I've been in rooms where people are discussing films that have

Lenny Abrahamson, a craftsman of cinema, once observed with sorrow and clarity: “I’ve been in rooms where people are discussing films that have yet to come out and saying delightedly, ‘Oh, I’ve heard it’s a disaster!’ The jealousy is unseemly.” In these words he names a weakness not confined to artists alone, but to all of humanity. For there is a dark thrill that envy brings—the delight not in creation, but in destruction, not in another’s success, but in their fall. This is why he calls it unseemly, for to rejoice in failure before the work is even seen is not only unjust but reveals the sickness of jealousy in its purest form.

The meaning of his words is profound. In the world of art, of business, of politics, of every human endeavor, there is always rivalry. Yet rivalry can be noble, driving us to excellence, or ignoble, seeking to cripple others rather than rise ourselves. Abrahamson exposes the latter: the kind of jealousy that rejoices in another’s collapse, even before the truth is known. It is cowardice disguised as critique, envy masquerading as discernment. It destroys not only the one who is envied but the one who envies, for their soul becomes small and joyless, feeding only on the failure of others.

The ancients knew this poison well. The Greeks told of Envy as a goddess who could not look upon another’s success without weeping blood. The Romans warned that envy corrodes communities, for it turns citizens against one another, delighting not in the glory of the city but in the downfall of neighbors. In scripture, the psalmist laments the envious heart that withers away at the sight of another’s prosperity. Abrahamson’s lament is but a modern echo of this timeless truth: that envy delights in ruin, even when no ruin has yet occurred.

History offers us a vivid example. When the great explorer Christopher Columbus returned with tales of a new world, there were those in court who immediately sought to undermine him, whispering that his discoveries were false, that his journey was a failure. They rejoiced in the rumor of his downfall because his success threatened their own place. Their jealousy blinded them, and in time, their slander weakened not Columbus alone, but the trust and unity of those who might have shared in his vision. So too in Abrahamson’s rooms of cinema—when people rejoice in disaster, they do not only harm the film in question; they corrode the very spirit of artistic fellowship.

The lesson is clear: beware of delight in another’s misfortune. For though it may seem a small indulgence, it robs the heart of nobility. To wish for another’s downfall is to confess your own fear of their rise. Better to honor the courage it takes to create, even if the creation falters, than to sneer at the attempt. For greatness is never born from mockery, but from admiration, perseverance, and respect for the struggle of others.

Practical wisdom follows. If you hear whispers of failure, do not add your voice to the chorus of scorn. Instead, wait, observe, and judge with fairness. Train your heart to celebrate the victories of others, even when they surpass your own, for their light does not diminish yours. And when you face jealousy rising within you, let it remind you not of another’s success, but of your own desire to grow. Transform envy into inspiration, and rivalry into motivation.

So let this teaching be handed down: jealousy is unseemly, not only because it is unjust, but because it degrades the soul that harbors it. Rejoice not in ruin, but in creation. Celebrate not the whispers of disaster, but the courage of those who dare. For in honoring others, we enlarge ourselves; in delighting in their downfall, we become smaller than we were meant to be. Thus the wise do not feed envy, but starve it, and in doing so, walk the higher path of dignity and strength.