I am the most successful unsuccessful actor in New York. And I

“I am the most successful unsuccessful actor in New York. And I guess with that, maybe apparent only to myself, there started to be a very subtle but unmistakable whiff of entitlement, bitterness, jealousy. I was not respecting the work.” Thus confessed Norbert Leo Butz, a man of the stage whose name would later shine with acclaim, yet who speaks here not from triumph but from struggle. His words carry the raw honesty of one who has wrestled with failure and success alike, and who has seen the shadows that ambition casts upon the heart.

The meaning of this saying lies in the paradox of being “successful” yet “unsuccessful.” In the theater of New York, to be visible, to be working, even to be praised, is itself success. Yet Butz felt a deeper emptiness—his heart poisoned not by lack of opportunity, but by the creeping entitlement and bitterness that sometimes accompany it. He names the dangerous spirit that overtakes artists when they measure their worth not by the love of the craft, but by recognition, awards, or fame. In this state, one ceases to respect the work itself, the sacred labor that should be its own reward.

The ancients knew this truth well. In the writings of Marcus Aurelius, the emperor warns against chasing glory for its own sake. True greatness, he said, lies in virtue and discipline, not in the applause of the crowd. The Greek tragedians also taught this lesson: that pride and jealousy corrupt even the most gifted, dragging heroes into ruin. What Butz described in the dim lights of New York was no different than what the ancients saw upon the grand stage of human life—the danger of losing oneself in envy and entitlement rather than honoring the work.

History gives us countless examples. Consider the tale of Salieri, court composer to the Emperor of Austria, who looked upon Mozart with eyes filled not with respect but with jealousy. Though he himself was accomplished, Salieri could not bear the brilliance of another, and bitterness consumed him. He lost respect for the sacredness of his craft and became remembered less for his own music than for his envy. Norbert Leo Butz, in his self-awareness, warns against this same fate: the artist who ceases to love the work and becomes enslaved to comparison.

Yet there is redemption in his words. For in recognizing his jealousy and bitterness, Butz also recognized the way back. The artist, and indeed every human being, must learn to return to the purity of purpose—to honor the work itself, whether or not it brings glory. To respect the work is to live free of envy; it is to find joy not in being the “most successful,” but in giving one’s best to the task, whether the world sees it or not. This is the wisdom of humility, the discipline that transforms labor into art.

The lesson for us is powerful. In every field—whether on stage, in office, or in the quiet work of daily life—we must guard our hearts against the subtle whispers of entitlement. When recognition does not come, bitterness may rise. When others succeed, jealousy may creep in. But these are poisons that will rob us of joy. Instead, let us respect the work itself. Let us labor with integrity, not for applause, but for excellence. Let us remember that true success lies not in being seen, but in being faithful to the task we are called to do.

So let Butz’s confession echo as a warning and a guide: “I was not respecting the work.” May we learn from his humility. Respect your craft. Cherish your labor. Honor the process more than the prize. For when envy fades and bitterness dies, what remains is the sacred satisfaction of honest work—and in that lies a success far greater than applause: the success of the soul at peace with itself.