Who gains great office before personal greatness is hostage to his desk, sits in dread of his chair’s true owner. A sack will make him ordinary once again, so he takes no risks with his job: he avoids the radical ideas that define true greatness and hangs on to the trite, tested and dead philosophies of dead mentors. In times of crises he does not respond with instinctual wisdom. Instead he stands in the echo chamber of sycophantic friends and scans the mute pages of history, the self-serving auguries of shamans and the wind vane of public opinion. He radiates the imperial grandeur of office. Every day he does lunch and newspapers and television stations report another great achievement of the office.
Yet, every night the person stands alone, before a mirror.