Think back over the chapter. A cricket who once slept in a matchbox now holds two concerts a day for crowds that stretch up the subway stairs, and the newsstand that couldn’t sell its papers now sells out before noon. Mama, who wanted the bug gone, beams at him like a son. And yet, between the morning show and the afternoon show, the star sits quietly in his pagoda cage, listening to the trains, watching the light change — and somewhere a hundred miles away, the first leaf of September lets go of its branch.

Fame looks, from the outside, like a prize with no downside. A famous performer — a singer, an athlete, an actor — is admired by strangers, paid well, and remembered. But people who have actually been famous almost always report a second, hidden bill. A celebrity belongs, in a sense, to the public: crowds feel free to stare, to follow, to reach out and touch. The first thing fame takes is privacy — the freedom to walk down a street unnoticed, to have a bad day, to be ordinary.

The second thing it takes is choice. An unknown musician plays when the mood arrives; a famous one has an obligation to perform — the hall is rented, the tickets are sold, and the show must go on whether the artist’s heart is in it or not. None of this means fame is worthless; it opens doors nothing else can open. But the wise say it should be handled like fire: warming at a distance, dangerous to hug. The happiest performers, they add, are those who remember why they started — and who keep one small song that belongs to nobody but themselves.

No right or wrong — tell someone nearby what happened in this part. Can’t find anyone? Tell yourself out loud. The moment you teach it, you truly understand it.