In Greek myth, Icarus was the son of Daedalus, builder of the labyrinth. To escape, Daedalus fashioned wings of wax and feathers and warned Icarus not to fly too high. Intoxicated by the joy of his first flight, the young Icarus climbed higher and higher — until the sun melted his wings and he fell into the sea. The parable has long been read as a warning against hubris; I find in it something else — a tragic aesthetic, the pull between desire and reason, the search for meaning at the edge of what a life can be.