The outsiders had no word for fame. Over time, as the TV crews rolled up with their unfriendly lights and metal trunks, and the academics postured and postulated, and the journalists stuck their nibs in, they filled the gap with such ramshackle constructions as big-frozen-face and unnoticed-by-none. The more poetic described it as ten-thousand-arrows-trained-upon-one’s-back; to the succinct, fame was simply the state of being without secrets. Artists, when they painted fame, stripped back the skin, baring flesh.
But they never really understood what it was to be famous, and by the time they did – well, they weren’t the outsiders anymore.