He was like a cock who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow.

George Eliot (1819 – 1880)
British novelist.

There are those who conceive themselves since the day of youth as excellent, A-OK, incomparable. There are those who had just developed the air because they were recognized, or appreciated by a number. There are those who live simply even with the knowledge that they already belong to the superlative.

The trendy is drunk with fame and success. Then forget that they were once being sniffed at because they belonged to the common group. They become so full of themselves. Like horse flies who feed on the blood of animals and bit painfully.

Oh, well, as J. Conrad said, ‘Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory.’ The well-liked virtuoso forgets and confines himself in a nutshell of hidden flaws. To forget the not-so-special category is one aim and to believe in a myth is another.

Do not pit against. Be careful with your words. That would harm the reputation.

I remember. It is their businesses not mine.