Heinrich stood by the piano in conversation with Nuernberger and tried, as he often did, to interest him in starting a new work, or in republishing his older ones.
Nuernberger declined. The thought of seeing his name dragged into the public eye again, of being drawn into the literary whirlpool of the time, which seemed to him both repulsive and ridiculous, filled him with horror. He had no desire to contend with that. For what? Cliques which scarcely bothered to disguise themselves were everywhere at work. Was there still a capable, sincerely struggling talent who did not have to be prepared at every moment to be dragged through the muck; was there a dunce yet to be found who could not succeed in getting himself declared a genius in some literary rag? Does reputation in our time still have the slightest relationship to integrity? And to be overlooked, forgotten, is that worth a shrug of regret? And in the end, who can know which view would turn out to be right in the future? Were not the fools really the geniuses and the geniuses the fools? It was ridiculous to put one’s peace of mind, even one’s self-respect, into a game in which the highest gain possible promised no satisfaction.