I was looking through Nietzsche’s The Birth of Tragedy tonight to check for some archaic spelling, and I remembered what a great book it is. Though it may be dense as a fucking brick, and, at times takes a goog 30 minutes per page, I can safely say that it’s one of the books that’s changed my life and helped make me who I am today.

Here, let me see if I can find some of it’s magic…ahhh, here’s a thin slice:

In song and dance man expresses himself as a member of a higher community; he has forgotten how to walk and speak and is on the way toward flying into the air, dancing. His very gestures express enchantment. Just as the animals now talk, and the earth yields milk and honey, supernatural sounds emanate from him, too: he feels himself a god, he himself now walks about enchanted, in ecstasy, like the gods he saw walking in his dreams. He is no longer an artist, he has become a work of art: in these paroxysms of intoxication the artistic power of all nature reveals itself to the highest gratification of the primordial unity. The noblest clay, the most costly marble, man, is here kneaded and cut, and to the sound of the chisel strokes of the Dionysian world-artist rings out the cry of the Eleusinian mysteries: “Do you prostrate yourselves, millions? Do you sense your Maker, world?”

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