An Essay on Modesty

I wanted to take a test for Narcissistic Personality Disorder. And the second question was, "Are you a modest person?" And the two answers were "Modesty doesn't become me," and "I am basically a modest person."

I thought to myself, "Well, I cannot answer this." For one thing, I estimate my writing abilities to be as good as any author on my bookshelf. I estimate my intelligence to be high. Because there's actual evidence of it being so--not in viewership, but just in what I read in my books.

But, Modesty does become me. I don't particularly want to be anything beside modest. I just want to make my money from writing books, because I worked to do it--and not much--and I just want the apportioned income from my work. I don't want J. K. Rowling fame. Or Elon Musk world changing. Just to sit and go to my creative work...

But I am not modest. By all means, having talent like mine--if you call it talent, I do--I should be celebrated, or at least read and purchased for what I do write.

So, as Socrates' eros, I am in a mean between ignorance and wisdom... I desire to be modest, but am not. But it does become me, as I don't want fame, success or the torture of losing myself to fortune. Nor do I want the humble punery of poverty to steal from me my hope.