The illusion of originality: On art, authenticity, and authority

Why do we revere an original artwork more than an exact copy—especially when we cannot tell them apart? The preference is not aesthetic. A perfect replica delivers the same visual pleasure. And yet, the original draws the crowds, the hush, the awe. The replica, however precise, feels hollow.

The usual explanation is metaphysical. The original, we are told, carries the touch of the artist’s hand, the memory of its moment of creation. A replica may look the same, but it has no history. It is a ghost without a past, a form without a soul.

But there is another, more unsettling truth: our devotion to originality is often manufactured. Curators, critics, institutions, and media outlets canonize certain artworks and their creators. They tell us which paintings are sacred, which artists divine. And like loyal disciples, we believe. The work becomes iconic not because we see something transcendent in it, but because we are told there is something to see.

Much of what we admire in art is not the image, but the story.

Put a perfect fake in the Louvre, call it authentic, and the world will weep. Call it a forgery, and the spell will break. The eye is passive; the mind is trained. The emotion is not raw—it is rehearsed.

This is not merely a quirk of cultural conditioning. It reveals something deeper: our experience of art is, at heart, religious. We do not just look at art—we believe in it. Like temples and relics, paintings are invested with holiness. Like saints and sages, artists are elevated to mythic stature. We gather before canvases as we once gathered before idols: seeking presence, meaning, and redemption.

Faith is the invisible frame around every masterpiece.

To believe in God requires faith. To believe in art demands the same. The difference is merely liturgical: one faith speaks in silence and incense, the other in velvet ropes and audio guides.

In the end, the original is not just what the artist made. It is what the world has chosen to believe in. The replica shows us an image. The original asks us to kneel.

The heaven on earth that never came: The collapse of capitalist and communist mythologies

For over a century, capitalism and communism have been locked in an ideological war—each claiming to have discovered the unbreakable laws of economics. 

Capitalists extol the invisible hand of the free market, while communists swear by the iron logic of historical materialism. But beneath this clash lies a shared delusion: both claim the authority of physics, while peddling the theology of myth.

Neither ideology has ever existed in pure form. The United States, long hailed as a capitalist utopia, is in fact a sprawling bureaucracy propped up by public spending, subsidies, and corporate bailouts. Silicon Valley owes more to government-funded research than to libertarian genius. 

On the other side, the Soviet Union, the supposed model of command economy, had black markets, informal networks, and enterprise bartering—capitalist impulses simmering beneath a planned surface.

Every economy is a mixed economy. The idea of a "pure" market or a "perfect" plan is a fantasy for the intellectually devout but historically blind.

In truth, capitalism and communism were not just economic systems. They were post-Enlightenment mythologies—secular successors to religious eschatology. Where traditional religions promised paradise in the afterlife, these ideologies promised heaven on earth. Adam Smith and Karl Marx weren’t merely thinkers; they were prophets of rival utopias.

But instead of delivering salvation, both ended in ruin. Capitalism gave us inequality without justice; communism gave us equality without freedom. One built glass towers on the bones of the poor, the other constructed gulags in the name of progress. Both promised light but delivered shadow.

As the Western-led global order unravels, these grand economic doctrines are also losing their grip. The myths of capitalist meritocracy and communist emancipation are no longer shaping the future—they are being shelved with the discarded scriptures of older ages. Capitalism and communism are becoming the Olympus and Asgard of the modern world—abandoned heavens, echoing with broken promises.

Economics was never a hard science. It has always been politics in disguise—a contest over values, priorities, and power. The most influential economists in history were not abstract theorists but advisors to political leaders who dared to imagine and act. Keynes had Roosevelt; Friedman had Reagan. What mattered was not the model, but the moment—and the will to shape it.

“Economic law” is often just political preference with a PhD.

If there is a truth to be salvaged, it is this: There are no economic laws—only economic choices. And every choice is a mirror reflecting the soul of a society.

As the myths of capital and the plan fade into twilight, we may finally begin to ask better questions—not about how to obey economic laws, but about how to build just, humane, and adaptable systems rooted in lived realities, not ideological certainties.

Because in the end, economics doesn’t rule the world—power does. And the sooner we admit that, the better we can wield it.

From Pax Americana to Tax Americana: Debt, Power, and the Fall of American Empire

Empires do not die with a bang—they default. No civilization in history has survived the moment its debts outgrew its power to collect. I first read David Graeber’s Debt: The First 5,000 Years in 2012, drawn to its anthropological exploration of how debt is interwoven with barter, religion, slavery, law, war, and the very notion of civilization. 

Reading it again in the second decade of the twenty-first century, I find it less a historical study and more a prophetic text—a ledger of civilizational rise and inevitable collapse. This time, one revelation cuts through like a blade: the American empire is not merely an empire of influence or innovation. It is, more profoundly and more precariously, an empire of debt. And that empire now trembles on the edge of implosion.

Graeber, with anthropological precision and revolutionary insight, showed that “markets are founded and usually maintained by systematic state violence.” This is not just a reflection on antiquity—it is an indictment of American-style capitalism, which sustains its market supremacy through global militarism and financial coercion. 

The Pax Americana has not been built by trade alone, but by a peculiar alchemy of aircraft carriers and credit ratings, drone strikes and dollar diplomacy. Its economic order is not based on mutual value creation, but on debt enforcement—enabled, reinforced, and policed by overwhelming military force.

America's global dominance, then, is not the supremacy of a benevolent market, but the coercive apparatus of a creditor-state. In the guise of international institutions and alliances, it has institutionalized an imperial form of usury, where debtor nations dance to the tune of Washington’s debt collectors: the IMF, the World Bank, and even the global bond markets. 

“There’s no better way to justify relations founded on violence,” Graeber wrote, “than by reframing them in the language of debt—above all, because it immediately makes it seem that it’s the victim who’s doing something wrong.”

But the problem with debt as a pillar of an empire is that it works only as long as others believe you’ll be able to collect. The moment you can’t—or worse, the moment you no longer have the appetite to enforce your collections—the illusion shatters.

The United States is now approaching that moment. Its national debt has swollen to an astronomical $36 trillion, more than 124% of its GDP—a burden unseen since the aftermath of World War II. Even more staggering is the annual interest bill: over $1 trillion, a sum that eclipses even its formidable military budget. The empire is now paying more to maintain the illusion of solvency than it does to maintain its soldiers, ships, and satellites.

This isn’t merely a fiscal headache—it’s a civilizational migraine. Interest rates are rising as the Federal Reserve tries to tame inflation. But as rates rise, bond prices fall. Global creditors — China, Japan, and others—are dumping the U.S. Treasuries, wary of the risks and the returns. This forces the U.S. to borrow at ever-higher costs, compounding its debt burden. What emerges is a doom loop: debt begets interest, interest demands more debt, and faith in the dollar—America’s most potent weapon—begins to erode.

Without the ability to militarily enforce debt obligations on other nations, America risks losing its access to cheap, endless capital. And without that capital, the machinery that keeps its domestic politics lubricated—entitlements, subsidies, corporate bailouts, and military largesse—begins to grind and sputter. An empire cannot long survive when it must choose between paying its creditors and pacifying its citizens.

Every empire has its mythology. For Rome, it was the divine order of the Caesars. For Britain, the civilizing mission. For America, it is the sanctity of the dollar and the inevitability of growth under its capitalist system. But myths are fragile things. The moment they are questioned, they unravel. Once the dollar is no longer seen as the world’s ultimate store of value—once its debt instruments are no longer treated as safe havens but as liabilities—the edifice will crack.

India, like most Asian nations, lies within the blast radius of this implosion. As the American empire turns inward to grapple with its own insolvency, the geopolitical space it occupied may fragment into chaos—or opportunity. We must be ready to navigate a world where Washington no longer writes the rules, and where economic sovereignty is earned, not inherited.

In Debt: The First 5,000 Years, Graeber reminded us that debt is not just an economic arrangement—it is a moral narrative. And that narrative is beginning to collapse under its own contradictions. When an empire survives by indebting the world while enriching itself, it eventually loses the credibility to moralize. And when it loses the power to compel, its debts become just numbers—unpaid, unpayable, and unheeded.

This is not the fall of Rome. It is something more insidious: the slow-motion unraveling of an empire that bet its soul on compound interest. The world must now ask: What comes after the empire of IOUs?

Truth and reason didn't build civilizations - Fictions and lies did

“Truth alone triumphs”—Satyameva Jayate—stands enshrined beneath the national emblem of India, echoing an ancient Vedic ideal. But while this maxim has long inspired sages, reformers, and seekers, history often offers a more sobering tale. The triumph of truth, in the political or philosophical domain, is not a guaranteed destiny but a rare anomaly.

Across epochs, the victors of intellectual and political struggles have rarely been those aligned with what may be called “ultimate truth.” Instead, power has tended to favour those who wield illusions with conviction, who package complex realities into consumable myths, who wrap propaganda in the sacred garb of certainty. 

Civilizations rise not on foundations of transparent truths but on carefully woven tapestries of belief—fictions crafted so meticulously that they come to feel more real than reality itself.

This is not an indictment of humanity, but a reflection on its limits. Human beings, bounded by finite cognition, subjective perception, and cultural conditioning, lack the instruments to perceive ultimate truth in its fullness. Our sensory tools filter experience through lenses shaped by language, memory, emotion, and ideology. What we call “truth” is often but a mirror of our fears and desires, polished by history, inherited from myth, and burnished by power.

How then can one fight for truth, if truth itself is inaccessible? What does it mean to defend an idea that remains undefined, ungraspable, and endlessly contested? These are not merely epistemological questions; they are moral, civilizational, and political.

The great political ideologies—monarchism, liberalism, communism, fascism, nationalism—did not emerge from the patient pursuit of objective truth. They emerged from emotional energies, sacred stories, historical grievances, and the persuasive genius of those who could simplify chaos into narrative. The same holds true for many philosophical systems. The so-called “age of reason” did not displace mythology; it rebranded it. The Enlightenment merely replaced religious myth with secular myth—progress, liberty, rational man—as its new articles of faith.

Even the loftiest civilizations, those celebrated for their wisdom, order, and law, have owed more to their ability to construct shared fictions than to the presence of objective truth. Rome was not built on fact, but on virtus. The Chinese Mandate of Heaven was a metaphysical doctrine, not a verifiable contract. Indian civilization, for all its spiritual profundity, transmitted its deepest truths not through philosophical dialectic alone, but through stories—Itihasa, Purana, Katha—where the line between fact and meaning was consciously blurred.

To say that civilization is the product of lies may sound nihilistic. But perhaps the word “lie” is too crude. What we truly inhabit are useful fictions—constructs that provide coherence, continuity, and a sense of collective direction. A fiction becomes civilizational when it is infused with ethical aspiration and metaphysical depth. When these fictions lose their ethical anchor, they decay into propaganda.

The task, then, is not to denounce the role of narrative, mythology, or belief in shaping society, but to become more conscious of their power. In a world where ultimate truth remains elusive, perhaps the higher calling is to craft noble fictions—ones that elevate, rather than manipulate; that harmonize, rather than divide.

In the end, truth may not always prevail. But the stories we choose to believe in will continue to shape the world—more enduringly, perhaps, than truth itself ever could.

The four sons of Shiva: A cosmic symphony of dharma, power & grace

In the vast ocean of Hindu cosmology, where the sacred and the symbolic coalesce, the sons of Shiva emerge as luminous archetypes—divine expressions of human aspiration, cosmic order, and transcendental truth. Kartikeya, Ganesha, Ayyappa, and Hanuman—each born of divine intent, each embodying a facet of dharma, each carving a distinct spiritual path in the complex terrain of Sanatana Dharma.

Drawn from the mythic streams of the Puranas and the Itihasas—texts that are not mere chronicles of the past but living commentaries on existence—these four sons are not simply deities in a pantheon. They are principles. They are mirrors. They are maps of the inner and outer worlds.

Kartikeya: The Eternal Warrior and Youth

Kartikeya, known also as Skanda or Murugan, is the commander of the celestial armies—the youthful god whose sinews carry the strength of tapas, whose eyes blaze with the fire of clarity. He is the archetype of the warrior-philosopher, born not merely to conquer but to uphold dharma in an age of adharma. Associated with the peacock, which subdues the serpent of desire, and the rooster, symbol of valor and vigilance, Kartikeya’s iconography is a metaphysical language in itself.

His six heads—born of his miraculous conception from the sparks of Shiva’s seed—represent not only the six directions but the omniscient vision of one who sees beyond time. He is celibate, not as a denial of life, but as an affirmation of single-pointed focus—a yogic force clad in armor.

Ganesha: The God of Beginnings and Remover of Obstacles

If Kartikeya is the fire of youthful action, Ganesha is the earth of profound wisdom. The elephant-headed god, born of Parvati’s longing and animated by Shiva’s breath, stands at the threshold of all beginnings. He is the guardian of portals, the lord of thresholds—symbolically, of every decision, initiation, and undertaking.

Corpulent yet agile in mind, childlike yet the wisest of the gods, Ganesha wrote the Mahabharata as Vyasa dictated, demanding that the sage speak without pause. Thus, in him, intellect and intuition merge. The serpent girdling his belly and the broken tusk in his hand are not ornaments—they are symbols of restraint and sacrifice. His vehicle, the humble mouse, reminds us that even desire must be guided by discrimination.

Ganesha’s iconography is feminine in its fertility and masculine in its wisdom. He is the one who teaches that prosperity (artha) and pleasure (kama) are not sins if pursued under the guidance of righteousness (dharma) and the aspiration for liberation (moksha).

Ayyappa: The Synthesis of Divine Energies

Ayyappa, the tiger-riding lord of Sabarimala, is the rare deity who arises from the union of Shiva and the demon-slaying feminine energy of Vishnu in his Mohini form. He is the very embodiment of paradox resolved—a child of both masculine asceticism and enchanting illusion.

Worshipped as Hariharaputra, the son of Hari (Vishnu) and Hara (Shiva), Ayyappa is born of union yet remains celibate. He is beautiful, balanced, and unwavering. His austerities are fierce, his dharma is unshakable, and his mission is clear: to slay Mahishi, the demon of ego and chaos. Ayyappa, like Hanuman, shows that the divine is not merely to be adored, but lived through tapas—inner heat, discipline, and sacrifice.

Hanuman: The Devoted Self, the Indestructible Spirit

To speak of Hanuman is to invoke the living ideal of bhakti—devotion that knows no fear, no fatigue, and no failure. The monkey god, born of Vayu, the wind, is not only the most powerful warrior in the Ramayana, he is also the subtlest yogi. His heart beats only to the name of Rama, yet he possesses the might to move mountains—literally and metaphorically.

Celibate by vow and ascetic by nature, Hanuman is also a trickster, a scholar, and a strategist. He does not conquer through pride but through humility. Like Shiva himself, he dwells in liminality—on the boundaries between human and divine, servant and master, form and formlessness.

Tapa and Rasa: Two Streams of One Dharma

Together, Kartikeya, Ganesha, Ayyappa, and Hanuman represent the fullness of human striving—tapa (the discipline of inner fire) and rasa (the taste of life’s pleasures), both embraced without contradiction. The dharmic way is not a rejection of the world, but a harmonisation of the world’s myriad calls.

Kartikeya and Hanuman, the ascetic warriors, guard us from outer threats and inner delusions. They are the kshatriyas of the spirit. Ganesha and Ayyappa, the balancers of prosperity and purity, guide us through the labyrinth of material life with the light of insight. They are the sages of worldly life.

Sons Not Just of Shiva, but of the Self

In a deeper sense, these sons of Shiva are not separate from the aspirant—they are states of being, potentialities of the self. As we move through life, battling our demons, seeking wisdom, managing duties, and yearning for release, we are Kartikeya on the battlefield, Ganesha at the threshold, Ayyappa in penance, and Hanuman in devotion.

Thus, in venerating them, we are not bowing to the material representations of divinity, but awakening the gods within.

In search of worthy adversaries: The strategic poverty of seeing Pakistan as rival

“To be successful, you need friends; and to be very successful, you need enemies.” ~ Sidney Sheldon, The Other Side of Midnight

There is a deep, almost brutal truth in Sidney Sheldon’s aphorism—one that transcends the realm of individual ambition and finds resonance in the destinies of nations. 

History is replete with the paradox that great civilisations, far from rising in tranquil isolation, ascend in the shadow of formidable adversaries. Adversity, when it takes the shape of a worthy rival, becomes not a curse but a crucible of national greatness.

A nation without enemies is like a muscle untested, an idea unchallenged, a spirit untempered. Complacency sets in. Intellectual life becomes decorative rather than generative. Ethics yield to convenience. The dream of permanence lulls the people into an opiate of false security. Culture becomes exhibition rather than essence, and politics devolves into performance rather than purpose. Peace, when prolonged in the absence of threat or tension, does not refine—it decays.

History offers ample testimony. The Roman Republic rose not by idle peace but in fierce contest with Carthage. The American resolve was forged through existential rivalry with the British Empire, later tested by the ideological juggernaut of the Soviet Union. Israel, a nation surrounded by hostility, has survived and innovated because it could never afford to rest. China, in its long civilizational march, has repeatedly redefined itself in the face of foreign domination and internal implosion.

The Nietzschean dictum—“What does not kill me makes me stronger”—rings truer at the scale of nations than it ever could for individuals. Strength is not inherited; it is cultivated, often at great cost, through confrontation with those who threaten to undo you.

And herein lies India’s peculiar predicament.

Seven decades after independence, India continues to define itself against Pakistan—an entity that has steadily slid into a vortex of economic implosion, political instability, and ideological extremism. This fixation, this psychological tethering to a state that has failed in almost every metric of modern governance, limits India’s own self-conception. It’s akin to a scholar obsessing over the envy of an illiterate neighbour.

India’s real challenges lie not in the fires across the western border, but in the shifting tectonics of global power: in China’s muscular expansionism, in America’s shifting strategic calculus, in the weaponization of global trade and technology, and in the race for control over critical resources and AI futures. While we stay transfixed by the chronic nuisance of a collapsed rival, the giants of the world are redrawing the rules of engagement.

To envision itself as a leading power, India must choose adversaries that reflect its potential, not its past. Pakistan is no longer the mirror in which India should see its reflection—it is a relic. The true tests of India’s strength, maturity, and global standing will emerge from how it contends with the economic might of China, the technological dominance of the West, and the turbulence of multipolar competition.

This does not mean inviting conflict—it means embracing complexity. It means recognizing that national greatness is not forged in the echo chamber of self-congratulation, nor in rivalry with the weak, but in difficult negotiations, strategic deterrence, and robust defence against those who possess real power.

A country is never sovereign unless it controls its narrative of threat and ambition. And to do that, it must reframe its enemies—not with belligerence, but with clarity. Greatness requires resistance. Resistance requires adversaries worth respecting. And respect, in geopolitics, is born not in shared history, but in the anticipation of future contests.

India stands at an inflection point. To rise, it must stop shadow-boxing with ghosts and begin grappling with giants. That is the paradox of power: the stronger you grow, the more daunting your enemies must become. Anything less is not worthy of India’s civilizational inheritance—nor its aspirations.

The scum also rises: The dangerous myth of civilizational superiority

It is often said, with culinary simplicity, that the cream rises to the top. But so, invariably, does the scum. This adage—drawn from the behavior of broth—carries a sobering truth when applied to human affairs.

Success does not distinguish the virtuous from the vile. Sometimes the noble ascend to prominence; more often, the cunning and the corrupt claw their way to the summit. Thus, to judge the character of a person merely by the height they have reached in the social or political order is to mistake outcome for essence. The most revered figures of an era may be moral failures in disguise, while those who languish in obscurity may possess the inner life of saints.

The same paradox holds true for civilizations. We are habitually conditioned to associate power with virtue—believing that a civilization that achieved global dominance must have been superior in intellect, moral clarity, or political brilliance. But history offers little support for such optimism. Many civilizations that rose to prominence did so not because they embodied justice, wisdom, or cultural refinement, but because they mastered the brutal logic of conquest, extraction, and domination.

In fact, the world has seen more than one high civilization—deeply ethical, artistically advanced, and intellectually fertile—crushed under the boots of less cultivated but more aggressive invaders.

It is an error, then, to conflate civilizational success with civilizational virtue. Power does not imply wisdom, nor does victory confer value. The Roman Empire, for all its legal, philosophical and engineering brilliance, was built on systemic slavery, blood sports and imperial exploitation. Timur, the scythe-wielding founder of the Timurid Empire, carved his legacy through massacres and terror—his empire vast, but his moral vision void. Nazi Germany achieved swift technical and military advances, yet its moral depravity remains without parallel. 

Success, whether military or economic, must always be measured against the means by which it is attained and the ends toward which it is directed.

Worse still, the historical record is often an unreliable witness. The origins of civilizations are embedded in mythology and nationalistic self-narration. Every civilization seeks to enshrine its past in tales of divine favor, civilizing missions, and righteous triumphs. But these stories are rarely neutral. They are embroidered by victors, censored by regimes, and propagated through generations until they ossify into orthodoxy. What is remembered is what serves power; what is forgotten is often what mattered most.

The truth, therefore, lies not in outcomes, but in essence. To understand a civilization, we must look not at the size of its armies, the scale of its monuments, the size of its economy, but at its metaphysical compass—its conception of justice, its ability to self-criticize, its vision of the place of humanity in the universe, and its openness to transcendental truths. These are harder to measure, harder still to preserve, and almost impossible to resurrect once lost. But they are the true indicators of a civilization’s soul.

To believe otherwise is to mistake surface for substance—a perennial error in the reading of history. It is to applaud the ascent of scum while mistaking it for cream. In our time, as in times past, discernment—not triumph—is the mark of wisdom.

The illusion of greatness: How Kissinger’s chosen leaders served American power, not their own nations

In Leadership: Six Studies in World Strategy, Henry Kissinger offers a meditation on political power through the lives of six leaders he deems exemplary: Konrad Adenauer, Charles de Gaulle, Anwar Sadat, Lee Kuan Yew, Margaret Thatcher, and Richard Nixon.

“Leaders think and act at the intersection of two axes,” Kissinger writes with characteristic gravitas, “between the past and the future; and between the abiding values and aspirations of those they lead. They must balance what they know—drawn from the past—with what they intuit about the future, which is necessarily conjectural.” Leadership, then, in his view, is a strategic act of navigation—part memory, part foresight, and wholly attuned to power.

And yet, as one traces the arc of these six careers, an unsettling irony emerges. Kissinger extols them as visionaries, yet their actions, far from realizing national resurgence, arguably facilitated the erosion of their own countries’ sovereignty and influence—often in ways that benefited the United States more than their homelands.

Under Adenauer, West Germany relinquished the hope of strategic autonomy, aligning itself firmly with the Atlantic bloc and embracing a tutelary role under American and British influence. De Gaulle, for all his rhetoric of “grandeur” and independence, laid the foundations of a France increasingly beholden to liberal internationalism and domestic progressivism—a far cry from the civilizational confidence he sought to restore.

Anwar Sadat’s strategic pivot to the United States—sealed by the Camp David Accords—recast Egypt’s foreign policy and won him Western acclaim. But in abandoning Soviet alignment and pan-Arab nationalism, he entrenched economic dependence and eroded Egypt’s regional stature. The liberalization that followed brought instability without real reform. His assassination in 1981 marked not just the end of his rule, but the eclipse of Egypt’s postcolonial sovereignty.

Lee Kuan Yew is the outlier—a leader who resisted Western ideological imposition. Yet, in aligning Singapore closely with global capital and, later, with China’s rise, he created a tightly controlled but externally entangled city-state—prosperous, stable, but geopolitically vulnerable. Yew’s Singapore is not sovereign in the full civilizational sense.

Margaret Thatcher is hailed as the architect of modern British conservatism, yet her legacy reveals a stark inversion. By embracing market absolutism, she dismantled the industrial backbone of the nation—coal, steel, manufacturing—leaving vast regions hollowed out. Her war on organised labour fractured the working class, not to restore national strength but to usher in an era of financial dominance dictated by transatlantic capital. Far from reclaiming British sovereignty, Thatcher bound the UK more tightly to the American imperium. By the close of her tenure, Britain had ceased to act as a sovereign power and was reduced to a “vassal state” within a US-led global order—a nation trading its civilisational agency for economic orthodoxy.

Nixon, of course, is the anomaly—a patriot by Kissinger’s own standard. His boldest move, the abolition of the gold standard in 1971, severed the dollar from material backing, allowing the U.S. to export inflation while importing real goods. In doing so, he laid the foundation for the dollar’s ascendancy as the world’s default reserve currency—transforming it into America’s most effective instrument of global hegemony. Henceforth, the dollar was no longer just a currency—it became the United States' primary export and its most potent geopolitical weapon.

The subtext of Kissinger’s analysis thus becomes more legible: leadership, in his moral universe, is measured not by the fulfilment of national destinies but by the ability to integrate one's country into the architecture of American-led order. The statesman, in Kissinger’s telling, is great not when he preserves national civilizational integrity, but when he serves—wittingly or otherwise—the imperatives of the Pax Americana.

History, in this light, is less a source of wisdom than a convenient stage. For Kissinger, the true statesman is not the one who liberates his people from decline, but the one who—knowingly or not—facilitates the consolidation of American power. His “studies in strategy” are less about global leadership than about the architecture of the empire.