I am, in twain, Dux; for those before me were giants.

I stand on the upraised arms of titans. I may make a passing reference to it from time to time, an offhand remark about something or other my grandfather or uncle might have done, a brief comment about deeds. But what Allan King's funeral has driven home to me is what I have always understood intellectually, but never before felt. No man is an island, no soul exists in a vacuum. And, as I realized today in the depths of Victoria College, my lineage, my sangre azul, titles suzerain, is just as prestigious as any Jarvis, McGill or Trudeau.

If I stand any higher the hoi polloi, it is only because I stand upon the palms of giants. Giants of their field, masters of their craft, touching the lives of thousands. Of course, just because I inherited such a legacy doesn't necessarily mean I am a good heir. That's the flaw in any inheritance system; a giant's reach may be high, but their shadows are long, and they grow even longer as the sun sets on their era. It is all too easy to fall from such a lofty perch, fall into darkness and remain permanently in that gloom of twilight. But if you can remain atop those up reached hands, dwarf or no, heir to the logos and whatever nonesense that is part of any legacy- if you can remain aloft, then you're always going to bask in the sun.