Sometimes (a lot of times), I think about Will Graham as an unwilling Prophet, and Hannibal Lecter as the lonely God who has finally found someone who can hear him. It’s just a metaphor, but, as is the way of old allegories, there’s something about this frame that can lend a certain heartache clarity to the events of Hannibal, and I’ve been promising that I would write it down.
At first I didn’t know what form this post was going to take, but then I realized that this was already decided for me millennia ago –
Let me tell you a story, about the Gods.
Will Graham is a Prophet, and he did not ask for this. He did not ask to see them, to know their awful designs. He did not ask to hear them all, the whole black broken pantheon that slipped away from the mountain to make their own heaven on earth. And he does not want it, he does not.
The unwilling Prophet screws up his eyes against the forms crowding him, tries to shut his ears, but how do you lock out the Gods?
Hannibal Lecter is a God, and he is alone. He crafts humanity into beautiful forms with cruelty & care, elevates them, and, at his long table, he dines upon what he has transformed. And no one knows. No one knows how the God is sustained.
And no one knows how he is alone.
But he is content, mostly, safe in his temple of marble and horn. So many lambs for the slaughter — his slaughter. He sings over them, and he didn’t know how mournful his song was, perhaps, until one day, someone hears him. Someone as alone as he is.