Fame - anyone who says he doesn't like it is crazy.

Host: The photography studio buzzed with artificial light and unspoken vanity — a space filled with the hum of strobes, the smell of makeup, and the faint electricity of ambition. The walls were covered with posters of faces frozen in triumph — smiles too perfect, eyes too certain, beauty polished into brand.

Jack sat slouched in a director’s chair, watching the shoot through a haze of cigarette smoke. His expression was unreadable — half nostalgia, half critique. On the far side of the room, Jeeny leaned against a light stand, arms crossed, her eyes sharp as glass. The camera clicks sounded like gunfire — one flash after another capturing the same pose with microscopic variations.

Host: The air shimmered with performance, the kind that hides its exhaustion behind charm. Fame was being manufactured in real time.

Jeeny: (smirking) “Bennett Cerf once said, ‘Fame — anyone who says he doesn’t like it is crazy.’”

(she glances toward the model under the spotlight) “Look at that. He’d have loved this room.”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “He was right, though. Fame’s a narcotic. Everyone denies it until they get their first taste.”

Jeeny: “You think it’s that simple? That everyone secretly craves to be seen?”

Jack: “Of course. Visibility is validation in this age. The more eyes on you, the more you believe you exist.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? That existence now comes with a view count.”

Host: The camera flashed again, a burst of white swallowing the room for a second. The model smiled on command, teeth immaculate, eyes empty.

Jack: “Cerf wasn’t glorifying it — he was just honest. Fame feeds something ancient in us. It’s the closest thing mortals have to immortality.”

Jeeny: “Except immortality doesn’t check comments.”

Jack: (laughs) “Touché.”

Jeeny: “You ever think fame’s just a mirror for loneliness? A way to prove you matter because other people keep reminding you?”

Jack: “Sure. But it works — until the reminders turn cruel.”

Jeeny: “Then it becomes a cage. Like oxygen that slowly becomes poison.”

Host: The photographer’s voice cut through the air — “One more! Beautiful! Hold that!” — and the flash came again, lighting their faces in a strobe of truth.

Jeeny: “I’ve met people who say they hate fame. But you can see it in their eyes — they miss it the moment it fades.”

Jack: “Because fame isn’t the applause. It’s the attention. Once the world’s gaze leaves you, the silence is unbearable.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And yet, that silence is the only place where you can hear yourself again.”

Jack: “Yeah. But few people survive that quiet long enough to rediscover who they were before the noise.”

Host: The music started — a soft beat for the next round of photos. The model struck new poses. Every click captured a person who was, in truth, disappearing frame by frame.

Jeeny: “So what makes fame so intoxicating? The money? The influence?”

Jack: “No. It’s the illusion of being loved by everyone while knowing no one truly knows you.”

Jeeny: “That’s not love. That’s applause pretending to be affection.”

Jack: “And people build whole identities out of it.”

Jeeny: “Until the applause stops.”

Jack: “And then they realize fame doesn’t hold you when you fall. It just records it.”

Host: The sound of camera shutters faded, replaced by the creak of lights cooling, the chatter of assistants packing up. The moment was over, the glamour spent.

Jeeny: “You think Cerf was defending fame or warning us about it?”

Jack: “Both. He understood it’s human to want to be seen — but madness to mistake that for being known.”

Jeeny: “So when he said you’d be crazy not to like it, maybe he meant we’re all crazy already.”

Jack: (smiling) “Exactly. The sane ones walk away from it. The rest of us keep performing, pretending it’s freedom.”

Host: She moved closer to the window, looking out at the skyline — the city glittered like a thousand watching eyes. Billboards. Screens. Neon confessions.

Jeeny: “Fame today isn’t what it was for Cerf. Now it’s democratized. Everyone’s famous for fifteen seconds, maybe less. Everyone gets their flashbulb moment.”

Jack: “Yeah, but the hunger hasn’t changed. Just the platform.”

Jeeny: “The need to be remembered — even by strangers — that’s eternal.”

Jack: “Because anonymity feels like erasure.”

Jeeny: “And fame, even false fame, feels like proof.”

Host: The camera lingered on the dark glass reflecting their faces against the glittering skyline — their outlines doubled, blurred, infinite.

Jeeny: “Do you think fame ever satisfies?”

Jack: “No. Because fame doesn’t fill — it amplifies. Whatever emptiness you start with becomes louder.”

Jeeny: “So it’s not madness to want fame. It’s madness to expect it to heal you.”

Jack: (quietly) “And that’s the part no one teaches.”

Host: A long silence fell — the kind that feels like honesty breathing. The hum of the city seeped through the walls. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed, fading into the electric night.

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe Cerf was laughing at the irony — that fame is the most desired illusion. Everyone chases it, everyone drowns in it, and still, they call it success.”

Jack: “Because admitting the emptiness makes you ungrateful.”

Jeeny: “But admitting it makes you free.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the studio empty now, only their reflections left in the dark glass — two souls illuminated by the city’s unblinking stare.

Host: And in that quiet glow, Bennett Cerf’s words hung like a spotlight in the dark:

Host: That fame is not virtue, but vanity disguised as validation.
That to crave it is human,
but to worship it is madness.

That those who chase the applause may indeed be crazy —
but in a world that equates visibility with worth,
perhaps a little madness is the only sane response.

Host: The city pulsed,
the smoke curled from Jack’s cigarette,
and Jeeny watched the reflection fade from the glass.

Fame, she realized, was not a crown.
It was a mirror —
and everyone was staring into it,
searching not for truth,
but for recognition.