FEATURE (continued)

HUNTING HENRY


Hitchens redeemed himself splendidly among the bluebloods—the "ruling class," as he calls them. The host, an international financier, had even quickly secured a copy of the book on Kissinger, sped-read it, and engaged in a dialogue with his guest over the charges. All very high-toned and, well, civilized.

And why not? Hitchens is an eminently cultured man, a college professor (he teaches two days a week at the New School in New York), a charming and wickedly funny man. He is so much more, uh, presentable than Henry Kissinger, so much more decent, that it only illustrates the chasm of denial that underscores America's celebrity culture. An accused war criminal is an elder statesman, in demand as a commentator at ABC News and friend to all who have clout in the media.

The kick in the head for Hitchens was that Kissinger, like so many of his other well-deserving targets, was saved from having to face his accuser. This is another thing that deeply troubles Hitchens—the lack of response from the targets of his wrath, be they Kissinger, Clinton, or Tom Wolfe. Even conservative hatchet men like Norman Podhoretz won't engage him.

"They don't fucking reply," said Hitchens, sighing wearily. "It's a form of condescension. Now I'm stuck because of these too easily won laurels with this reputation of being a sort of attack dog...I suppose that's better than being a lapdog, although I like to think of myself as a watchdog."

On an earlier occasion, Hitchens told this reporter, "The people I have always despised are those with no more ability or courage or prominence than myself but who seem to be willing to settle for less, not even having been put under any sort of threat or pressure, who are easily conscripted into some foolishness or other...I barely had to turn over in bed. I'm saying this so you don't think I had to sacrifice very much. These were spurs too easily won. It's depressing, in fact, to see how easily they were won."

*

At the signing, in his impromptu remarks, Hitchens gave an extemporaneous snippet of Percy Bysshe Shelley ("I met murder on the way. He had a face like Castlereigh.") and even broke into a snippet from MacBeth when the perfect blue skies outside the bookshop turned dark, dislodging a torrential downpour, replete with thunder and lightning, only to clear and return to blue afterwards.

All of this lent weight to the occasion and probably explains why the targets of Hitchens's wrath don't respond. They realize they are up against a formidable opponent. Ideological hacks and second-rate shouters don't bother them, but someone with the intellectual acumen and grasp of the truth and the facts (not always one and the same) who is amazingly quick on his feet presents an unbeatable challenge. They may be Goliath, but they don't want to risk finding out if Hitchens is David.

As the thunder and lightning boom and crash outside, Hitchens holds up the book on Kissinger, which when folded out to full dust jacket has a face of "the great mammal" Kissinger.

"That face, that face," Hitchens keeps repeating. "How many would you immolate, bomb, or destroy to save that face?"

A collective chill runs through the bookshop, reduced to rapt silence.

"If we could build a wall to commemorate the dead Cambodians, Laotians, and Vietnamese who died as a result of the actions of Kissinger and Nixon, we would die of shame," he said, his eyes nearly welling with tears. "Don't go there unless you are prepared to stay. Some have estimated that as many as three million died as a result of Kissinger's attempt to save face. That face, that face. How many would you immolate, bomb or destroy to save that face?"

Indeed, he charges that Nixon, with Kissinger's aid, illegally influenced the outcome of the Paris Peace Talks just prior to the presidential election in 1968. Kissinger, then a middle-level diplomat at the peace talks, "leaked" information to Nixon, then a lawyer in New York, about the "secret" talks. Nixon, without U.S. government approval or knowledge, then communicated with South Vietnamese leaders that they should hold off the talks until after the election, the promise being that they would get a "better deal" with a Nixon administration.

After securing the victory, Nixon appointed Kissinger "national security advisor," and the two of them expanded the war in Southeast Asia. The combination of these two actions—the secret deal and the secret war—constitute "the wickedest thing that has ever occurred in American history," says Hitchens. "There aren't words to describe the treachery."

It not only led to four more years of war (actually, seven more years, given that the U.S. didn't officially withdraw until 1975) but to 20,000 more American deaths, names that would later be added to that Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. It also put men like Bob Kerrey in place at a time when, with the tacit approval of their commanding officers, they could kill old men, women, and children. The same Kerrey who, 30 years later, has been made into a political potato, to be gnawed on by callow journalists and cravenly draft-dodgers like George W. Bush, Tom DeLay, Dick Cheney, and Dan Quayle—all of whom genuflect in front of Kissinger today but would not risk their lives back then to save his face.

As Nicholas Von Hoffman put it, "Who sent this young man to wage war? A lot of them who did are still alive. Henry Kissinger and Robert McNamara are. But the midges and earwigs of journalism invite them on their TV shows and listen to their lies without so much as a black-fly bite."

Hitchens holds aloft the book, unfolds the covers, and stares at the horrid dyspeptic mask of "that mammal" Kissinger once more. He shouts, "That face, saving that face! How many would you immolate, bomb, or destroy to save that face?"

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