It is a peculiar curiosity of our age that those who possess everything often find themselves unable to part with the very things they once coveted. We observe a most fascinating parade of celebrated showmen and sirens, all desperate to rid themselves of their sprawling estates, only to discover that the world’s appetite for such extravagance has grown somewhat fatigued. One finds that the price is either an absurdity, or the prospective buyer is simply terrified by the ghosts of former glamour.

Consider, for instance, the plight of Mr. Dmitry Dibrov. For over half a year, the gentleman has been attempting to dispose of a residence in the village of Lapino. Initially, he demanded some 570 million rubles—a sum that would make a banker swoon. Now, in a fit of modesty, he has lowered the price to 499 million.

This edifice, dubbed 'Villa Paulina' in honour of a former spouse, contains no fewer than eight rooms, three kitchens—as if one kitchen were insufficient for a man of his stature—and a swimming pool. Mr. Dibrov confesses that the house is haunted not by spirits, but by memories of his divorce. Truly, there is nothing so burdensome as a palace that reminds one of a failed romance.

Then we have the case of Mr. Steven Seagal, an American of some renown. He offered his manor for 700 million rubles, yet the market remained as silent as a grave.

Despite having a cinema and a dedicated room for suitcases—a most bourgeois obsession—experts suggest the grounds are simply too small for such a grand ambition. He is now prepared to sacrifice a hundred million rubles merely to find a buyer. One wonders if the gentleman believes a discount is the only cure for a lack of acreage.

Mr. Grigory Leps, a singer of considerable volume, attempted to sell his palace for a full billion rubles. Alas, the number of zeros in the price acted as a deterrent to all but the most delusional of investors. He has since reduced the sum by 250 million, though the house remains a monument to excess, complete with a wine cellar and eight bathrooms—heaven forbid a gentleman should have to walk too far to wash his hands.

Young Mr. Dima Bilan offers a home in 'Montville' for 250 million rubles. In a most whimsical fashion, he has equipped the house with secret passages and hidden rooms, as if he were a protagonist in a Gothic novel. He even possesses a chair shaped like an egg that travels along the ceiling. One can only imagine the confusion of a houseguest who accidentally finds themselves floating toward the rafters while searching for the tea-room.

Then we arrive at the Prima Donna, Madame Pugacheva, who is parting with her Moscow apartment for 390 million rubles. A residence of 'palace aesthetics,' it is a place where one might imagine a lady in a towering hat discussing the latest gossip over porcelain tea sets.

Similarly, Mr. Philip Kirkorov—a man whose tastes are always more theatrical than necessary—is offering his 210-square-metre dwelling for 240 million rubles. One imagines the curtains are as velvet as his voice.

Madame Yana Rudkovskaya, a producer of great influence, is selling her rooms for 135 million.

Her agent speaks of high ceilings and furniture by Fendi and Armani. It is the very pinnacle of modern fashion; the sort of place where the furniture is more famous than the inhabitants.

Finally, we have the singer Anastasia Slanevskaya, known as 'Slava.' She succeeded in selling her Arbat apartment, though only after reducing the price by 20 million rubles.

She lamented that a public scandal involving another artist hindered her sale. Thus, we see the ultimate tragedy of the celebrity: that even one's walls are stained by the gossip of the salons, and the only way to escape the noise is to lower the price of one's sanctuary.