Cioran summarized: “Mourir inconnu, c’est peut-être cela la grâce”. Voltaire had already concluded: “Vivre et mourir inconnu”. Valéry, in the same vein, notes that “peut-être, si les grands hommes étaient aussi conscients qu’ils sont grands, il n’y aurait pas des grands hommes pour soi-même”. What to say? Success is a burier. It is perhaps the greatest misfortune that can befall an artist; it is the harbinger of ruin. Success takes away from him the fruitful bitter nights, the terrible and wonderful questioning about his own talent. Success robs him of loneliness and deludes, throwing sand in the inner fire that incites him to study, to continuous evolution, to the improvement of technique, to the need for a fuller expression. Worse, much worse. Success opens up “possibilities” and imposes a “new function” on the artist. This, in fact, is death to him.
Success Is the Ruin of the Artist
