How to Command a Leviathan: A Beginner’s Guide to Monster Management
Some people collect stamps, others collect Pokemon cards, and then there are those who wake up one morning thinking: “Why not command a Leviathan today.” Unfortunately, the Leviathan in question is not a soft plush toy but a giant beast called the State, which crushes everything in its path with the grace of an elephant in a china shop. And to make things worse, a handful of overly enthusiastic humans imagine they can climb onto its back, steer it with invisible reins, and maybe even make it breathe fire on command. This is what we call “governing.”
Human history is basically this recurring circus act: handing the monster’s keys to someone who swears they can handle it. Spoiler alert: they cannot. Not any more than you could train a crocodile to fetch your slippers. And yet every century stages the same show: leaders convinced the Leviathan is just a big friendly dog. In reality, it is the beast pulling the strings, while the so called masters dangle like puppets.
The giant toy illusion
Leaders love to sell us a myth: the State is just a tool, a neutral machine, an abstract bureaucracy. Like a giant toaster that spits out decrees and taxes instead of bread. But in truth, this toaster is haunted. And when you push the button, you have no idea if you are going to get toast or a metaphorical nuclear explosion (sometimes not even metaphorical).
The scale changes everything. If you lie to your grandmother by saying her soup is delicious, it is a small sin. When a State lies, it creates entire parallel realities, prints school textbooks that turn defeats into victories and disasters into national triumphs. And citizens swallow all of it with the enthusiasm of viewers who keep watching a bad TV series just to see how it ends.
Strategic sacrifice or blind cooking
Another classic move is sacrifice. “We must sacrifice a few for the sake of the many,” they say with the confident smile of someone who imagines they are a surgeon of morality. But to know if a sacrifice is necessary, you would need access to all possible versions of the future. It is like asking a chef to improvise a recipe without knowing if the dish will feed or poison the guests.
Of course, no human has that gift. Yet strategists sit comfortably in velvet chairs, draw two arrows on a map, and declare: “This group must go. It is for the greater good.” It is the geopolitical version of a Monopoly player bankrupting everyone just because he wanted to build a hotel on Boardwalk.
Responsibility as an optional feature
The most fascinating trick is how responsibility disappears like magic. In everyday life, if you break your aunt’s vase, you at least buy flowers as an apology. But when a leader launches a war that leaves millions of lives in ruins, he gets a book deal and a lecture tour. Human history is basically a carnival where the big players never buy their ticket.
And when they say “History will judge me,” what they really mean is: “Maybe in 200 years a textbook will give me a paragraph, and if I am lucky my statue will not be completely covered in pigeons.” Not exactly a terrifying court of justice.
The bureaucratic dragon
Picture this: a man stands before a giant dragon, pen in hand, ready to give an order. He says: “Just a little fire, enough to scare them.” The dragon half listens, sneezes, and burns down the neighboring village. That is government in action. But instead of admitting his blunder, the man congratulates himself for “limiting the damage.” He takes notes, writes a report, and proudly announces: “Mission accomplished.”
The terrifying part is not that the dragon exists, but that people believe they can use it like a precision tool. Governing a State is like thinking you can perform brain surgery with a chainsaw.
The unmeasurable and other fancy words
Let’s talk about the word “unmeasurable.” It is mostly used to give a serious shine to a simple truth: no one is built for this job. It is like asking someone to hold a bomb in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other while whistling cheerfully. Yet some insist, convinced they are the exception, that their personal genius will let them ride the beast without being swallowed. Spoiler number two: they always get swallowed.
And we, the spectators, keep applauding. We love the myth of the great savior, the chosen one who will finally speak the Leviathan’s language and turn its roars into music. But in practice it is always the same tune: too much noise, too many flames, and the lingering smell of something burnt.
Justice according to the multiverse
If we were logical, we would judge leaders not only on what they did, but also on everything they could have done. You see the problem? It is like grading a student not only on their answers but also on all the possible answers they could have written in parallel universes. The verdict is always the same: guilty of everything, all the time.
Yet they keep smiling, writing speeches, and posing for official portraits. The true strength of the Leviathan may not be its claws or teeth but the human ability to keep saying “Everything is under control” while sitting on its back.
Conclusion: never rent a Leviathan
So next time someone offers you the reins of the State, remember: it is not a horse, it is a mythical creature whose every move causes unpredictable disasters. Accepting it is already a mistake. It is like pressing the big red button that says “Do not press” just to see what happens.
Governing is not mastering. Governing is playing Jenga with millions of lives while hoping the tower does not fall. And even when it does, someone always manages to declare: “Everything went according to plan.”
In short, no one commands a Leviathan without consequences. And if you meet someone who claims otherwise, chances are they are already stuck between the monster’s teeth. Which is, after all, a fairly common way to end a political career.