Excerpts

For some people the oxygen of publicity is as vital as breathing. Publicity is the precious fuel of fame. It is gossip at the speed of light and it’s a poison, of course. Pollutes the soul, destroys the self, flatters the ego, but oh how good it tastes. And it certainly helps to sell books. So while fame is useful for getting tables in crowded restaurants and casual sex from strangers, admiration from strangers is desperately bad for the soul. The constant attention, the fuss, the adulation of the crowd, the seductive delight of never hearing the word “no,” the ability to bend people to your will, to seduce them, to have them do things for you. And to you. On your knees, baby. Worship me. Flatter me. Please me. All very bad for you.

I can hardly wait.

Of course I shan’t want all the entourage bullshit that goes with fame. Groupies are one thing, but I won’t need hairdressers, publicists, astrologers, chauffeurs, makeup, wardrobe, and endless assistants. The victims of fame are sad. Some are almost incapable of boiling an egg. They are terrified to be alone. For to be alone is to face what everyone else has to face: That we are all ultimately alone. That the camera is just a trick with light, and that your image too will fade. That there will come a time, horror of horrors, when your name will no longer be spoken. That there will be no more glossy pictures, no heart warming story. In short, no you.

Fame is terminal. But then, sadly, so is life.