I have no interest in understanding sheep, only eating them.
Lecter is so lucid, so perceptive; he's trained in psychiatry... and he's a mass murderer.
I found, and find, the scrutiny of Dr. Lecter uncomfortable, intrusive, like the humming of your thoughts when they x-ray your head.
Nothing made me happen. I happened.
There is no murder. We make murder, and it matters only to us.
It's hard to have anything isn't it? Rare to get it, hard to keep it. This is a damn slippery planet.