According to Schopenhauer, out of d’Alembert’s pen came this beautiful reflection on the “temple of literary glory”:
L’intérieur du temple n’est habité que par des morts qui n’y étaient pas de leur vivant, et par quelques vivants que l’on met à la porte, pour la plupart, dès qu’ils sont morts.
What a thing! And worse is to note the very rare exceptions to this rule. The most obvious conclusion is that of Cioran, Valéry, Volaire, that success is a true disgrace for the artist. But when we inquire into the reason for such a deduction, we are led to admit that there is nothing more beneficial, if not essential to the artist than a mixture of failure and solitude. That isolation is productive is easily understandable; but failure? spending one’s life neglected, if not repudiated? And note that this is what happened in the overwhelming majority of cases to those who eternalized themselves in d’Alembert’s temple.