To a larger or lesser degree we are all trapped in a carefully self-orchestrated production of reality. Seldom does our genuine character emerge, preferably staying partially hidden in the shadows thrown by the various decorated flats scattered around the proscenium. The anonymity of greasepaint is our camouflage, a convenient way to remedy the danger of expressing honesty, and when combined with a most suitable costume presenting exactly the appearance we wish to proffer.
To affect embarrassment or confusion at the slightest suggestion of theatrics is the ultimate lie, for all human behavior is to some degree presented for effect, from the most heartfelt to the incontrovertibly callous, equally played with absolute conviction and plausibility, duplicity being second nature to the treacherous worshipers of Janus, as we all are consistently proven to be.
It is incontestably most politic to accept any proffered laurels graciously, as portent to our position as thespians in this great and glorious performance.