Under fame of rapid growth is also to be reckoned fame of a false and artificial kind; where, for instance, a book is worked into a reputation by means of unjust praise, the help of friends, corrupt criticism, prompting from above and collusion from below.  All this tells upon the multitude, which is rightly presumed to have no power of judging for itself.  This sort of fame is like a swimming bladder, by its aid a heavy body may keep afloat.  It bears up for a certain time, long or short according as the bladder is well sewed up and blown; but still the air comes out gradually, and the body sinks.  This is the inevitable fate of all works which are famous by reason of something outside of themselves.  False praise dies away; collusion comes to an end; critics declare the reputation ungrounded; it vanishes, and is replaced by so much the greater contempt.  Contrarily, a genuine work, which, having the source of its fame in itself, can kindle admiration afresh in every age, resembles a body of low specific gravity, which always keeps up of its own accord, and so goes floating down the stream of time.

Men of great genius, whether their work be in poetry, philosophy or art, stand in all ages like isolated heroes, keeping up single-handed a desperate struggling against the onslaught of an army of opponents.[1] Is not this characteristic of the miserable nature of mankind?  The dullness, grossness, perversity, silliness and brutality of by far the greater part of the race, are always an obstacle to the efforts of the genius, whatever be the method of his art; they so form that hostile army to which at last he has to succumb.  Let the isolated champion achieve what he may:  it is slow to be acknowledged; it is late in being appreciated, and then only on the score of authority; it may easily fall into neglect again, at any rate for a while.  Ever afresh it finds itself opposed by false, shallow, and insipid ideas, which are better suited to that large majority, that so generally hold the field.  Though the critic may step forth and say, like Hamlet when he held up the two portraits to his wretched mother, Have you eyes?  Have you eyes? alas! they have none.  When I watch the behavior of a crowd of people in the presence of some great master’s work, and mark the manner of their applause, they often remind me of trained monkeys in a show.  The monkey’s gestures are, no doubt, much like those of men; but now and again they betray that the real inward spirit of these gestures is not in them.  Their irrational nature peeps out.

[Footnote 1:  Translator’s Note.—­At this point Schopenhauer interrupts the thread of his discourse to speak at length upon an example of false fame.  Those who are at all acquainted with the philosopher’s views will not be surprised to find that the writer thus held up to scorn is Hegel; and readers of the other volumes in this series will, with the translator, have had by now quite enough of the subject.  The passage is therefore omitted.]