Drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating beart.
Howl, FLORENCE & THE MACHINE.
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The thief and the flame. A tale as old as the stars.
It all started with Prometheus, the champion of humankind.
Out of love, out of respect, out of pity, the Titan stole fire from the gods to gift it to humanity.
Selfless love rewarded by eternal punishment.
The Greeks would call it ἀγάπη — agape, the highest form of love. A love so pure, so simple, that it needs to be destroyed in the most vile of way.
The passion for the myth of Prometheus subsisted throughout the centuries, until it fell into the hands of the young Mary Shelley — the Modern Prometheus came to life.
Compared to what people would have thought upon the first pages of her novel, her Prometheus — Victor Frankenstein — was never the hero. The Prometheus was never the hero, he wasn't the one who deserved to be acclaimed, to be thanked for his unconditional love for humanity.
He was the devil.
He, the one who brought fire to humankind, seduced the human race to the vice of eating meat.
It wasn't the conclusion I originally thought of. She is not wrong, but for the message behind such a work, I would have expected something else — something more.
Let me explain myself. Perhaps the results of stealing the flame weren't the ones intended by Prometheus. Maybe humanity was something he wanted to keep for himself, some agape turned into mania.
It might seems unintelligible, or I may be pushing the understanding way too far.
Or even better, I am an unreliable narrator.
But who's better inclined to tell this story than the central point of it all?
Because I had time to think, a lot.
And I came to the conclusion that many tried to make me understand.
