I don't give them the satisfaction any longer.  An arrogant person can't make me feel bad any more, because it's so easy to see through them once you know that they're faking it.  They've put on this mask because they fear that others will see through them, will understand that no, they're not happy.  I see arrogance as a sad state now, a state in which people try to hide behind their money or their breeding or their social standing or their positions of "power," but a state in which they'll never be able to let their true selves shine through.

The film Regarding Henry gives a glimpse of what could happen if one sort of arrogance-- the power-based kind --were taken away, and a man were to allow his own fundamental honesty shine through.  Of course we could enter into an hours-long discourse about his diminished mental capabilities, but we don't need to do so.  Fundamentally, Henry (Harrison Ford) becomes a happier man because he no longer needs to hide behind the power of his position in order to make himself feel better.

It's interesting that Hollywood so often equates humility with diminished mental powers.  I read an interesting column about the parallels between Regarding Henry and Forrest Gump, in which the author examined the fact that two Hollywood heroes of the same year were basically shown as not very intelligent, to be diplomatic.  The beauty of these two films is in the lack of arrogance of the characters, not in their mental abilities.  Robin Williams regularly makes films about nice men who are doing their best to live life, without being arrogant.  In his films, the arrogant people are often shown as the weak people they truly are.   (The exception is Mrs. Doubtfire, in which his character is so arrogant that he never sees the harm he's caused his family, and even blames his current situation on his wife, who stuck by him as long as she could through his broken promises and lack of responsibility.)

In the world of literature, possibly the most effective arrogant character ever created is Ivan Ilych, in Tolstoy's "The Death of Ivan Ilych."  This is a man who married because it was the right thing to do, who started to stay out with his friends because his family started annoying him, who loved the power of the bench (he was a judge), but who comes to the end of his life and finally admits to himself:  It was all wrong.  Everything he ever did--his whole life--was wrong.  His funeral, at which his friends wonder who's going to get his job and his wife complains that she won't be able to live on the pension she'll receive, is incredibly painful.  Ilych is very similar to Dickens' Scrooge, but Scrooge gets a second chance, an opportunity to change his ways.

Be arrogant if you wish.  Look down on others and treat them poorly, if you wish.  But realize that if you do so, you're only allowing your own inner weaknesses to shine through, and you're not fooling anyone.  Not the people around you, who hold you in disdain, not the God who made you and loves you and knows all about you, and not yourself.

And for those who must deal with arrogance on a regular basis, please keep in mind that arrogant people treat you poorly only because they're needier than you, and they haven't yet admitted to themselves that they are needy.  They need and deserve your compassion, not your anger.