Henry Kissinger Has Left His Multi-Million-Dollar Apartment
The bodyguards, the security details The long black cars, the cooing movie stars The expensive dinner jackets tailored just so The best cigars, the rarest of champagnes The jeweled watches and those golden cufflinks The many underlings awaiting his call The fawning bishops at the Al Smith dinners The publishers eager to print his latest screeds The voice that commanded armies and fleets And left presidents quivering in fear
The millions of corpses rotting in the sun
I live in the Managerial Age, in a world of "Admin." The greatest evil is not now done in those sordid "dens of crime" that Dickens loved to paint. It is not done even in concentration camps and labour camps. In those we see its final result. But it is conceived and ordered (moved, seconded, carried, and minuted) in clean, carpeted, warmed, and well-lighted offices, by quiet men with white collars and cut fingernails and smooth-shaven cheeks who do not need to raise their voice. Hence, naturally enough, my symbol for Hell is something like the bureaucracy of a police state or the offices of a thoroughly nasty business concern.