Once days had passed
And past gone by
Time t'was to build statues
So that men of earth would remain up'n ground
And those who transcended
For statues have a certain way
Of transmutation into pleasant forgetfulness
That across the sands of Arabia
The grasped scimitar in Saladin's hand
Contained flesh and bones same as ours
T'would be dangerous indeed
If those grounded souls
Realized they had two eyes
And two lungs which which which
To see and breathe, much as van Gogh did
And worse, worse yet
To the necessity of grounding
Would be an identification
With a Corsican lieutenant
Or a young Virginian provincial officer
How well-cooked did Byron like his steaks,
And could not all of us dream and fancy?
And dream, as Shelly, and compose
Perhaps not well, perhaps not,
But at least enjoy the strain as they did?
Aye, but there's the rub
After power comes the sword hunt
And Bolsheviks and Shogunates
And practical civilized conquerors
Never want to see an encore
Hence the statues of
An ancient's towering visage
Immortal -- not mortal
Not flesh and bone
With which to grasp a sword or pen
Dilanka, I understand it as reminding us that Julius Cesar was just as mortal as you are, that Benjamin Franklin was a human being the same as you or I, and that we must remember that we can achieve what they did, or at least try, and not let them be stolen away from us with words like "superhuman" and "genius."
A few years back, I was getting complacent. I was a successful entrepreneur, in the top 1% for my age. Whenever I compared myself to people similar to me, it wasn't even close. I worked more, accomplished more, produced more, did more meaningful things, was traveling the world. I read more books, did more writing, was generally healthier and more disciplined, spent my time well. I was the top 1% for my age, and even better than that if you measured me against people from similar backgrounds.
I think it's easy for people who are doing great to get complacent. You look at the general sloth and laziness and complacency of most people, you see that you're achieving greatly, and you feel like you're so far above that. You give yourself a pat on the back. "Ah, yes, I'm doing great!"
I had a shift. I don't remember the exact day, but one day I thought to myself -
"I'm not going to compare myself against people my age any more. I'm going to start comparing myself to the greatest men of all time."
It may seem a crude, even callous stretch to compare network psychopaths with the real ones who rampage reality, but we all know what Hannibal's advised actions are on the rude (with regards to appetite) so trust me I wouldn't draw that line unless I had an actual point.
Well then, perhaps we have Madds Mikkelsen, Bryan Fuller or even Thomas Harris to thank for the multi-layered complex killer that Hannibal Lecter is. Maybe it's his, to put it politely, exquisite taste (whether in fashion, friends, food or any combination of the latter two) that introduces and makes me accustomed to a better class of psychopath that leaves this individual ironically, unprepared for raw real-world violence.
Reality has repeatedly shown, as with Rodgers' case, that the eloquence of subtlety in a cat-and-mouse chase is often limited to TV series (think CSI, The Following, even right under their noses, wolf in sheep's skin Dexter). Or worse, they're confined to cold cases. Consider this, if the general public never knows about actual psychopaths with Hannibal's calibre, it is because they are genuinely intelligent enough to remain out of sight and beyond the reach of the law (and thus blends the boundaries between reality and fiction-all Inception-y style ominous haunting strains of viola here).
Humanity likes to hope that is certainly not the situation, where the worst are in our jail cells and not lurking in the shadows, plotting more sinister, cruel diabolical plans-but unfortunately, young Elliot's outburst has proven just this: That the mad men are amongst us.
I don't intend to be a fear-monger, but they are festering within the world. They're not even slipping in between the cracks, they may be in the cubicle right next to you, or in the case concerned, in the very same class. You'll never know, or can never tell, until it's too late and the corpses strewn on campuses have to speak for themselves, but can't.