tion 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 aft