(mass)think!

In The Birth of Tragedy, Friedrich Nietzsche deploys a harsh critique of Socrates, whose influence, represented by the advent of Euripidean comedy in the Greek stage, he sees as having caused the emergence of a new struggle of forces (this time between the Socratic and the Dionysiac, in contrast to the former between the Dionysiac and the Apolline) in Greek life, which, he claims, led to the decline of the Dionysiac, destroying tragedy–in fact, art–as the Greeks knew it. Euripidean comedy, its greatest representation in antiquity, gives us an insight into the new drive that Socrates inspires–the Socratic–a drive that Nietzsche argues is inherently tied to Philosophy and has taken Western thought (astray) to the direction that it has.

Nietzsche notes that the works of Euripides exhibit two characteristics that distinguish him from his predecessors. Euripidean comedy is, first of all, tragedy that has been democratized. The Euripidean play is realistic, featuring real-life situations and common people (but who speak well), in which, moreover, common men, by taking oratory lessons from the experts, can now participate. The common man is thus no longer merely the judge but has become the focus of the drama (55-7). Euripidean comedy, secondly, aims at all costs for clarity. The Euripidean play attempts to explain to the audience everything, from what had gone on before (the setting with which the play begins), to what is happening, to, in fact, even what is going to happen, how the play will end. The goal, of course, is to ensure that there is no confusion (62, 63).

In this way, Euripidean comedy follows the principle of aesthetic Socratism, which states, “In order to be beautiful, everything must be reasonable” (62). Nietzsche assesses that for Euripides, “the effect of tragedy never rested on epic suspense, [. . .] but rather on those great rhetorical and lyrical scenes in which the passion and dialectic of the protagonist swelled into a broad and mighty stream. Everything was [thus] a preparation for pathos, not for action” (62). Truth–the “degree of clarity of [the] knowledge” of what is right–is thus Euripides’s priority (65). Hence Nietzsche’s judgment: “As a poet, Euripides is [. . .] the echo of his conscious perceptions” (63). The Euripidean comedy is thus starkly different from its predecessors. Its “stimulants are cool, paradoxical thoughts–in place of Apolline visions–and fiery affects–in place of Dionysiac ecstasies–and, what is more, thoughts and affects most realistically imitated, not ones which have been dipped in the ether of art” (62).

Given these characteristics, it can be said that Euripidean comedy is the first attempt to inject philosophy into art (which, Nietzsche argues, destroys it). (Compare this to Benjamin’s politicization of art.) Philosophy here is, of course, defined in a very specific way: as something that, as betrayed by the second characteristic of Euripidean comedy, is preoccupied with (and perhaps prioritizes the value of) truth that must then be presented clearly and conveyed successfully (through logic) to the people. This fits in perfectly with the first characteristic. The truth that is conveyed is aimed to be relevant to the lives of the masses, a truth (rather than removed from them) that the masses can relate to (hence the subjects and the actions are realistic) and perhaps take part in (e.g. in the discussion, in the determination of what this truth is; hence the classes on oratory); hence the comedy’s democratic nature.

Euripidean comedy is thus art permeated, motivated, and determined by philosophy (which is what Nietzsche really dislikes about it). As a philosophical medium, Euripidean art must (through logic) convey relevant truth (think?) to the people (the mass?), that, being relevant, can thus do something to/for them (e.g. tell them what is right, guide their actions). This (type of) philosophy that we see injected into art through Euripidean comedy is thus none other than optimistic philosophy, i.e. philosophy that, (believing that it is) armed with the truth, (believes that it) must be conveyed to the masses–to do something good. In other words, philosophy as bearer of (relevant, potent) truth. Philosophy that cures all ills. Philosophy to save us all.

This type of philosophy, then, Nietzsche sees, with the massive reception of Euripidean comedy in the Greek populace and the dominance of the art form, as coming to the fore in Western civilization–at the expense of the Apolline and especially of the Dionysiac (hence at this time the chorus starts to appear fortuitous) (70). Henceforth “the dying Socrates became the new, hitherto unknown ideal of noble Greek youth, [of whom] more than any [. . .] the typical Hellenic youth, Plato, [. . .] threw himself down before this image with all the passionate devotion of his enthusiastic soul” (67).

Now, optimistic philosophy and Euripidean comedy (as its messenger) make a crucial presupposition, which is what make them specifically (and what defines the) Socratic. To be able to convey truth, to make it affect those on whom it is conveyed, to enable it to do something, presupposes first and foremost that truth can be attained/found/reached. If, for Euripides, the task of art is to convey truth, this presupposes that philosophy–which Euripidean art is but a vehicle of–is preoccupied with (it is its task), is in fact already keeper of the truth. At the heart of optimistic philosophy is thus the quest/drive for truth, the will to knowledge–and, more importantly, the belief that it can be reached and that (for whatever purposes, mostly moral) it should be.

This quest for the truth is performed by the embodiment of logical Socratism, “the archetype of a form of existence unknown before [Socrates]“: theoretical man (72). Nietzsche describes this Socratic man in the following way: “Like the artist, theoretical man, too, finds infinite contentment in the world as it exists, and, like the artist, he is protected by his contentment against the practical ethic of pessimism and its Lynkeus-eyes which only gleam in the dark. [Theoretical man fundamentally differs from the artist, however.] Whenever truth is unveiled, the ecstatic eyes of the artist remain fixed on what still remains veiled, even after the unveiling; [the] theoretical man [on the other hand, while he] enjoys and satisfies himself with the discarded veil, [. . .] finds [his] highest goal in a process of unveiling which he achieves by his own efforts and which is always successful” (72-3). That is to say, for theoretical man, more than truth itself, what matters is the search for truth–the will to know–a process that is moreover attainable and, given enough will, is sure to be successful (73). This, to Nietzsche, is the whole secret of Socratic philosophy, from which easily follows that other “imperturbable [delusionary] belief that thought, as it follows the thread of causality, reaches down into the deepest abysses of being, and that it is capable, not simply of understanding existence, but even of correcting it” (73).

Thence come Nietzsche’s attacks. “Whereas in the case of all productive people instinct is precisely the creative-affirmative force and consciousness makes critical and warning gestures, in the case of Socrates, by contrast, instinct becomes the critic and consciousness the creator–a true monstrosity per defectum [i.e. by virtue of lacking something]” (66). “What we observe here is a monstrous lack of any capacity for mysticism, so that Socrates could be described as the specific non-mystic, in whom logical nature is [. . .] over-developed” (67). “Art becomes overgrown with philosophical thought which forces it to cling tightly to the trunk of dialectics. The Apolline tendency has disguised itself as logical schematism [. . .] along with the translation of the Dionysiac into naturalistic affects. Socrates, the dialectical hero in Platonic drama, recalls the related nature of the Euripidean hero who must defend his actions with reasons and counter-reasons and thereby is often in danger of losing our tragic sympathy; for who could fail to notice the optimistic element in the essence of dialectics, which celebrates jubilantly at each conclusion reached, and which can only breathe where there is cool clarity and consciousness?” (69-70). “‘Virtue is knowledge; sin is only committed out of ignorance; the virtuous man is a happy man’; in these three basic forms of optimism lies the death of tragedy” (70). “The optimistic dialectic drives music out of tragedy under the lash of its syllogisms; i.e. it destroys the essence of tragedy which can only be interpreted as a manifestation and transformation into images of Dionysiac states, as the visible symbolization of music, as the dream-world of Dionysiac intoxication” (70).

Thus the Western world witnessed the death of the Dionysiac–and the triumph of the Socratic. Thus, even after his death, even after, as it were, (the historical) Socrates, we witness one school of philosophy after another with “unimaginable, universal greed for knowledge [. . .] presenting itself as the true task for anyone of higher abilities” (73-4). From there, “a common network of thought was stretched over the whole globe, with prospects of encompassing even the laws of the entire solar system” (74). In this sense, as the “mystagogue of science,” Nietzsche assesses that Socrates is indeed “the vortex and turning-point of so-called world history” (73, 74).

Of which, Nietzsche claims, perhaps the greatest manifestation is science in the contemporary Western world (especially after the Enlightenment). For what is science but (thoroughly) optimistic philosophy at the height of its success, in whose heart lies, well, none other than Socrates, theoretical man par excellence, in the flesh, or, shall we say, in thought, in memoriam (in this way, Socrates’ martyrdom was a complete success–to be rivaled only by Jesus’?)? (This is echoed later on in Heidegger’s critique of technology.) After all, as Nietzsche explains, “Socrates [. . .] appears [. . .] as the first man who was capable, not just of living by the instinct of science, but also, and this is much more, of dying by it. This is why the image of Socrates, of a man liberated from fear of death by reasons and knowledge, is the heraldic shield over the portals of science, reminding everyone of its purpose, which is to make existence appear comprehensible and thus justified; and if reasons are insufficient to achieve that end, then it must ultimately be served by myth–which [. . . is but] the necessary consequence, indeed intention, of science” (73).

This is not to say, however, that Socratism is constrained to science or the technical or even academic fields. Nietzsche points, in fact, to a generalized Socratism in Western society. And there is a perfectly rational (or, more precisely, strategic) reason for this. As Nietzsche explains, “In the face of [. . .] practical pessimism, Socrates is the archetype of the theoretical optimist whose belief that the nature of things can be discovered leads him to attribute to knowledge and understanding the power of a panacea, and who understands error to be inherently evil. To penetrate to the ground of things and to separate true knowledge from illusion and error was considered by Socratic man to be the noblest, indeed the only true human vocation, just as, from Socrates onwards, the mechanism of concepts, judgments and conclusions was prized, above all other abilities, as the highest activity and most admirable gift of nature” (74).

Nietzsche thus explains the triumph of Socratism as a (modern) response to the struggle of forces by which the world is constituted. Faced with practical pessimism–which is everywhere, permeating life–people respond (within Nietzsche’s ontology of force) through various modes of coping. In other words, seeing as we live in a world constituted by the struggle of forces, which, in turn, (upon encountering the most basic of all conflicts, that between the Dionysiac and the Apolline) drives us to be pessimistic, we employ a certain mode of coping. In the (pre-Euripidean) Greek world, this mode of coping took the form or art, which, since art is the mixture of the Apolline and the Dionysiac, preserved the latter and accepted the pessimism inherent in that stance. Modern man, however, rejects (represses?) pessimism. Thus, what he does is become theoretical man. He chooses–rather than to indulge in Apolline-Dionysiac art–to believe–in (purely Socratic) science, in (purely Socratic) philosophy–i.e. in Socrates.

Nietzsche recognizes the great temptation in this. To deny pessimism, to believe, after all, has its comforts. In Nietzsche’s own words, “Anyone who has experienced the intense pleasure of a Socratic insight, and felt it spread out in ever-widening circles as it attempted to encompass the entire world of appearances, will forever feel that there can be no sharper goad to life than the desire to complete the conquest and weave the net impenetrably close. To anyone in this state of mind, Plato’s Socrates seems to be the teacher of a quite new form of ‘Greek serenity’ and bliss in existence, one which seeks to discharge itself in actions and mostly achieves this discharge by having a maieutic and educative effect on noble youths, in the hope of eventually fathering a genius” (75).

In the end, however, this Socratic optimism proves to be untenable. As Nietzsche observes (foresees?), “At present, [. . .] science, spurred on by its powerful delusion, is hurrying unstoppably to its limits, where the optimism hidden in the essence of logic will founder and break up” (75). “Then a new form of knowledge breaks through, tragic knowledge, which, simply to be endured, needs art for protection and as medicine” (75). In other words, science proves to be not as strong (Über?) a mode of coping against the struggle of force that life is, against pessimism which is the inevitable attitude it leads to, as art. Thus–after all (as is proven time and again)–life–indeed–is justified only as an aesthetic/artistic phenomenon. Art–not science, not philosophy–is the only mode of coping sufficient to carry on with life, a mode of coping that is in some ways inevitably pessimistic–but which also retains traces of the Dionysiac.

Thus, we find “the insatiable greed of optimistic knowledge, of which Socrates appeared to be the exemplar, turning suddenly into tragic resignation and a need for art; admittedly, that same greed, on its lower levels, is bound to express hostility towards art, and feel disgust at Dionysiac-tragic art in particular” (75). But in the end, at least as seems to be implied (hoped for?) by Nietzsche, the Dionysiac reigns triumphant.

But this is not only the Dionysiac in/by itself. Nietzsche, after all, (as in the quote above) still talks of a knowledge–although of tragic knowledge. Perhaps, then, this tragic knowledge to come will be, like before, the Dionysiac mixed with the Apolline? Perhaps even with the Socratic? Perhaps what we will encounter is indeed “a music-making Socrates” (75)?

But what kind of philosophy would this Socrates sing? Would he still chant, “I only know that I do not know”–only to declare that he needs to, wants to, must, will know? What would Apolline-Dionysiac-Socratic (in other words, Nietzschean?) philosophy look like?