The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication: that

Hearken to the words of Jean Cocteau, the poet, the dreamer, the restless spirit of France: “The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication: that is why so many bad artists are unable to give it up.” In this declaration lies a truth that pierces through the illusions of glory. The true fire of creation is not in the applause of the crowd, nor in the coins of the marketplace, but in the burning ecstasy of making itself. To create is to drink of a wine so potent that even those whose work is crude or forgotten cannot turn away, for they have tasted a sweetness beyond earthly measure.

For consider, O seekers, the nature of art. It is not a ladder to be climbed, nor a throne to be seized, but a cup filled with vision, poured into the soul of the maker. The one who writes, paints, sings, or sculpts feels the surge of this intoxication—a force that lifts the spirit beyond the prison of the ordinary. It matters little whether the world crowns the artist with laurels or dismisses him with scorn, for the reward has already been given in the act itself. That is why some toil in obscurity their whole lives, yet cannot lay down the brush or silence the pen. They are drunk on creation, and this wine does not loosen its grip.

History bears witness to this mystery. Think of Vincent van Gogh, who in his lifetime knew not fame, nor success, but only poverty, rejection, and the torment of his own mind. Yet still he painted—fields, stars, faces, and flowers. Why? Because each stroke brought him closer to the light he could not otherwise reach. He was intoxicated by the colors, the lines, the visions that poured through him. Though the world ignored him, he could not abandon the work, for it was his breath, his heartbeat, his only communion with eternity. The world crowned him only after his death, but his true reward had already been tasted in the solitude of his art.

Yet Cocteau, with sharpness of wit, reminds us also of the shadow side. The intoxicating power of art binds not only the great but also the mediocre. There are those who create works that never rise, whose skill never matures, whose vision never deepens. Yet still they cling to the labor, for the intoxication is theirs as surely as it is the genius’s. This explains why the earth is filled with countless works half-formed, countless songs that falter, countless verses that stumble. They are not abandoned because their makers have already drunk from the chalice of creation, and once tasted, it cannot be forgotten.

What lesson then shall we draw? First, let us honor the intoxication, for it is sacred. Do not despise the joy of making simply because it does not lead to worldly success. The act itself is holy, and the one who creates, even clumsily, is still touching the eternal flame. But also, let us not confuse intoxication with mastery. The true artist is the one who takes the wine and then refines it, who channels passion into discipline, who transforms intoxication into vision. The difference between the bad artist and the great one lies not in the first sip, but in what is built after the intoxication fades.

Therefore, O children of tomorrow, do not seek fame as your goal, nor chase success as your crown. Instead, ask yourself: does this act of creation make me feel alive? Does it intoxicate me with meaning, with beauty, with truth? If it does, then guard that flame. But also labor to refine it, to craft it with patience and humility, so that your intoxication may bear fruit not only for yourself but for the generations to come.

And so, remember Cocteau’s wisdom: the reward of art is already within the act of making. Whether the world sees you or not, whether you are hailed or forgotten, you have already drunk of the wine. Drink deeply, but with discipline. Create not for glory, but for truth. For the artist’s true reward is to touch the infinite—and that is a crown no hand can take away.