No True Artist is any one thing. Not hero, not villain. Not God, not monster. Not snow-angel-making/love-theme-from-Top Gun-singing/light-beer-swilling/gloriously-bemulleted Arctic hedonist, not automatic-weapon-polishing/lone-wolf-hunting/murder-hungry psychopath. He goes where the Art takes him and does what the Art demands of him. And if it takes him to a distant mountaintop and demands he lie down in an icy drift to croon Berlin until he finds his Coors-sponsored Truth, so be it. Because in that transcendent moment, he takes our breath away.
Fly on, you beautiful, snowbound angel. Fly on.