Fame, success, popularity, the illusion of being known, admired and
esteemed, appeal in different ways to authors. To Salvador Rueda, glory
is a triumphant entrance into Tegucigalpa, where he is taken to the
Spanish Casino, and crowned with a crown of real laurel. To Unamuno,
glory is the assurance that people will be interested in him at least a
thousand years after he is dead. And to others the only glory worth
talking about is that courted by the French writer, Rabbe, who busied
himself in Spain with la _gloire argent comptant_. Some yearn for a
large stage with pennons and salvos and banners, while others are
content with a smaller scene.

Ortega y Gasset says that to me glory reduces itself to the proportions
of an agreeable dinner, with good talk across the table.

And he is right. To mingle with pleasant, intelligent, cordial persons
is one of the more alluring sorts of fame.

There is something seductive and ingratiating about table talk when it
is spirited. A luxurious dining room, seating eight or ten guests, of
whom three or four are pretty women, one of whom should be a foreigner;
as many men, none of them aristocrats--generally speaking, aristocrats
are disagreeable--nor shall we admit artists, for they are in the same
class as the aristocrats; one's neighbour, perhaps, is a banker, or a
Jew of aquiline feature, and then the talk touches on life and on
politics, relieved with a little gallantry toward the ladies, from time
to time allowing to each his brief opportunity to shine--all this,
beyond doubt, is most agreeable.