I’ve spent the last decade much like some Hamlet wandering through a T.S.Eliot poem distracted from distraction by distraction, not sure what to do next, all antic and melancholy at the same time. I keep a low profile, and yet no matter how I try to avoid the pressure points of re-visited trauma, I always seem to take the wrong turn down some labyrinthine corridor of consciousness. Most recently, I detected a peculiar sound and turning right looked into the semi-dark of a chapel chamber to see Henry Kissinger on his knees, but not in supplication to some Redeemer, asking forgiveness for all the bad karma caused by his machinations – stealing liberty, poisoning the rule of law – no, on his knees now ravishing presumed First Lady MacClinton, the sound a slippyslosh of jowls and giblets in violin-like vibrato. Two aphrodisiacs at work.
Book Review: World Order by Henry Kissinger
Yes, Henry Kissinger is back, kneepads and all. That’s the thing about K. He’s always coming back: the Cathedral homunculus of a flying buttress, or a fat Keebler cookie elf, or the nose-picking intellectual giant speaking what Eric Schmidt called his “charming German.” When I’d almost forgotten him, up he pops in Harper’s magazine, the lead piece in February and March 2001, being excoriated, in the trial docks of the late Christopher Hitchens’ mind, for treason, war crimes and outrages against humanity. There was no reasonable doubt left after I’d finished reading; I can tell you that.