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 But times have changed since. In fact, as well as in myth, Gods don't dwell in peace very long. There came a moment when supremacy meant power, useful utilitarian power; and the Gods began to battle for position. The war extended over half a decade, and was carried on in the usual brutal manner. Reputations were dragged down into the mire. Holy books were torn into shreds by the merciless hand of criticism. In the general eruption none was spared. Each destroyed and was destroyed in turn. Thus do gods fight.

Rosenfeld shared the common fate. He was attacked and criticized. His genius was called into question; his personality was denounced. And though the battle has almost subsided, he is still being harassed and tormented.

No other Yiddish writer has suffered so much abuse, so much ridicule, at the hands of his colleagues. Each and every one of his faults, weaknesses and mistakes have formed themes for innumerable attacks and satires in the press. And defenders he has none, none but his own venomous pen. For the truth must be told, Rosenfeld has admirers, adorers, worshippers; but of friends, sincere, hearty friends, he has none.