The man watched the superstar. He saw him, really saw him. He saw him in all his glory and disgrace; saw the genius with which he shone, but also the mania, the neuroses, the madness typical of Men Who Have Whole Worlds in Their Heads.
And the man saw himself mirrored in the superstar, and wept. Despaired.
Because he identified with all the defects, but none of the virtues.
A dirty lamp, begging for a hand of polish; but inside, no genie; only oil.