When you consider all the stars I have managed, mere submarines

Hear the words of Charles Frohman: “When you consider all the stars I have managed, mere submarines make me smile.” At first, these words may sound curious, even playful. Yet behind them lies the wisdom of a man who spent his life in the world of theater, managing not only productions but the fragile brilliance of human talent. Frohman’s stars were not celestial bodies in the heavens, but actors—bright lights of the stage whose radiance captured the hearts of audiences. To him, the wonder of such artistry was so great that even the marvels of modern machinery—the submarine, a symbol of human invention and power—seemed small in comparison.

The ancients too saw the contrast between art and war, between beauty and invention. The poet Sophocles was revered not for building fortresses or engines of destruction, but for writing tragedies that revealed the soul of humanity. In Frohman’s words, we hear this same reverence: that the smile comes not from the machinery of conquest but from the triumph of spirit, from guiding human beings whose gifts shine brighter than steel. A submarine may dive beneath the waves, but a star on stage can pierce the depths of the human heart.

Consider the life of Frohman himself. He was one of the great theatrical managers of his age, the man who helped bring to prominence countless performers, and who worked closely with playwrights like J.M. Barrie, the creator of Peter Pan. In shaping their careers, he touched eternity, for their art outlived him. The submarine, by contrast, was a tool of destruction in his own time, a machine that evoked fear and death during the wars of the early 20th century. Yet Frohman, who perished aboard the Lusitania when it was sunk by a German submarine in 1915, could look upon such weapons with irony. Against the grandeur of the human spirit, even engines of death seemed trivial—worthy of nothing more than a smile.

History has always borne this tension. Think of Leonardo da Vinci, who designed weapons for dukes and kings, yet whose true greatness lay not in machines of war but in paintings like The Last Supper and Mona Lisa. The works of art stirred hearts long after the weapons rusted. Frohman’s sentiment aligns with this eternal truth: human genius finds its highest expression not in destruction, but in creation, in beauty, in guiding the stars who illuminate the world.

Yet Frohman’s words also carry humility. He does not boast of building machines or commanding armies. Instead, he takes pride in nurturing artists, in drawing out the best in others. To manage stars is not easy—they burn brightly, they demand much, they live in the fragile balance between brilliance and collapse. But to guide them successfully, to bring forth their light upon the stage, is to achieve a greatness that endures beyond the weapons of war. This is why the thought of submarines brings only a smile; compared to the work of touching human souls, they are small indeed.

The lesson for us is clear: do not measure greatness solely by power or invention. The world is filled with machines, with tools that dazzle the eye with their might. Yet true greatness lies in people—nurturing, guiding, uplifting them to shine. When you help another become a star, when you draw out their gifts for the good of others, you create something that no weapon and no machine can rival.

So let this wisdom endure: the strength of nations may rise and fall on engines of war, but the soul of humanity is carried forward by its creators, its dreamers, its artists. Be as Frohman—choose to smile at the machines, but dedicate yourself to the greater work of lifting others to their light. For the glow of a star, once kindled, will outlast the darkest depths of any submarine.