…concerning Apollo one could endorse, in an eccentric way, what Schopenhauer says of the man trapped in the veil of Maya: “As on the stormy sea which extends without limit on all sides, howling mountainous waves rise up and sink and a sailor sits in a row boat, trusting the weak craft, so, in the midst of a world of torments, the solitary man sits peacefully, supported by and trusting in the principium individuationis” [principle of individuation]
Now the slave a free man; now all the stiff, hostile barriers break apart, those things which necessity and arbitrary power … have established between men. Now, with the gospel of world harmony, every man feels himself not only united with his neighbor, reconciled and fused together, but also as one with him, as if the veil of Maya had been ripped apart, with only scraps fluttering around in the face of the mysterious primordial unity. Singing and dancing, man expresses himself as a member of a higher community: he has forgotten how to walk and talk and is on the verge of flying up into the air as he dances. The enchantment speaks out in his gestures.
…the servant of Dionysus will be understood only by someone like himself! With what astonishment must the Apollonian Greek have gazed at him! With an amazement which was all the greater as he sensed with horror that all this might not be really so foreign to him, that, in fact, his Apollonian consciousness was, like a veil, merely covering the Dionysian world in front of him.
The earth seemed unearthly. We are accustomed to look upon the shackled form of a conquered monster, but there -- there you could look at a thing monstrous and free. It was unearthly, and the men were — No, they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it — this suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity — like yours — the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you — you so remote from the night of first ages — could comprehend.
The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly
by a spirit of uselessnesswhich delights them—
all the exciting detailof the chase
and the escape, the errorthe flash of genius—
all to no end save beautythe eternal—
So in detail they, the crowd,
for thisto be warned against
saluted and defied—It is alive, venomous
it smiles grimlyits words cut—
The flashy female with hermother, gets it—
The Jew gets it straight— itis deadly, terrifying—
It is the Inquisition, theRevolution
It is beauty itselfthat lives
day by day in themidly—
This isthe power of their faces
It is summer, it is the solsticethe crowd is
cheering, the crowd is laughingin detail
permanently, seriouslywithout thought
Windows and doors belong to houses; they are the most vulnerable parts of their exterior and, once smashed, the house has lost all individuality; anyone may enter it and nothing and no-one is protected anymore. In these houses live the supposed enemies of the crowd, those people who try to keep away from it. What separated them has now been destroyed and nothing stands between them and the crowd. They can come out and join it; or they can be fetched.
An attack from outside can only strengthen the crowd; those who have been physically scattered are more strongly gathered back together again. An attack from within, on the other hand, is really dangerous…. Everyone belonging to a crowd carries within him a small traitor who wants to eat, drink, make love and be left alone. As long as he does all this on the quiet the crowd does not make too much fuss about it, the crowd allows him to proceed. But, as soon as he makes a noise about it, it starts to hate him and fear him.