Success is dangerous. One begins to copy oneself, and to copy

The words of Pablo Picasso — “Success is dangerous. One begins to copy oneself, and to copy oneself is more dangerous than to copy others. It leads to sterility.” — resound like the warning of an elder who has seen kingdoms rise and fall. For in them lies a truth older than the painter himself: that victory breeds complacency, and complacency is the silent killer of creation. When the spirit has triumphed once, it longs to taste the sweetness of triumph again, but instead of venturing into new lands, it often retraces its own footsteps. Thus the creator becomes a prisoner of his own glory, a shadow dwelling in the ruins of yesterday’s triumphs.

To copy others is a lesser sin, for in such imitation one still looks outward, still breathes the wind of another’s vision, and from that air, the soul may one day kindle its own flame. But to copy oneself is to inhale only the stale air of yesterday, to draw life from one’s own ashes, and to mistake repetition for creation. What once was fertile and radiant becomes a barren field, where the seeds of art and thought wither for lack of fresh soil.

Consider the fate of mighty Rome, whose legions once thundered across the world. At first, the Romans learned from the Greeks, borrowed their gods, their arts, their wisdom — and in doing so, they grew strong. Yet when Rome began to copy only itself, to worship its own patterns, its own monuments, its own grandeur, the spark of vigor dimmed. The Republic gave way to empire, and empire to decadence. What followed was sterility, not of the body, but of the spirit, and the Eternal City crumbled under the weight of its own echo.

So too, in the life of the artist, the poet, the thinker, or the leader, lies this same peril. Picasso himself knew the temptation: after Cubism shattered the old order of painting, he might have lived the rest of his days repeating those fractured forms, selling endless echoes to a hungry world. Yet he turned, always, toward the unknown, refusing to let success bind his hands. His restless spirit became his salvation, for he knew that yesterday’s victory, if clutched too tightly, is tomorrow’s chain.

The tale of Alexander the Great offers another lesson. He conquered lands beyond imagination, but when he paused, when he ceased to look outward, his empire began to collapse under the burden of its own size. His triumph could not be repeated by retracing his steps; it required new horizons. Yet, when those horizons vanished, so too did the breath of his greatness. This is the tragedy of self-copying: not merely repetition, but the loss of momentum, the slow death of the creative force that once made conquest possible.

Therefore, let the seeker of wisdom beware: success is a test, not a reward. It asks whether you will stand idle upon the mountain you have climbed, or whether you will descend into new valleys and dare to climb again. To dwell upon one’s own reflection is to turn into stone, like Narcissus before the water’s mirror. To turn the gaze outward, toward mystery, toward the unshaped, is to remain alive.

The lesson is thus: do not rest in your triumphs, nor drink too deeply from the well of your own work. Instead, break the patterns you have built, shatter the comfort of repetition, and search again with the heart of a beginner. As the ancients taught, the wheel of fortune turns ever onward; he who clings to yesterday is crushed beneath it. He who moves with it, ever daring, remains free.

In practice, this means: when you achieve, seek at once the unknown; when you are praised, look toward the untested; when you master one craft, dare to be an apprentice in another. Let your victories be stepping stones, not resting places. For the fertile soil of the spirit is not in repetition, but in renewal. And thus, you shall escape the prison of self-imitation, and your life, like your art, shall never grow sterile.