The vain man is in like case with the avaricious—­he takes the means for the end; forgetting the end he pursues the means for its own sake and goes no further.  The seeming to be something, conducive to being it, ends by forming our objective.  We need that others should believe in our superiority to them in order that we may believe in it ourselves, and upon their belief base our faith in our own persistence, or at least in the persistence of our fame.  We are more grateful to him who congratulates us on the skill with which we defend a cause than we are to him who recognizes the truth or the goodness of the cause itself.  A rabid mania for originality is rife in the modern intellectual world and characterizes all individual effort.  We would rather err with genius than hit the mark with the crowd.  Rousseau has said in his Emile (book iv.):  “Even though philosophers should be in a position to discover the truth, which of them would take any interest in it?  Each one knows well that his system is not better founded than the others, but he supports it because it is his.  There is not a single one of them who, if he came to know the true and the false, would not prefer the falsehood that he had found to the truth discovered by another.  Where is the philosopher who would not willingly deceive mankind for his own glory?  Where is he who in the secret of his heart does not propose to himself any other object than to distinguish himself?  Provided that he lifts himself above the vulgar, provided that he outshines the brilliance of his competitors, what does he demand more?  The essential thing is to think differently from others.  With believers he is an atheist; with atheists he would be a believer.”  How much substantial truth there is in these gloomy confessions of this man of painful sincerity!

This violent struggle for the perpetuation of our name extends backwards into the past, just as it aspires to conquer the future; we contend with the dead because we, the living, are obscured beneath their shadow.  We are jealous of the geniuses of former times, whose names, standing out like the landmarks of history, rescue the ages from oblivion.  The heaven of fame is not very large, and the more there are who enter it the less is the share of each.  The great names of the past rob us of our place in it; the space which they fill in the popular memory they usurp from us who aspire to occupy it.  And so we rise up in revolt against them, and hence the bitterness with which all those who seek after fame in the world of letters judge those who have already attained it and are in enjoyment of it.  If additions continue to be made to the wealth of literature, there will come a day of sifting, and each one fears lest he be caught in the meshes of the sieve.  In attacking the masters, irreverent youth is only defending itself; the iconoclast or image-breaker is a Stylite who erects himself as an image, an icon.  “Comparisons are odious,” says the familiar adage, and the