Thomas Mann on Wagner, Nietzsche and Freud

Thomas Mann on Wagner, Nietzsche, and Freud – Germanness as reflected in modernity

When Thomas Mann speaks, people listen – not only because of the elegance of his language, but also because of his sharp insight into German culture. In his lecture on Richard Wagner on February 10, 1933, he ventured an interpretation that removed the composer from the sphere of nationalistic veneration and placed him in the vicinity of another authority that was just beginning to take effect: Sigmund Freud’s new ideas.

Thomas Mann portrays Richard Wagner as an artist of a broken modernity, as a figure who does not rest in sublimity but is marked by inner conflicts. The excess, the pathos, the ecstatic exaggeration of his music appear to Mann as symptoms of a psychological struggle – an expression of the unconscious that Freud had made visible for the first time.

In this interpretation, Wagner’s “Germanness” is not understood as a proud, flawless force, but as a spiritual fabric of greatness and illness, of creative vision and corrosive self-analysis. For Mann, Wagner is not a national saint, but the first great representative of a modern, self-questioning Germany.

But Thomas Mann did not stop at psychoanalytic interpretation. He drew further parallels – to Friedrich Nietzsche, the philosopher who was initially ardently devoted to the “Master of Bayreuth” before turning away from him in a radical break. For Mann, this relationship was particularly revealing: Nietzsche recognized in Wagner’s intoxication, demonism, and excess the danger of exaggeration that could tip over into pathology.

In Nice, where Mann lived for a time, he sensed the same tension between illness and creation that Nietzsche had experienced so vividly in the south. Nice, with its light and its vastness, became a contrasting image for both of them—a place of recovery and clarity, but also of painful self-observation. For Mann, Wagner embodied the abysmal German, while Nietzsche represented the critical, clarifying authority that rejected this legacy and at the same time transformed it creatively.

But Thomas Mann himself was always reflected in this constellation. Like Wagner, he saw himself as an artist who drew inspiration from inner turmoil. The “bourgeois solidity” he embodied outwardly only partially concealed the abysses and ambivalences that nourished his work. From Nietzsche, he adopted the role of the self-analyst who recognizes weakness, critically penetrates it, and thereby overcomes it.

In Nice, in the light of the Côte d’Azur, this self-interpretation became particularly clear to Mann. The south made him realize that Germanness was not only fate, but also a task: to reflect on it critically, to name its dangers, and to transform it from within. Wagner, Nietzsche, and Freud were not mere points of reference for him, but reflections of his own existence.

This lecture on Wagner thus goes far beyond music. It proves to be a key text on Thomas Mann’s journey from defender of the “German essence” in Reflections of an Unpolitical Man to sharp critic who opposed National Socialism in exile. What began in Nice in reflections on Wagner and Nietzsche found its conclusion in a clear rejection of self-destructive Germanness.

Thomas Mann’s interpretation of Wagner is a document of intellectual self-discovery: the linking of music, philosophy, and psychoanalysis into a triad of modernity—and at the same time the confession of a poet who recognized his own destiny in the mirror of Wagner and Nietzsche.