The-Conquest-of-Happiness-by-Bertrand-Russell

that, unlike the rest of mankind, we have no faults.
When we are compelled to admit that we have
faults, we take this obvious fact far too seriously.
Nobody should expect to be prefect, or be unduly
troubled by the fact that he is not.
Persecution mania is always rooted in a too
exaggerated conception of our own merits. I am,
we will say, a playwright; to every unbiased
person it must be obvious that I am the most
brilliant playwright of the age. Nevertheless, for
some reason, my plays are seldom performed, and
when they are, they are not successful. What is the
explanation of this strange state of affairs?
Obviously that managers, actors, and critics have
combined against me for one reason or another.
The reason, of course, is highly creditable to
myself: I have refused to kow-tow to the great ones
of the theatrical world; I have not flattered the
critics; my plays contain home truths which are
unbearable to those whom they hit. And so my
transcendent merit languishes unrecognised.