Notwithstanding the mindnumbing writing of the man of his epoch, or the fact that it fell flat on its own satire, this essay does shine light on a topic that, it seems, has been of interest for centuries. Murder, its morality and its art form. 

It brings questions to surface, like: can murder be celebrated, admired? When is it right for murder to be so? Is it, even right, for it to be so? What is so curious about who takes the life of who and why? I could write my own essay on this topic but I'll refrain from doing so now.

It was an okay read, not something that would come to mind to recommend, though.