We are so often merely commodities for each other. This snippet captures the issue.
“You should stop jerking off, Jack, and just write books. It is what you are supposed to do.”
I thought about that all the way home from New York. Perhaps he was right – I may have a book to write after all.
A little fable that tells how these people are fakers, their pretence on film just the tip of the iceberg. How publicity is a lifestyle to he who seeks it, his lies indiscernible from our daily prayers, his conscience forgiven by his movie star dreams. How success can make a good man swollen with lust for praise, needlessly bluffing his way into good books and buying his way out of bad. About how this egotist’s plaything called Motion Pictures is out of control, the characters jumping from the screens and swinging their dicks in ordinary lives.
All the world’s a stage, it seems, and an elite few are aware of the plot. We clueless extras are there to be deceived, abused and bullied into playing our parts, for the show that celebrates the stars must go on.
From “I was Russell Crowe’s stooge” at Australia’s Sydney Morning Herald