The ancient Greeks called it hubris when people of power and influence displayed such overweening pride that they angered the gods. Bad things always followed.
Martin Winterkorn, who was determined to turn Volkswagen AG into the world's largest car maker at seemingly any cost, has done something worse. He has infuriated millions of consumers who bought VW's diesel-is-clean pitch and put his company in the crosshairs of the U.S. Congress and Justice Department. General Motors and some of his banking friends can tell him what bad things flow from that.
Just five months ago, Mr. Winterkorn was on top of the world after winning the biggest battle of his career. Volkswagen's chief executive since 2007 fended off a concerted campaign to oust him by Ferdinand Piech, VW's imperious chairman and patriarch of the controlling family. Instead, it was Mr. Piech who was forced to pick up his marbles and leave the playground.
Their bitter feud had burst into the public arena days earlier, after Mr. Piech declared in an interview that he was "at a distance to Winterkorn," his former close ally.
In the past, such a pronouncement would have ended an executive's career at the auto giant. That tends to happen in family-dominated companies when you are not part of the clan.
But Mr. Winterkorn survived thanks to a rare split among family members, as well as board support from representatives of the company's union and the government of Lower Saxony, VW's home state and its second-biggest shareholder.
Mr. Piech, grandson of founder Ferdinand Porsche, was done in by his cousin, Wolfgang Porsche, whose holding company controls slightly more than half VW's equity. "Dr. Piech represents his private opinion," was the way Mr. Porsche phrased it.
Now, after the revelations about cheating on U.S. emissions tests that have rocked the company to its core, the dividend-clippers must be wishing they had made a different choice.
The value of their shares has nosedived about 31 per cent in just two days. And VW faces a rash of investigations in numerous jurisdictions, as well as lawsuits from a gaggle of delighted lawyers, all of which will take billions of dollars and years to resolve. Criminal charges could also result, casting a long, dark shadow over the company's future.
So far, Mr. Winterkorn, 68, has put on a brave front. Although his future at the company can be measured in days as his previously staunch board support evaporates, he gave no such indication in a video statement on Tuesday.
He said he was "endlessly sorry" for the betrayal of people's trust – and no doubt for the sudden end of his corporate dream to wrest the top rung of the global ladder from the more profitable Toyota Motor Corp.
Mr. Winterkorn insisted that "we're in the process of ruthlessly investigating the issue, and to that end, everything will be put on the table as fast, thoroughly and transparently as possible."
The video format enabled the embattled CEO to duck unpleasant questions, namely: What did he know and when did he know it?
When U.S. tests showed in 2014 that diesel emissions exceeded California and federal limits, the company blamed "technical issues."
Why didn't that merit a thorough probe by Mr. Winterkorn, an engineer who was once responsible for the group's quality assurance, or by other senior engineering executives?
Could the entire brain trust really have been completely in the dark about a conscious decision to evade the rules and peddle more powerful, pollution-spewing cars?
What's the Greek word for implausible?