He was a monster of conceit. Never for one
minute did he look at the world or at people, except in relation to
himself. He was not only the most important person in the world, to
himself; in his own eyes he was the only person who existed. He
believed himself to be one of the greatest dramatists in the world, one
of the greatest thinkers, and one of the greatest composers. To hear
him talk, he was Shakespeare, and Beethoven, and Plato, rolled into
one. And you would have had no difficulty in hearing him talk. He was
one of the most exhausting conversationalists that ever lived. An
evening with him was an evening spent in listening to a monologue.
Sometimes he was brilliant; sometimes he was maddeningly tiresome. But
whether he was being brilliant or dull, he had one sole topic of
conversation: himself. What he thought and what he did.
他是极端自负的怪物。除非与之相关，哪怕只一分钟，他也决不会来扫扫世界，看看别人；他自忖不是世界上最重要的人物之一，因为在他眼中，已再无他者。他深信自己是世上最伟大的剧作家、思想家、作曲家之一，还评说自己是集莎士比亚、贝多芬和柏拉图于一体的化身。谁想听他说话，那容易不过了。他可是有史以来最言无不尽的健谈者中的一个，与他共度的夜晚会是倾听独白的良宵。有时他才华横溢，熠熠生辉，有时则言语晦涩，闻之无味。但无论引人入胜还是如同嚼蜡，他的话题专一而永恒：自己。他想到什么，就做什么。
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