollonian emotion and self-forgetful-
ness,was quite entitled to do so, because he perceived
music and poetry in their most general, as it were,
philosophical value, as music and poetry: but with
that judgment he showed a poorly educated taste,—
for good taste always has historical perspective. To
us, who intentionally in this investigation avoid any
question of the historic value of an art-phenomenon
and endeavour to focus only the phenomenon itself,
in its unaltered eternal meaning, and consequently
in its highest type, too,—to us the art-species of the
"opera" seems to be justified as much as the folk-
song, in so far as we find in both that union of the
Dionysean and Apollonian and are permitted to
assume for the opera—namely for the highest type
of the opera—an origin analogous to that of the
folk-song. Only in so far as the opera historically
known to us has a completely different origin from
that of the folk-song do we reject this "opera,"
which stands in the same relation to that generic
notion just defended by us, as the marionette does
to a living human being. It is certain, music never
can become a means in the service of the text,
but must always defeat the text, yet music must
become bad when the composer interrupts every
Dionysean force rising within himself by an anxious
regard for the words and gestures of his marion-
ettes. If the poet of the opera-text has offered him
nothing more than the usual schematised figures
with their Egyptian regularity, then the freer, more
unconditional, more Dionysean is the development
of the music; and the more she despises all dra-


## p. 44 (#82) ##############################################

44 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
matic requirements, so much the higher will be the
value of the opera. In this sense it is true the opera
is, at its best, good music, and nothing but music:
whereas the jugglery performed at the same time
is, as it were, only a fantastic disguise of the orches-
tra, above all, of the most important instruments
the orchestra has: the singers; and from this jug-
glery the judicious listener turns away laughing. If
the mass is diverted by this very jugglery and only
permits the music with it, then the mob fares as all
those do who value the frame of a good picture
higher than the picture itself. Who treats such
naive aberrations with a serious or even pathetic
reproach?
But what will the opera mean as "dramatic"
music, in its possibly farthest distance from pure
music, efficient in itself, and purely Dionysean?
Let us imagine a passionate drama full of inci-
dents which carries away the spectator, and which
is already sure of success by its plot: what will
"dramatic " music be able to add, if it does not take
away something? Firstly, it will take away much:
for in every moment where for once the Dionysean
power of music strikes the listener, the eye is dimmed
that sees the action, the eye that became absorbed
in the individuals appearing before it: the listener
now forgets the drama and becomes alive again to it
only when the Dionysean spell over him has been
broken. In so far, however, as music makes the
listener forget the drama, it is not yet "dramatic"
music: but what kind of music is that which is not
allowed to exercise any Dionysean power over the
listener? And how is it possible? It is possible


## p. 45 (#83) ##############################################

ON MUSIC AND WORDS 45
as purely conventional symbolism, out of which con-
vention has sucked all natural strength: as music
which has diminished to symbols of remembrance:
and its effect aims at reminding the spectator of
something, which at the sight of the drama must not
escape him lest he should misunderstand it: as a
trumpet signal is an invitation for the horse to trot.
Lastly, before the drama commenced and in inter-
ludes or during tedious passages, doubtful as to
dramatic effect, yea, even in its highest moments,
there would still be permitted another species of
remembrance-music, no longer purely conventional,
namely emotional-music, music, as a stimulant to
dull or wearied nerves. I am able to distinguish
in the so-called dramatic music these two elements
only: a conventional rhetoric and remembrance-
music, and a sensational-music with an effect essen-
tially physical: and thus it vacillates between the
noise of the drum and the signal-horn, like the mood
of the warrior who goes into the battle. But now
the mind, regaling itself on pure music and educated
through comparison,demands a masqueradeiox those
two wrong tendencies of music; "Remembrance"
and "Emotion" are to be played, but in good music,
which must be in itself enjoyable, yea, valuable;
what despair for the dramatic musician, who must
mask the big drum by good music, which, however,
must nevertheless have no purely musical, but only
a stimulating effect! And now comes the great
Philistine public nodding its thousand heads and
enjoys this " dramatic music" which is ever ashamed
of itself, enjoys it to the very last morsel, without
perceiving anything of its shame and embarrass-


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46 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
ment. Rather the public feels its skin agreeably
tickled, for indeed homage is being rendered in
all forms and ways to the public! To the pleasure-
hunting, dull-eyed sensualist, who needs excite-
ment, to the conceited "educated person" who
has accustomed himself to good drama and good
music as to good food, without after all making
much out of it, to the forgetful and absent-minded
egoist, who must be led back to the work of art with
force and with signal-horns because selfish plans
continually pass through his mind aiming at gain
or pleasure. Woe-begone dramatic musicians!
"Draw near and view your Patrons' faces! The
half are coarse, the half are cold. " "Why should you
rack, poor foolish Bards, for ends like these the gra-
cious Muses? "* And that the muses are tormented,
even tortured and flayed, these veracious miserable
ones do not themselves deny!
We had assumed a passionate drama, carrying
away the spectator, which even without music would
be sure of its effect. I fear that that in it which is
"poetry" and not action proper will stand in relation
to true poetry as dramatic music to music in general:
it will be remembrance- and emotional-poetry.
Poetry will serve as a means, in order to recall in
a conventional fashion feelings and passions, the
expression of which has been found by real poets
and has become celebrated, yea, normal with them.
Further, this poetry will be expected in dangerous
moments to assist the proper "action,"—whether
a criminalistic horror-story or an exhibition of
* A quotation from Goethe's "Faust": Part I. , lines 91,
92, and 95, 96. —Tr.


## p. 47 (#85) ##############################################

ON MUSIC AND WORDS 47
witchery mad with shifting the scenes,—and to
spread a covering veil over the crudeness of the
action itself. Shamefully conscious that the poetry
is only masquerade which cannot bear the light of
day, such a "dramatic" rime-jingle clamours now
for "dramatic" music, as on the other hand again
the poetaster of such dramas is met after one-fourth
of the way by the dramatic musician with his talent
for the drum and the signal-horn and his shyness of
genuine music, trusting in itself and self-sufficient.
And now they see one another; and these Apol-
lonian and Dionysean caricatures, this par nobile
fratrum, embrace one another!


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## p. 49 (#87) ##############################################

Homer's Contest
Preface to an Unwritten Book (1872)


## p. 50 (#88) ##############################################



## p. 51 (#89) ##############################################

WHEN one speaks of "humanity" the notion lies
at the bottom, that humanity is that which separates
and distinguishes man from Nature. But such a
distinction does not in reality exist: the "natural"
qualities and the properly called "human" ones
have grown up inseparably together. Man in his
highest and noblest capacities is Nature and bears
in himself her awful twofold character. His abilities «,
generally considered dreadful and inhuman are —
perhaps indeed the fertile soil, out of which alone
can grow forth all humanity in emotions, actions
and works.
Thus the Greeks, the most humane men of ancient
times, have in themselves a trait of cruelty, of tiger-
like pleasure in destruction: a trait, which in the
grotesquely magnified image of the Hellene, in
Alexander the Great, is very plainly visible, which,
however, in their whole history, as well as in their
mythology, must terrify us who meet them with
the emasculate idea of modern humanity. When
Alexander has the feet of Batis, the brave defender
of Gaza, bored through, and binds the living body to
his chariot in order to drag him about exposed to
the scorn of his soldiers, that is a sickening^ cari-
cature of Achilles, who at night ill-uses Hector's
corpse by a similar trailing; but even this trait has
for us something offensive, something which inspires


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52 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
horror. It gives us a peep into the abysses of hatred.
With the same sensation perhaps we stand before
the bloody and insatiable self-laceration of two
Greek parties, as for example in the Corcyrean
revolution. When the victor, in a fight of the cities,
according to the law of warfare, executes the whole
male population and sells all the women and children
into slavery, we see, in the sanction of such a law,
that the Greek deemed it a positive necessity to
allow his hatred to break forth unimpeded; in such
moments the compressed and swollen feeling re-
lieved itself; the tiger bounded forth, a voluptuous
cruelty shone out of his fearful eye. Why had the
Greek sculptor to represent again and again war and
fights in innumerable repetitions, extended human
bodies whose sinews are tightened through hatred
or through the recklessness of triumph, fighters
wounded and writhing with pain, or the dying with
the last rattle in their throat? Why did the whole
Greek world exult in the fighting scenes of the
"Iliad"? I am afraid, we do not understand them
enough in "Greek fashion," and that we should
even shudder, if for once we did understand them
thus.
But what lies, as the mother-womb of the Hellenic,
behind the Homeric world? In the latter, by the
extremely artistic definiteness, and the calm and
purity of the lines we are already lifted far above
the purely material amalgamation: its colours, by
an artistic deception, appear lighter, milder, warmer;
its men, in this coloured, warm illumination, appear
better and more sympathetic—but where do we look,
if, no longer guided and protected by Homer's hand,


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homer's contest 53
we step backwards into the pre-Homeric world?
Only into night and horror, into the products of a
fancy accustomed to the horrible. What earthly
existence is reflected in the loathsome-awful theo-
gonian lore : a life swayed only by the children of the
night, strife, amorous desires, deception, age and
death. Let us imagine the suffocating atmosphere
of Hesiod's poem, still thickened and darkened and
without all the mitigations and purifications, which
poured over Hellas from Delphi and the numerous
seats of the gods! If we mix this thickened Boeotian
air with the grim voluptuousness of the Etruscans,
then such a reality would extort from us a world of
myths within which Uranos, Kronos and Zeus and
the struggles of the Titans would appear as a relief.
Combat in this brooding atmosphere is salvation and \
safety; the cruelty of victory is the summit of life's
glories. And just as in truth the idea of Greek law
has developed from murder and expiation of murder,
so also nobler Civilisation takes her first wreath of
victory from the altar of the expiation of murder.
Behind that bloody age stretches a wave-furrow deep
into Hellenic history. The names of Orpheus, of
Musseus, and their cults indicate to what conse-
quences the uninterrupted sight of a world of warfare
and cruelty led—to the loathing of existence, to the
conception of this existence as a punishment to be
borne to the end, to the belief in the identity of ex-
istence and indebtedness. But these particular con-
clusions are not specifically Hellenic; through them
Greece comes into contact with India and the Orient
generally. The Hellenic genius had ready yet an-
other answer to the question: what does a life of


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54 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
fighting and of victory mean? and gives this answer
in the whole breadth of Greek history.
In order to understand the latter we must start
from the fact that the Greek genius admitted the
existing fearful impulse, and deemed it justified;
whereas in the Orphic phase of thought was con-
tained the belief that life with such an impulse as
its root would not be worth living. Strife and the
pleasure of victory were acknowledged; and nothing
separates the Greek world more from ours than the
colouring, derived hence, of some ethical ideas, e. g. , of
Eris and of Envy.
When the traveller Pausanius during his wander-
ings through Greece visited the Helicon, a very old
copy of the first didactic poem of the Greeks," The
Works and Days " of Hesiod, was shown to him, in-
scribed upon plates of lead and severely damaged
by time and weather. However he recognised this
much, that, unlike the usual copies, it had not at its
head that little hymnus on Zeus, but began at once
with the declaration: "Two Eris-goddesses are on
earth. " This is one of the most noteworthy Hellenic
thoughts and worthy to be impressed on the new-
comer immediately at the entrance-gate of Greek
ethics. "One would like to praise the one Eris, just
as much as to blame the other, if one uses one's
reason. For these two goddesses have quite different
dispositions. For the one, the cruel one, furthers the
evil war and feud! No mortal likes her, but under
the yoke of need one pays honour to the burdensome
Eris, according to the decree of the immortals. She,
as the elder, gave birth to black night. Zeus the high-
ruling one, however, placed the other Eris upon the


## p. 55 (#93) ##############################################

homer's contest 55
roots of the earth and among men as a much better
one. She urges even the unskilled man to work, and
if one who lacks property beholds another who is
rich, then he hastens to sow in similar fashion and to
plant and to put his house in order; the neighbour
vies with the neighbour who strives after fortune.
Good is this Eris to men. The potter also has a
grudge against the potter, and the carpenter against
the carpenter; the beggar envies the beggar, and the
singer the singer. "
The two last verses which treat of the odium figu-
linum appear to our scholars to be incomprehensible
in this place. According to their judgment the pre-
dicates: "grudge " and " envy " fit only the nature of
the evil Eris, and for this reason they do not hesitate
to designate these verses as spurious or thrown by
chance into this place. For that judgment however
a system of Ethics other than the Hellenic must have
inspired these scholars unawares; for in these verses
to the good Eris Aristotle finds no offence. And not
only Aristotle but the whole Greek antiquity thinks
of spite and envy otherwise than we do and agrees
with Hesiod, who first designates as an evil one that
Eris who leads men against one another to a hostile
war of extermination, and secondly praises another
Eris as the good one, who as jealousy, spite, envy, in-
cites men to activity but not to the action of war to
the knife but to the action of contest. The Greek is
envious and conceives of this quality not as a blemish,
but as the effect of a beneficent deity. What a gulf
of ethical judgment between us and him? Because
he is envious he also feels, with every superfluity of
honour, riches, splendour and fortune, the envious


## p. 56 (#94) ##############################################

$6 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
eye of a god resting on himself, and he fears this
envy; in this case the latter reminds him of the
transitoriness of every human lot; he dreads his
very happiness and, sacrificing the best of it, he bows
before the divine envy. This conception does not
perhaps estrange him from his gods; their signifi-
cance on the contrary is expressed by the thought
that with them man in whose soul jealousy is en-
kindled against every other living being, is never
allowed to venture into contest. In the fight of
Thamyris with the Muses, of Marsyas with Apollo,
in the heart-moving fate of Niobe appears the hor-
rible opposition of the two powers, who must never
fight with one another, man and god.
The greater and more sublime however a Greek
is, the brighter in him appears the ambitious flame,
devouring everybody who runs with him on the same
track. Aristotle once made a list of such contests
on a large scale; among them is the most striking
instance how even a dead person can still incite a
living one to consuming jealousy; thus for example
Aristotle designates the relation between the Kolo-
phonian Xenophanes and Homer. We do not under-
stand this attack on the national hero of poetry in
all its strength, if we do not imagine, as later on also
with Plato, the root of this attack to be the ardent
desire to step into the place of the overthrown poet
and to inherit his fame. Every great Hellene hands
^on the torch of the contest; at every great virtue a
newlight is kindled. If the young Themistocles could
not sleep at the thought of the laurels of Miltiades so
his early awakened bent released itself only in the
long emulation with Aristides in that uniquely note-


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homer's contest 57
worthy, purely instinctive genius of his political
activity, which Thucydides describes. How charac-
teristic are both question and answer, when a notable
opponent of Pericles is asked, whether he or Pericles
was the better wrestler in the city, and he gives the
answer: "Even if I throw him down he denies that
he has fallen, attains his purpose and convinces those
who saw him fall. "
If one wants to see that sentiment unashamed in
its naive expressions, the sentiment as to the neces-
sity of contest lest the State's welfare be threatened,
one should think of the original meaning of Ostra-
cism, as for example the Ephesians pronounced it at
the banishment of Hermodor. "Among us nobody
shall be the best; if however someone is the best, then
let him be so elsewhere and among others. " Why v
should not someone be the best? Because with that )
the contest would fail, and the eternal life-basis of I
the Hellenic State would be endangered. Later on
Ostracism receives quite another position with regard
tp the contest; it is applied, when the danger be-
comes obvious that one of the great contesting poli-
ticians and party-leaders feels himself urged on in
the heat of the conflict towards harmful and destruc-
tive measures and dubious coups a"Mat. The original
sense of this peculiar institution however is not that
of a safety-valve but that of a stimulant. The all-
excelling individual was to be removed in order that
the contest of forces might re-awaken, a thought
which is hostile to the "exclusiveness" of genius
in the modern sense but which assumes that in
the natural order of things there are always several
geniuses which incite one another to action, as much
r


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58 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
also as they hold one another within the bounds
of moderation. That is the kernel of the Hellenic
contest-conception: it abominates autocracy, and
fears its dangers; it desires as a preventive against
the genius—a second genius.
- Every natural gift must develop itself by contest.
Thus the Hellenic national pedagogy demands,
whereas modern educators fear nothing as much as,
the unchaining of the so-called ambition. Here one
fears selfishness as the "evil in itself"—with the ex-
ception of the Jesuits, who agree with the Ancients
and who, possibly, for that reason, are the most effi-
cient educators of our time. They seem to believe
that Selfishness, i. e. , the individual element is only
the most powerful agens but that it obtains its char-
acter as " good " and "evil" essentially from the aims
towards which it strives. To the Ancients however
the aim of the agonistic education was the welfare
of the whole, of the civic society. Every Athenian
for instance was to cultivate his Ego in contest, so
far that it should be of the highest service to Athens
and should do the least harm. It was not unmea-
sured and immeasurable as modern ambition gener-
ally is; the youth thought of the welfare of his native
town when he vied with others in running, throwing
or singing; it was her glory that he wanted to in-
crease with his own; it was to his town's gods that
he dedicated the wreaths which the umpires as a
mark of honour set upon his head. Every Greek
from childhood felt within himself the burning wish
to be in the contest of the towns an instrument for
the welfare of his own town; in this his selfishness
was kindled into flame, by this his selfishness was


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homer's contest 59
bridled and restricted. Therefore the individuals in
antiquity were freer, because their aims were nearer
and more tangible. Modern man, on the contrary,
is everywhere hampered by infinity, like the fleet-
footed Achilles in the allegory of the Eleate Zeno:
infinity impedes him, he does not even overtake the
tortoise.
But as the youths to be educated were brought
up struggling against one another, so their educators
were in turn in emulation amongst themselves. Dis-
trustfully jealous, the great musical masters, Pindar
and Simonides, stepped side by side; in rivalry
the sophist, the higher teacher of antiquity meets
his fellow-sophist; even the most universal kind
of instruction, through the drama, was imparted to
the people only under the form of an enormous
wrestling of the great musical and dramatic artists.
How wonderful! " And even the artist has a grudge
against the artist! " And the modern man dislikes
in an artist nothing so much as the personal battle-
feeling, whereas the Greek recognises the artist
only in such a personal struggle. There where the
modern suspects weakness of the work of art, the
Hellene seeks the source of his highest strength I
That, which by way of example in Plato is of special
artistic importance in his dialogues, is usually the
result of an emulation with the art of the orators,
of the sophists, of the dramatists of his time, in-
vented deliberately in order that at the end he
could say: "Behold, I can also do what my great
rivals can; yea I can do it even better than they.
No Protagoras has composed such beautiful myths
as I, no dramatist such a spirited and fascinating


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60 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
whole as the Symposion, no orator penned such an
oration as I put up in the Georgias—and now I
reject all that together and condemn all imitative
art! Only the contest made me a poet, a sophist,
an orator! " What a problem unfolds itself there
. . before us, if we ask about the relationship between
the contest and the conception of the work of art! —
If on the other hand we remove the contest from
Greek life, then we look at once into the pre-Homeric
abyss of horrible savagery, hatred, and pleasure in
destruction. This phenomenon alas! shows itself
frequently when a great personality was, owing to an
enormously brilliant deed, suddenly withdrawn from
the contest and became hors de concours according
to his, and his fellow-citizens' judgment. Almost
without exception the effect is awful; and if one
usually draws from these consequences the conclu-
sion that the Greek was unable to bear glory and
fortune, one should say more exactly that he was
unable to bear fame without further struggle, and
fortune at the end of the contest. There is no more
distinct instance than the fate of Miltiades. Placed
upon a solitary height and lifted far above every
fellow-combatant through his incomparable success
at Marathon, he feels a low thirsting for revenge
awakened within himself against a citizen of Para,
with whom he had been at enmity long ago. To
satisfy his desire he misuses reputation, the public
exchequer and civic honour and disgraces himself.
Conscious of his ill-success he falls into unworthy
machinations. He forms a clandestine and godless
connection with Timo a priestess of Demeter, and
enters at night the sacred temple, from which every


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homer's contest 61
man was excluded. After he has leapt over the
wall and comes ever nearer the shrine of the goddess,
the dreadful horror of a panic-like terror suddenly
seizes him; almost prostrate and unconscious he
feels himself driven back and leaping the wall once
more, he falls down paralysed and severely injured.
The siege must be raised and a disgraceful death
impresses its seal upon a brilliant heroic career, in
order to darken it for all posterity. After the battle
at Marathon the envy of the celestials has caught
him. And this divine envy breaks into flames when
it beholds man without rival, without opponent, on
the solitary height of glory. He now has beside him
only the gods—and therefore he has them against
him. These however betray him into a deed of the
Hybris, and under it he collapses.
Let us well observe that just as Miltiades perishes
so the noblest Greek States perish when they, by
merit and fortune, have arrived from the racecourse
at the temple of Nike. Athens, which had de-
stroyed the independence of her allies and avenged
with severity the rebellions of her subjected foes,
Sparta, which after the battle of jEgospotamoi used
her preponderance over Hellas in a still harsher and
more cruel fashion, both these, as in the case of Milti-
ades, brought about their ruin through deeds of the
Hybris, as a proof that without envy, jealousy, and
contesting ambition the Hellenic State like the Hel-
lenic man degenerates. He becomes bad and cruel,
thirsting for revenge, and godless; in short, he be-
comes" pre-Homeric"—and then it needs only a
panic in order to bring about his fall and to crush
him. Sparta and Athens surrender to Persia, as


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62 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
Themistocles and Alcibiades have done; they betray
Hellenism after they have given up the noblest Hel-
lenic fundamental thought, the contest, and Alex-
ander, the coarsened copy and abbreviation of Greek
history, now invents the cosmopolitan Hellene, and
the so-called " Hellenism. "


## p. 63 (#101) #############################################

The Relation of Schopenhauer's
Philosophy to a German Culture
Preface to an Unwritten Book (1872)


## p. 64 (#102) #############################################

ſ！！！！！！！！！！！：）--~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~


## p. 65 (#103) #############################################

In dear vile Germany culture now lies so decayed
in the streets, jealousy of all that is great rules so
shamelessly, and the general tumult of those who
race for " Fortune " resounds so deafeningly, that one
must have a strong faith, almost in the sense of credo
quia absurdutn est, in order to hope still for a growing
Culture, and above all—in opposition to the press
with her "public opinion "—to be able to work by
public teaching. With violence must those, in whose
hearts lies the immortal care for the people, free
themselves from all the inrushing impressions of
that which is just now actual and valid, and evoke
the appearance of reckoning them indifferent things.
They must appear so, because they want to think,
and because a loathsome sight and a confused noise,
perhaps even mixed with the trumpet-flourishes of
war-glory, disturb their thinking, and above all,
because they want to believe in the German character
and because with this faith they would lose their
strength. Do not find fault with these believers if
they look from their distant aloofness and from the
heights towards their Promised Land! They fear
those experiences, to which the kindly disposed
foreigner surrenders himself, when he lives among
the Germans, and must be surprised how little
German life corresponds to those great individuals,
works and actions, which, in his kind disposition he
5


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66 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
has learned to revere as the true German character.
Where the German cannot lift himself into the
sublime he makes an impression less than the medi-
ocre. Even the celebrated German scholarship, in
which a number of the most useful domestic and
homely virtues such as faithfulness, self-restriction,
industry, moderation, cleanliness appear transposed
into a purer atmosphere and, as it were, transfigured,
is by no means the result of these virtues; looked
at closely, the motive urging to unlimited knowledge
appears in Germany much more like a defect, a gap,
than an abundance of forces, it looks almost like the
consequence of a needy formless atrophied life and
even like a flight from the moral narrow-mindedness
and malice to which the German without such diver-
sions is subjected, and which also in spite of that
scholarship, yea still within scholarship itself, often
break forth. As the true virtuosi of philistinism
the Germans are at home in narrowness of life,
discerning and judging; if any one will carry them
above themselves into the sublime, then they make
themselves heavy as lead, and as such lead-weights
they hang to their truly great men, in order to pull
them down out of the ether to the level of their
own necessitous indigence. Perhaps this Philistine
homeliness may be only the degeneration of a
genuine German virtue—a profound submersion into
the detail, the minute, the nearest and into the
mysteries of the individual—but this virtue grown
mouldy is now worse than the most open vice, espe-
cially since one has now become conscious, with
gladness of the heart, of this quality, even to lite-
rary self-glorification. Now the "Educated" among


## p. 67 (#105) #############################################

SCHOPENHAUER'S PHILOSOPHY 67
the proverbially so cultured Germans and the "Philis-
tines" among the, as everybody knows, so uncul-
tured Germans shake hands in public and agree
with one another concerning the way in which hence-
forth one will have to write, compose poetry, paint,
make music and even philosophise, yea—rule, so as
neither to stand too much aloof from the culture of
the one, nor to give offence to the "homeliness"
of the other. This they call now "The German
Culture of our times. " Well, it is only necessary to
inquire after the characteristic by which that " edu-
cated" person is to be recognised; now that we
know that his foster-brother, the German Philistine,
makes himself known as such to all the world, with-
out bashfulness, as it were, after innocence is lost.
The educated person nowadays is educated above
all "historically" by his historic consciousness he
saves himself from the sublime in which the Philis-
tine succeeds by his "homeliness. " No longer that
enthusiasm which history inspires—as Goethe was
allowed to suppose—but just the blunting of all
enthusiasm is now the goal of these admirers of the
niladmirari, when they try to conceive everything
historically; to them however we should exclaim:
Ye are the fools of all centuries! History will make
to you only those confessions, which you are worthy
to receive. The world has been at all times full of
trivialities and nonentities; to your historic hanker-
ing just these and only these unveil themselves. By
your thousands you may pounce upon an epoch—
you will afterwards hunger as before and be allowed
to boast of your sort of starved soundness. Mam
ipsam quam iactant sanitatem nonfirmitate sed ieiunio


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68 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
consequuntur. (Dialogusdeoratoribus,cap. 2$. ) His-
tory has not thought fit to tell you anything that is
essential, but scorning and invisible she stood by
your side, slipping into this one's hand some state
proceedings, into that one's an ambassadorial report,
into another's a date or an etymology or a pragmatic
cobweb. Do you really believe yourself able to
reckon up history like an addition sum, and do you
consider your common intellect and your mathe-
matical education good enough for that? How it
must vex you to hear, that others narrate things,
out of the best known periods, which you will never
conceive, never!
If now to this "education,"calling itself historic but
destitute of enthusiasm, and to the hostile Philistine
activity, foaming with rage against all that is great,
is added that third brutal and excited company of
those who race after " Fortune"—then that in summa
results in such a confused shrieking and such a limb-
dislocating turmoil that the thinker with stopped-up
ears and blindfolded eyes flees into the most solitary
wilderness,—where he may see, what those never will
see, where he must hear sounds which rise to him out
of all the depths of nature and come down to him
from the stars. Here he confers with the great prob-
lems floating towards him, whose voices of course
sound just as comfortless-awful,as unhistoric-eternal.
The feeble person flees back from their cold breath,
and the calculating one runs right through them
without perceiving them. They deal worst, however,
with the "educated man" who at times bestows great
pains upon them. To him these phantoms transform
themselves into conceptual cobwebs and hollow


## p. 69 (#107) #############################################

SCHOPENHAUER'S PHILOSOPHY 69
sound-figures. Grasping after them he imagines he
has philosophy; in order to search for them he climbs
about in the so-called history of philosophy—and
when at last he has collected and piled up quite a
cloud of such abstractions and stereotyped patterns,
then it may happen to him that a real thinker crosses
his path and—puffs them away. What a desperate
annoyance indeed to meddle with philosophy as an
—" educated person "! From time to time it is
true it appears to him as if the impossible connection
of philosophy with that which nowadays gives itself
airs as "German Culture" has become possible;
some mongrel dallies and ogles between the two
spheres and confuses fantasy on this side and on the
other. Meanwhile however one piece of advice is to
be given to the Germans, if they do not wish to let
themselves be confused. They may put to them-
selves the question about everything that they now
call Culture: is this the hoped-for German Culture,
so serious and creative, so redeeming for the German
mind, so purifying for the German virtues that their
only philosopher in this century, Arthur Schopen-
hauer, should have to espouse its cause?
Here you have the philosopher—now search for
the Culture proper to him! And if you are able to
divine what kind of culture that would have to be,
which would correspond to such a philosopher, then
you have, in this divination, already passed sentence
on all your culture and on yourselves!


## p. 69 (#108) #############################################

68 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
consequuntur. (Dialogus deoratoribus,cap. 2$. ) His-
tory has not thought fit to tell you anything that is
essential, but scorning and invisible she stood by
your side, slipping into this one's hand some state
proceedings, into that one's an ambassadorial report,
into another's a date or an etymology or a pragmatic
cobweb. Do you really believe yourself able to
reckon up history like an addition sum, and do you
consider your common intellect and your mathe-
matical education good enough for that? How it
must vex you to hear, that others narrate things,
out of the best known periods, which you will never
conceive, never!
If now to this "education,"calling itself historic but
destitute of enthusiasm, and to the hostile Philistine
activity, foaming with rage against all that is great,
is added that third brutal and excited company of
those who race after "Fortune"—then that in sum ma
results in such a confused shrieking and such a limb-
dislocating turmoil that the thinker with stopped-up
ears and blindfolded eyes flees into the most solitary
wilderness,—where he may see, what those never will
see, where he must hear sounds which rise to him out
of all the depths of nature and come down to him
from the stars. Here he confers with the great prob-
lems floating towards him, whose voices of course
sound just as comfortless-awful,as unhistoric-eternal.
The feeble person flees back from their cold breath,
and the calculating one runs right through them
without perceiving them. They deal worst, however,
with the "educated man" who at times bestows great
pains upon them. To him these phantoms transform
themselves into conceptual cobwebs and hollow
1


## p. 69 (#109) #############################################

SCHOPENHAUER'S PHILOSOPHY 69
sound-figures. Grasping after them he imagines he
has philosophy; in order to search for them he climbs
about in the so-called history of philosophy—and
when at last he has collected and piled up quite a
cloud of such abstractions and stereotyped patterns,
then it may happen to him that a real thinker crosses
his path and—puffs them away. What a desperate
annoyance indeed to meddle with philosophy as an
—"educated person"! From time to time it is
true it appears to him as if the impossible connection
of philosophy with that which nowadays gives itself
airs as "German Culture" has become possible;
some mongrel dallies and ogles between the two
spheres and confuses fantasy on this side and on the
other. Meanwhile however one piece of advice is to
be given to the Germans, if they do not wish to let
themselves be confused. They may put to them-
selves the question about everything that they now
call Culture: is this the hoped-for German Culture,
so serious and creative, so redeeming for the German
mind, so purifying for the German virtues that their
only philosopher in this century, Arthur Schopen-
hauer, should have to espouse its cause?
Here you have the philosopher—now search for
the Culture proper to him! And if you are able to
divine what kind of culture that would have to be,
which would correspond to such a philosopher, then
you have, in this divination, already passed sentence
on all your culture and on yourselves!


## p. 70 (#110) #############################################

y


## p. 71 (#111) #############################################

Philosophy during the Tragic Age
of the Greeks
(1873)


## p. 72 (#112) #############################################

^


## p. 73 (#113) #############################################

PREFACE
{Probably 1874)
If we know the aims of men who are strangers to
us, it is sufficient for us to approve of or condemn
them as wholes. Those who stand nearer to us w?
judge according to the means by which they further
their aims; we often disapprove of their aims, but
love them for the sake of their means and the style
of their volition. Now philosophical systems arej
absolutely true only to their founders, to all later
philosophers they are usually one big mistake, and
to feebler minds a sum of mistakes and truths; at
any rate if regarded as highest aim they are an
error, and in so far reprehensible. Therefore many
disapprove of every philosopher, because his aim is
not theirs; they are those whom I called "strangers
to us. " Whoever on the contrary finds any pleasure
at all in great men finds pleasure also in such
systems, be they ever so erroneous, for they all
have in them one point which is irrefutable, a
personal touch, and colour; one can use them in
order to form a picture of the philosopher, just as
from a plant growing in a certain place one can
form conclusions as to the soil. That mode of life, of
viewing human affairs at any rate, has existed once
and is therefore possible; the "system" is the growth
in this soil or at least a part of this system. . . .


## p. 74 (#114) #############################################

74 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
I narrate the history of those philosophers simpli-
fied: I shall bring into relief only that point in
every system which is a little bit of personality, and
belongs to that which is irrefutable, and indiscus-
sable, which history has to preserve: it is a first
attempt to regain and recreate those natures by
comparison, and to let the polyphony of Greek nature
at least resound once again: the task is, to bring to
light that which we must always love and revere and
of which no later knowledge can rob us: the great
man.
LATER PREFACE
(Towards the end of 1879)
This attempt to relate the history of the earlier
Greek philosophers distinguishes itself from similar
attempts by its brevity. This has been accomplished
by mentioning but a small number of the doctrines
of every philosopher, i. e. , by incompleteness. Those
doctrines, however, have been selected in which the
personal element of the philosopher re-echoes most
strongly; whereas a complete enumeration of all pos-
sible propositions handed down to us—as is the cus-
tom in text-books—merely brings about one thing,
the absolute silencing of the personal element. It is
through this that those records become so tedious;
for in systems which have been refuted it is only this
personal element that can still interest us, for this
alone is eternally irrefutable. It is possible to
shape the picture of a man out of three anecdotes. I
endeavour to bring into relief three anecdotes out of
every system and abandon the remainder.


## p. 75 (#115) #############################################

EARLY GREEK PHILOSOPHY 75
There are opponents of philosophy, and one does
well to listen to them; especially if they dissuade the
distempered heads of Germans from metaphysics
and on the other hand preach to them purification
through the Physis, as Goethe did,or healing through
Music, as Wagner. The physicians of the people
condemn philosophy; he, therefore, who wants to
justify it, must show to what purpose healthy nations
use and have used philosophy. If he can show that,
perhaps even the sick people will benefit by learning
why philosophy is harmful just to them. There are
indeed good instances of a health which can exist .
without any philosophy or with quite a moderate,
almost a toying use of it; thus the Romans at their
best period lived without philosophy. But where is
to be found theinstance of a nation becoming diseased
whom philosophy had restored to health? When-
ever philosophy showed itself helping, saving, pro-
phylactic, it was with healthy people; it made sick
people still more ill. If ever a nation was disinteg-
rated and but loosely connected with the individ-
uals, never has philosophy bound these individuals
closer to the whole. If ever an individual was will-
ing to stand aside and plant around himself the hedge
of self-sufficiency, philosophy was always ready to
isolate him still more and to destroy him through
isolation. She is dangerous where she is not in
her full right, and it is only the health of a nation
but not that of every nation which gives her this
right.
Let us now look around for the highest authority


## p. 76 (#116) #############################################

76 VARIOUS PROSE ESSAYS
as to what constitutes the health of a nation. The
Greeks, as the truly healthy nation, have justified
philosophy once for all by having philosophised;
and that indeed more than all other nations. They
could not even stop at the right time, for still in their
withered age they comported themselves as heated
votaries of philosophy, although they understood by
it only the pious sophistries and the sacrosanct hair-
splittings of Christian dogmatics. They themselves
have much lessened their merit for barbarian pos-
terity by not being able to stop at the right time,
because that posterity in its uninstructed and im-
petuous youth necessarily became entangled in those
artfully woven nets and ropes.
On the contrary, the Greek knew how to begin at
the right time, and this lesson, when one ought to
begin philosophising,they teach more distinctly than
any other nation. For it should not be begun when
trouble comes as perhaps some presume who derive
philosophy from moroseness; no, but in good fortune,
in mature manhood, out of the midst of the fervent
serenity of a brave and victorious man's estate. The
fact that the Greeks philosophised at that timethrows
light on the nature of philosophy and her task as
well as on the nature of the Greeks themselves. Had
they at that time been such commonsense and pre-
cocious experts and gayards as the learned Philis-
tine of our days perhaps imagines, or had their life
been only a state of voluptuous soaring, chiming,
breathing and feeling, as the unlearned visionary is
pleased to assume, then the spring of philosophy
would not have come to light among them.