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A long time ago, there lived a man made not for his time but for ours. Born into nobility, he was educated in grammar by the finest teachers that money could buy. Not that he cared. This prodigal son had nothing but contempt for the masses, and after bearing witness to the banishment of their last ruler, he made haste for the woodlands to make a living off of grubs and leaves.

This self-imposed exile provided the man who would be King time for reflection. He spent the most productive years of his adult life in the study of nature. This ain't the nature that I learned about on television while watching PBS. His thoughts veered metaphysical. Some conceits from an ancient time in a far away land get lost in translation.

Being something of a devout misanthrope by nature, he took on no students and had no teachers in philosophy. Well, none that history recalls. He's remembered by way of writing his treatises down on papyrus when the inspiration moved him and depositing them in the temple of the chief god of the land as a sacrament to his own sense of piety.

Many things have been said about this man. He buried himself in dung to stave off a bad case of the flu. He had a voice shrill as a cuckoo and used it once when asked to participate in the local democracy. The wisest men called him -and continue to call him- obscure. He handed down the crown that was rightfully his to his younger brother because he couldn't be bothered to lord over the people that praised him.

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