In corroboration of this, we find that the history of literature generally shows all those who made knowledge and insight their goal to have remained unrecognized and neglected, whilst those who paraded with the vain show of it received the admiration of their contemporaries, together with the emoluments.

The effectiveness of an author turns chiefly upon his getting the reputation that he should be read.  But by practicing various arts, by the operation of chance, and by certain natural affinities, this reputation is quickly won by a hundred worthless people:  while a worthy writer may come by it very slowly and tardily.  The former possess friends to help them; for the rabble is always a numerous body which holds well together.  The latter has nothing but enemies; because intellectual superiority is everywhere and under all circumstances the most hateful thing in the world, and especially to bunglers in the same line of work, who want to pass for something themselves.[1]

[Footnote 1:  If the professors of philosophy should chance to think that I am here hinting at them and the tactics they have for more than thirty years pursued toward my works, they have hit the nail upon the head.]

This being so, it is a prime condition for doing any great work—­any work which is to outlive its own age, that a man pay no heed to his contemporaries, their views and opinions, and the praise or blame which they bestow.  This condition is, however, fulfilled of itself when a man really does anything great, and it is fortunate that it is so.  For if, in producing such a work, he were to look to the general opinion or the judgment of his colleagues, they would lead him astray at every step.  Hence, if a man wants to go down to posterity, he must withdraw from the influence of his own age.  This will, of course, generally mean that he must also renounce any influence upon it, and be ready to buy centuries of fame by foregoing the applause of his contemporaries.

For when any new and wide-reaching truth comes into the world—­and if it is new, it must be paradoxical—­an obstinate stand will be made against it as long as possible; nay, people will continue to deny it even after they slacken their opposition and are almost convinced of its truth.  Meanwhile it goes on quietly working its way, and, like an acid, undermining everything around it.  From time to time a crash is heard; the old error comes tottering to the ground, and suddenly the new fabric of thought stands revealed, as though it were a monument just uncovered.  Everyone recognizes and admires it.  To be sure, this all comes to pass for the most part very slowly.  As a rule, people discover a man to be worth listening to only after he is gone; their hear, hear, resounds when the orator has left the platform.