Chronicle : A Concise Biography of Tyranny

Tyranny does not mind starting out small: it is indifferent to scale. Its dreams of grandeur are happily rehearsed in a child's theatre.

There, Tyranny has a full set of tin soldiers with which to prepare a catastrophe. One wears a gas mask, another a metal helmet. Hidden in a drawer, away from the others, is the drummer whose head has been blown off.

Tyranny has an awkward adolescence: it's all arms and legs and hot air. It talks of keeping the streets clean, while it fills them with a litter of noise.

Tyranny likes to have a hometown—and a small cinema where its faithful can watch films in the evenings.

Tyrannies learn slowly: it is only in young adulthood that they acquire the true benefits of decorum. They then possess the ability to carry out their work like any proper business.

In maturity, Tyranny becomes a bona fide adult—endowed with a fully grown body—behind which it conceals a warehouse of regression.

Tyranny's regression is simple: an infant's desire to impose its omnipotence on the world.

Tyrannies are not good at aging. Tyrannies stay young on a challenge. The thrill is lost when all the brave are dead.

Tyranny in old age is never graceful. Surrounded by rusted cars and old foundries, it is a junk heap of promises.

And as in Roman times, its successor was already, years ago, slain.

The mystery is why one finds, time and again, flowers on its grave.