Men are so composed by life — yet not by their own nature — to take pleasure from the approval of others. The whole modern world is a stage where every living soul seeks applause. The state of the audience is valued above a man’s own state, and many will gladly suffer in hiding as long as the outer coating of their persona appears, and is seen, as shiny and decorated. This is the disease that parents imbibe into their children, the sickness that society welcomes of its every citizen. In the quiet corners where no eyes or ears are there to see or hear his acts, a man can relax his muscles and come back to what remains of himself. And in this fashion he realizes that what he really is can only be felt in isolation to the pressures of the audience. If this sense of self, so alien to the opposing force of vanity, can be tasted and fostered to grow despite the seductions of false appetites, a rare dose of relief may at last be felt. It is the gradual letting of go of a great many dos and and don’ts that need not be suffered. It is the dropping of fearful weights that keep the rods of sincerity at bay.