My dear Kacvey,

Lately, Cambodian politicians seem to behave like young persons of 18, 19, 20, or people in show business who like to record themselves and put that on the Internet, hoping that people will watch. They are, now more than ever before, infused with selfishness, self-centeredness and narcissism to such a ridiculous point that they compete between each other to reach millions of “like” …  and, by the way, why not “dislike” also?

Narcissism, like many other anti-social passions, has existed for a long time and thinkers and psychologists spent great deal of times studying it, and in today’s time, social media is the outlet to express it.

Kacvey, to paraphrase the American Actor James Woods, the silent killer of all great men of achievement is narcissism, even more than hubris. Why so?

It all started circa 8 A.D. in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book III: “The Story of Echo and Narcissus” as follows:

Famous through all Aonian towns and cities,
Gave irreproachable answers to all comers
Who sought his guidance. Once of the first who tested
The truth he told was a naiad of the river,
Liriope, whom the river-god, Cephisus
Embraced and ravished in his watery dwelling.
In time she bore a child, most beautiful
Even as child, gave him the name Narcissus,
And asked Tiresias if the boy would ever
Live a ripe old age. Tiresias answered:
“Yes, if he never knows himself.” How silly
Those words seem, for how long! But as it happened,
Time proved them true – the way he died, the strangeness
Of his infatuation.

Now Narcissus
Was sixteen years of age, and could be taken
Either for boy or man; and boys and girls
Both sought his love, but in that slender striping
Was pride so fierce no boy, no girl, could touch him.
He was out hunting one day, driving deer
Into the nets, when a nymph named Echo saw him,
A nymph whose way of talking was peculiar
In that she could not start a conversation
Nor fail to answer other people talking.
Up to this time Echo still had a body,
She was not merely voice. She liked to chatter,
But had no power of speech except the power
To answer in the words she last had heard.
Juno had done this: when she went out looking
For Jove on top of some nymph among the mountains,
Echo would stall the goddess off by talking
Until the nymph had fled. Sooner or later
Juno discovered this and said to Echo:
“The tongue that made a fool of me will shortly
have shorter use, the voice be brief hereafter.”
Those were not idle words; now Echo always
Says the last thing she hears, and nothing further.
She saw Narcissus roaming through the country,
Saw him, and burned, and followed him in secret,
Burning the more she followed, as when sulphur
Smeared on the rim of torches, catches fire
When other fire comes near it. Oh, how often
She wanted to come near with coaxing speeches,
Makes soft entreaties to him! But her nature
Sternly forbids; the one thing not forbidden
Is to make answers. She is more than ready
For words she can give back. By chance Narcissus
Lost track of his companions, started calling
“Is anybody here?” and “Here” said Echo.
He looked around in wonderment, called louder
“Come to me!” “Come to me!” came back the answer.
He looked behind him, and saw no one coming;
“Why do you run from me?” and heard his question
Repeated in the words. “Let us get together!”
There was nothing Echo would ever say more gladly,
“Let us get together!” And, to help her words,
Out of the woods she came, with arms already
To fling around his neck. But he retreated:
“Keep your hands off,” he cried, “and do not touch me!
I would die before I give you a chance at me.”
“I give you a chance at me,” and that was all
She ever said thereafter, spurned and hiding,
Ashamed, in the leafy forests, in lonely caverns.
But still her love clings to her and increases
And grows on suffering; she cannot sleep,
She frets and pines, becomes all gaunt and haggard,
Her body dries and shrivels till voice only
And bones remain, and then she is voice only
For the bones are turned to stone. She hides in woods
And no one sees her now along the mountains,
But all may hear her, fo her voice is living.

She was not the only one on whom Narcissus
Had visited frustration; there were others,
Naiads or Oreads, and young men also
Till finally one rejected youth, in prayer,
Raised up his hands to Heaven: “May Narcissus
Love one day, so, himself, and not win over
The creature whom he loves!” Nemesis heard him,
Goddess of vengeance, and judged the plea was righteous.
There was a pool, silver with shining water,
To which no shepherds came, no goats, no cattle,
Whose glass no bird, no beast, no falling leaf
Had ever troubled. Grass grew all around it,
Green from the nearby water, and with shadow
No sun burned hotly down on. Here Narcissus,
Worn from the heat of hunting, came to rest
Finding the place delightful, and the spring
Refreshing for the thirsty. As he tried
To quench his thirst, inside him, deep within him,
Another thirst was growing, for he saw
An image in the pool, and fell in love
With that unbodied hope, and found a substance
In what was only shadow. He looks in wonder,
Charmed by himself, spell-bound, and no more moving
than any marble statue. Lying prone
He sees his eyes, twin stars, and locks as comely
As those of Bacchus or the god Apollo,
Smooth cheeks, and ivory neck, and the bright beauty
Of countenance, and a flush color rising
In the fair whiteness. Everything attracts him
That makes him so attractive. Foolish boy,
He wants himself; the loved becomes the lover,
The seeker sought, the kindler burns. How often
He tries to kiss the image in the water,
Dips in his arms to embrace the boy he sees there,
And finds the boy, himself, elusive always,
Not knowing what he sees, but burning for it,
The same delusion mocking his eyes and teasing.
Why try to catch an always fleeing image,
Poor credulous youngster? What you seek is nowhere,
And if you turn away, you will take with you
The boy you love. The vision is only shadow,
Only reflection, lacking any substance.
It comes with you, it stays with you, it goes
Away with you, if you can go away.
No thought of food, no thought of rest, can make him
Forsake the place. Stretched on the grass, in shadow,
He watches, all unsatisfied, that image
Vain and illusive, and he almost drowns
In his own watching eyes. He rises just a little,
Enough to lift his arms in supplication
To the trees around him, crying to the forest:
“What love, whose love, has ever been more cruel?
You woods should know: you have given many lovers
Places to meet and hide in; has there ever,
Through the long centuries, been anyone
Who has pined away as I do? He is charming,
I see him, but the charm and sight escape me.
I love him and I cannot seem to find him!
To make it worse, no sea, no road, no mountain,
No city-wall, no gate, no barrier, parts us
But a thin film of water. He is eager
For me to hold him. When my lips go down
To kiss the pool, his rise, he reaches toward me.
You would think that I could touch him – almost nothing
Keeps us apart. Come out, whoever you are!
Why do you tease me so? Where do you go
When I am reaching for you? I am surely
Neither so old or ugly as to scare you,
And nymphs have been in love with me. You promise,
I think, some hope with a look of more than friendship.
You reach out arms when I do, and your smile
Follows my smiling; I have seen your tears
When I was tearful; you nod and beckon when I do;
Your lips, it seems, answer when I am talking
Though what you say I cannot hear. I know
The truth at last. He is myself. I feel it!
I know my image now. I burn with love
Of my own self; I start the fire I suffer.
What shall I do? Shall I give or take the asking?
What shall I ask for? What I want is with me,
My riches make me poor. If I could only
Escape from my own body! If I could only –
How curious a prayer from any lover –
Be parted from my love! And now my sorrow
Is taking all my strength away; I know
I have not long to live, I shall die early,
And death is not so terrible, since it takes
My trouble from me; I am sorry only
The boy I love must die: we die together.”
He turned again to the image in the water,
Seeing it blur through tears, and the vision fading,
And he saw it vanish, he called after:
“Where are you going? Stay: do not desert me,
I love you so. I cannot touch you; let me
Keep looking at you always, and in looking
Nourish my wretched passion!” In his grief
He tore his garment from the upper margin,
Beat his bare breast with hands as pale as marble,
And the breast took on a glow, a rosy color,
As apples are white and red, sometimes, or grapes
Can be both green and purple. The water clears,
He sees it all once more, and cannot bear it.
As yellow wax dissolves with warmth around it,
As the white frost is gone in morning sunshine,
Narcissus, in the hidden fire of passion,
Wanes slowly, with the ruddy color going,
The strength and hardihood and comeliness,
Fading away, and even the very body
Echo had loved. She was sorry for him now,
Though angry still, remembering; you could hear her
Answer “Alas!” in pity, when Narcissus
Cried out “Alas!” You could hear her own hands beating
Her breast when he beats his. “Farewell, dear boy,
Beloved in vain!” were his last words, and Echo
Called the same words on him. His very head
Sank to the greensward, and death closed the eyes
That once had marveled at their owner’s beauty.
And even in Hell, he found a pool to gaze in,
Watching his image in the Stygian water.
While in the world above, his naiad sisters
Mourned him, and dryads wept for him, and Echo
Mourned as they did, and wept with them, preparing
The funeral pile, the bier, the brandished torches,
But when they sought his body, they found nothing,
Only a flower with a yellow center
Surrounded with white petals.
(Ref: ISBN 978-0-253-20001-3, Indiana University Press)

Famous world painters such as Caravaggio, Poussin, Turner and Dali have immortalized the tale of Narcissus through their paintings and according to their style and perception.