Our wishes and our endeavors arise from certain needs of our nervous system that we find difficult to put into words. What people called Thomas Buddenbrook’s “vanity” – the attention he devoted to how he looked, the luxurious fastidiousness with which he dressed – was in reality something fundamentally different. It was originally nothing more than the attempt by a man of action to be certain that from head to toe he displayed the impeccable correctness that sustains self-confidence. But the demands that he made of himself and that other made of his talents and energies kept growing. He was swamped with private and public duties. When the senate met to divide the committee assignments among its members, taxation was designated as his primary responsibility. But his time was also taken up by railroads, customs, and other governmental affairs; and in a thousand meetings of administrative and supervisory commissions over which he now presided as a result of his election, it took all his tact, charm, and flexibility constantly to make allowances for the sensitivities of men much older than he, to appear to defer to their long years of experience, while in fact retaining power in his own hands. If the most remarkable visible change in the man was an increase of “vanity” – that is, the need to refresh and renew himself, to restore the vigor of morning by changing clothes several times a day – the underlying reality was that at age thirty-seven Thomas Buddenbrook was losing his edge, was wearing himself out much too quickly.