Warren wrote and spoke and moved, and lived, entirely for himself. Every act was self-serving, and every conversation (every single one!) was deprived of a life of its own, and was forced back to himself. And he forced it vigorously. Certainly no one else would do it for him. You couldn't converse with him without talking about him. At 40 years of age he had become a master, well-practiced and efficient, at sucking the oxygen out of a room.
Not a bad looking fellow, well-dressed and quick with a smile, he attracted a bit of attention at social gatherings. From a distance, he appeared to be engaging and earnest, almost passionate. And in a way he was, but only about his opinions, experiences, observations, thoughts and actions. His own cheerleader, before, during and after the game. A booster club. A Ladies' Auxiliary. An appreciation society.
If you study a thing, the thing changes. If you study a person, the person changes. The thing changes in the mind of the person doing the studying. But a person changes in two minds. If you care enough to consider a fellow like Warren, he is best considered obliquely. From an angle, you could remove yourself from the spectacle of narcissism. But if you spoke to him directly, he would mercilessly hold you there. The outstretched hand of a beggar. He made you feel not only rude, but cruel, if you didn't let him use you. He mistook pity for the attention of an inquiring mind.
There is a nurturing sort of person, almost always a woman, who feels the need to comfort men like Warren, by pretending to find them fascinating. He took and they gave. And gave and gave until there was nothing left to give. The tit was sucked dry. Eventually, these women would withdraw out of a need for self-preservation. As instinctual an impulse as running from a fire.
He thought of these emotional wet nurses as lovers. Charity was mistaken for commerce. Over time, the list of women grew. None of them stayed with him for more than a year or two at most. The absence of one created a void that drew another.
He would never know that no one ever loved him. Not the way he thought, anyway.