Indeed, how many can be holed up like his own character Nadir Khan in an underground cellar made of fear for years, yet retain their sanity. And even if they did retain their sanity, what about their art? Hasn't, in a way, every writer or artist lost the essence of what made them great after the first flush of fame.
Hasn't every work of art after the onslaught of celebrity been an attempt to capture the lost essence? Isn't that the reason why we celebrate a Vincent Van Gogh as a pure artist because he died before fame, and thus the weight of public expectation, could pollute his art?
Can our celebrity-crazy world ever create a true artist anymore? Doesn't an artist directly or indirectly become the lie imposed on him/her by society like a clear stream that is stultified from within and without by every hand that touches it.