Genius? Not So Much

       The thought was, quite simply, that it might not be going to far to say that Clive was... an idiot. An idiot. It was a term he had applied to many others in his lifetime, most recently his former best friend. A word he had never dared associate with himself. But now, looking back on all he had accomplished in such a short time, idiot really seemed like the appropriate word. Not so long ago Clive had lived a simple and happy life; working on his latest masterpiece whilst enjoying the spoils of the cultured class. But it had not been enough. He wanted a higher status, a greater legacy. He wanted everyone to remember his name. And maybe they would now, just not for the right reasons. He thought of his house which might appear in a documentary film someday. An expose about how the desire for fame leads to ruin. Or perhaps how a relatively stable man managed to go down in flames in a matter of days: "The Clive Linley Story: From Composer to Clown."  Looking back, his errors seemed rather obvious. If only the average person was blessed with foresight, rather than hindsight. He had known that the tune at the end of his symphony sounded familiar. The echo of something greater. Something, he assumed, that he would create. That he would will into being. Too bad someone had beaten him to the punch a few centuries ago. At the very least, he would not have to bear witness the public reaction when they heard Clive Linley's pathetic Millennial Symphony. But why, oh why, had he not found his final interaction with Vernon suspicious? He thought it only natural that Vernon, the flea of society, would want to reconcile with the man on the cusp of icon status. He had been so very eager to enact his own plan of vengeance that he had ignored the very obvious signs of Vernon's identical plan. And now he was dead. Dead. With no one to care that he was. No friend to retrieve his remains. No one to write his biography. Yes, idiot sounded just about right.    

 Beethoven who?