Isn’t that the truth of the fateful burden of great men—to have fatal flaws, to inevitably fall short of his ideals? There are both glory and sadness in self-directed ambition. Tony Stark has his pride, Superman, kryptonite, et al… It’s more hopeful to see a flawed hero than an idol—the former you can emulate, the latter you can, inevitably, only hate. This is why we killed God—too high a standard to bear.
It is a melancholy truth that even great men have their poor relations.
Dickens, Bleak House, Ch. 28
Indeed, God’s, I do believe got the better of him. Which of us remains extant? We the trickster, the storytelling, lyre-playing and backpedaling finger-pointer and liar. This devil’s finger surely developed for the pointing.
God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.
Nietzsche’s Madman