The Total Collapse of America’s Anglo-Saxon Ruling Class, part 2
A ruling class which no longer rules; but scrapes, bows, gives its daughters to its enemies, and does absolutely anything to hold on to its wealth.
by Cholly Bilderberger
AT THE CLOSE of the first part of this series I described Tom Grenham’s betrayal of his gardener, Jim Phillips, in a moment of crisis because of Jim’s racial attitude. There was more to it later. Some months after, Emily, Tom’s wife, told me that “someone” had bailed Jim out of jail and cleared the charges against him, and paid his daughter’s hospital bill. (ILLUSTRATION: John F. Kennedy, right, meets a woman at a New York party hosted by Jewish media executive Arthur Krim)
“We don’t know who did it,” she said, “but it certainly wasn’t very fair to us. Or to Princeton.”
“It was done facetiously in the name of the Princeton Alumni Fund,” she said distastefully.
Phillips came to you people for help, I thought, and you refused him. If Sammy Davis, Jr., had come you would have fallen all over yourselves. Now we — you and I — sit here with a lie between us which can’t be straightened out, because the gulf between us has become too great, whether you know it or not.
She went on to tell me of marvelous doings at Bryn Mawr, her college. The number of Blacks and other minorities was increasing, ERA was nearing one hundred percent approval, and the lesbian contingent was showing gains. (“They can solicit for membership in their club, just like any other campus organization.”) Last week she and other interested alumnae had lunched with some of the lesbians and … on and on, tremendous good works in the unspoken cause of protecting stock shares.
As she went on, I imagined a young girl in her first year at Bryn Mawr, lesbian solicitation flyer in hand, going to some advisor for guidance.
“I found it in my box,” she says hesitantly, “asking me to join this lesbian organization. And yesterday one of them came to my room — a big, aggressive girl — and tried to make me join. Can … ‘they’ do that?”
The silver-haired woman across from her, the very model of concerned benevolence, asks softly, “My dear, you don’t believe in democracy?”
“Well … yes.”
“Don’t you think sexual preference is as much a matter of choice as anything else? As much as any other activity?”
“Well … not really.”
“You don’t?” The old lady smiles a wonderful smile, filled with faint amusement at the ignorance of youth, faint exasperation at having to take the time to explain the obvious. “Would you have us deny the right of membership solicitation to any other group? To the photography club? The archery club?”
“Uh … not as long as they were … you know.”
“No, I don’t know.” The eyes hardening just a bit, the voice sharpening.
“I mean, you can’t call sex the same as photography.”
“Of course not.” A touch of prurience in the smile. “At least I hope not. But we aren’t talking about that difference. We’re talking about rights.” Silence. “Don’t you see the distinction?”
“Well . . . I guess so.”
All to protect alumnae stock shares. What an effort; what a stupendous chain of cause and effect.
The more the members of the upper class become, in themselves, the problem, the more they try to put the blame elsewhere. Mainly on those who don’t appreciate their efforts to please the minorities and keep the stock market stable. They are not true leaders, of course, in the sense that true leaders show the way to some ideal, however arguable. (The minorities are leaders in that definition, because they do have aims, no matter how unpalatable. And they are not only minority leaders, but, by default, the leaders of the Majority as well.) But the upper class does have influence and control of a kind. If America is seen as a vast intellectual prison camp set up by the minorities, the upper class are the guards and trustees, the rulers of the inmates within the walls.
They are not that conscious of their position, naturally enough, and will deny it hotly if questioned. For example, if I ask one of the Grenhams, “Is it possible that a group in the United States could have an outside allegiance stronger than that to this country?”, he immediately terminates the conversation, usually by changing the subject. He realizes that such a question can only have an affirmative answer, leading to a Socratic chain of questions and ending with, “Why do you put up with it?” The answer, “Because I am welded to my stock shares and don’t care about anything else,” is too embarrassing, and so it is best to avoid letting such a line get started. The same is true of, “ls there any doubt in your mind that if irrefutable proof of Black intellectual inferiority or Israeli chicanery were available, it would be suppressed, not only by the liberals but by the so-called conservatives?” (That irrefutable proof already exists is beside the point of the question.)
The entire upper class is frozen in this rabbit-like attitude. So is the entire managerial class. One may say that everyone in this country with an income of more than $30,000 a year is so paralyzed. There are those who pretend to be exceptions — Bill Buckley, Louis Auchincloss, Garry Mills, Phil Crane, Ronald Reagan, etc. — but they aren’t, because they are committed to this society, which means they are committed to minority domination in fact if not verbally. They do not have the ability — as did the leaders of the American Revolution — to think in terms other than those of their society. For one thing, where would they be in another society? (Perhaps, conversely, the American Revolutionists had outgrown their society and could only live in another, which was why they created it; they weren’t being “brave,” but practical in a cold-blooded evolutionary sense.)
The entire overseeing class (upper plus managerial) knows how bad things are. When they see at firsthand or read of working class objections to minority control, the breakdown in education, etc., they know those objections are entirely valid. But like prison guards denying complaints about conditions which they know are insufferable in order to hold their jobs, they tell the working class that all is well (and nod approvingly at the docile return to the television sets, the perfect tranquilizer). Ashamed of their cowardice, they then go further and seek to break the spirit of any worker who dares to criticize. At the higher levels — David Rockefeller and McGeorge Bundy and John Galbraith — they take pleasure in seducing any innocent with reservations into minority service, much as they themselves were seduced. Above all, they don’t care — about self, country, God, anything; they have sold themselves, and, like all self-betrayers, the only thing left is to get others to betray themselves. They eat their young and smack their lips afterwards.
They can keep the far more numerous working class in order by superior organization, just as the Mafia and the Jews do. Working class outbreaks to date have been mild and usually localized, so the full weight of the overseer class can be brought to bear. In addition to this weight, the working class is held down by the inertia of their own young, and the fact that no revolt has ever been staged amid material prosperity. And no more than their guards can the working class conceive of a society other than their own, the dream which always has to precede the action. Nevertheless, it is surprising that there is so little resistance and analysis. The silence is deafening.
The situation is unique, without precedent in human history, and before any individual or group could begin to resist, even to dream of resistance, he or it would have to be able to: understand the produce-and-consume takeover from 1865 on and the total slavery of all Americans to it; the impossibility of any solution under the produce-and-consume system; the perverse strength of the overseer class; live intellectually beyond the confines of this society and not care a fig about its collapse (wish for it, in fact, as the only way life can begin anew); not be afraid of any of the agonies of a collapsing society, including civil war; the fear which swamped England after Cromwell and this country after 1865; think always in terms of post-collapse action rather than present action in the framework of this society, which is futile by definition.
Rather a tall order; so tall, in fact, that it is no wonder most if not all Americans shy away from it. Ours is a system which claims it welcomes change, but it defines change as variations on produce-and-consume — usually who must produce and who gets to consume — and will not permit any change in the process itself. So even the smallest process change — in local education, for example — is impossible without changing the whole system. But the system has so much inertia that it cannot be changed. It can only be outwaited, like a tidal wave or a hurricane. The complexity of such resistance is intimidating, but can be put in perspective: if a sufficient number of us cared, really cared — for ourselves, our children, our country, for anything real — the intimidation could be overcome and the complexity mastered. At bottom is the fact that we don’t care: a hundred years of slavery to produce-and-consume has destroyed that quality in all classes.
Some years ago, in Cologne, I was sitting in a sidewalk cafe on a fine summer evening watching the crowds going home. The young executives swinging along, the pretty girls headed for their showers, their dinners (with an earnest husband or lover, a good bottle of wine), their concerts. How many times had they listened to Beethoven, drunk the good wine, made love, washed their stockings out, painted their nails? They were, it came to me, repetition people; they had been going through the same blend of work and music and food and intercourse and sleep for a long time. They were attractive, yes, but there was something empty about them, too. They had gone through — or their forebears had — so many wars and general disasters that they were drained. They no longer cared about anything but the form of life; they didn’t believe in anything which involved caring, because caring always led to defeat. Americans — I thought at that time — were coarser and less organized socially and culturally, but they didn’t live each day as a repetition of the last. We Americans may be grotesque, I told myself, but we aren’t that boring, because we still care. Now we no longer care, so we have become wholly repetitious in our own way, as incapable as Europeans of breaking the insidious, hypnotic rhythm of repetition (which can only be broken by caring), and just as boring, if not more so.
Given the common absence of caring, the only difference between the working and overseer classes is that the former suspect how bad it is but don’t want to know, because that would spoil the joys of the new Ford; whereas the latter do know how bad it is but don’t want to admit it, because that would pull the props out from under the whole system and they would be no better off than their workers. The overseers are quite aware of the cowardice of the working class, and have contempt for people who put up with such overseers. Every overseer who happens to hear a worker complain about the minorities thinks: 1) You’re right, so much more so than you know; 2) What a fool you are for not doing something about it; I would, if I were you — what do you have to lose? The overseer learned this attitude from a superior of his, who learned it from a superior of his, etc., the ladder extending finally into the very top rank of bank presidents, lawyers, politicians, board chairmen, etc. It is not spelled out clearly, of course, but taught by implication, inference and example. No one in the overseer class understands it as clearcut policy — which is why it can be denied so sincerely — but it is a policy, all the same, and all overseers follow it assiduously.
The situation does have its comic moments, like any other aspect of this hilarious country. One of the most comic was the career of Jack Kennedy who covered all aspects of the overseer policy, beginning as a green trainee and ending as an accomplished trainer. His father, Joe, never really understood the policy; like any tough, crude moneymaker of a half-century ago, he saw America as a country and Americans as people, exploitable but real and with a future. Jack, sensitive and perceptive as a boy, was given a different education at Choate and Harvard and points beyond. He got into the core of socialite cynicism and learned how people at that core looked at things, whether they admitted it or not: no country, no people, no future. Eat, drink, and be merry — out of sight of the peasants.
Jack crossed this attitude with that of his ambitious if naive father. He pleased Joe by getting into politics and, finally, the White House, but he never took it seriously. With the possible exception of Abraham Lincoln, he was the first President who didn’t believe in anything. Except being as cheerful and witty as possible under any circumstances, he obeyed the insider’s code. I don’t mean to imply that he shared his disbelief in the American system openly with anyone. In bits and pieces, perhaps, but not wholly.
On the other hand, it always seemed to me that he gave away that disbelief to any close observer every time he opened his mouth. My impression of him was of a mischievous, willful and charming boy who was constantly amazed that anyone could take him seriously. I could very well imagine his saying to himself, “It can’t be this easy; they can’t be this dumb.” And the more tongue-in-cheek he became, the more they believed in him. The socialites were right; these people (or non-people) would swallow anything. Even his family fell for it!
After he became President, the farce shifted into top gear. I was privileged to watch some of it, and considered Jack one of the finest natural comedians I’d ever seen. Consider, for example, what he did with John Galbraith, and that was only one among many. Once he was President, Jack declared he wanted only the best around him and sent to Harvard for Galbraith and quite a few others (surely a broad stroke of comedy at the very outset). Galbraith arrived, touchy, a player at socialism with a large bank account, vain, dying to learn about which fork to use, perfect meat for Jack. When they sat down across from each other, Jack was the insider, and the overseer’s overseer, and Galbraith a low-grade overseer, barely graduating from the working ranks, despite all airs. In addition, Jack was mischievous, with the socialite-trained streak of casual boyish cruelty, and he set Galbraith up. First came the talk about the “job” to be done, brusque and man-to-man, and then the turn to lighter matters. Jack lifted the curtain on coming goodies: candlelight gourmet dinners on the White House lawn, the return of elegance and high intellectual activity in the Jeffersonian style, Jackie’s soft tones in the golden twilight, Camelot and fame and money for all. Galbraith was drooling when he left.
Then, step by step over the next few months, came the sordid underside of all that fun. Jack was receiving him in his bedroom, a dishevelled but luscious tart in hand; Bobby screaming obscenities in conferences and revealing a guttersnipe’s lack of scruples in any tight situation; the Kennedy connections with the underworld, with show business, and with rundown European aristocrats and American socialite drifters … the cheap decadence of the whole charade. Jack’s manner toward him changed, too. Now he knew that Galbraith’s eyes were opened, and that the latter couldn’t help but wonder if the helm of state was safe in such grubby hands. By manner and treatment he said, “What are you going to do about it? I’ll tell you: nothing. You’re going to eat it because you’re one of us now.” Not implied nastily, of course, that wasn’t Jack’s style, but in the friendliest and most amusing and seductive way.
The dilemma posed to Galbraith was the same one posed to Jack himself years before. Once you knew how it really worked, how casual and indifferent and sleazy it all was, what were you to do? Walk away and tell everyone? But who would care? All any American wanted was to join the party. No one cared how corrupt it was — that only made it more desirable. If you left, there were plenty waiting to take your place. Jack had made a joke of Galbraith, of his work, even of Harvard; even, finally, of the country. But wasn’t that a sort of honesty, because the country was a joke, wasn’t it? Only fools took it seriously. Insiders smiled to themselves when a worker tried to put some order into it — by opposing busing, for example — and shamed the worker by a variety of tested ploys. What the worker didn’t understand was that busing was correct just because it was silly, like rock music and books by Saul Bellow. When the whole thrust is toward silliness, it can’t be reversed. The truly serious man realizes that, and, if he is going to be active at all, pushes the silliness one step farther. It takes a fine touch, particularly at the very top, to do that without overdoing it, but Jack had a very fine touch, indeed. He was obvious to close observers, as noted, but he would have been obvious to them no matter what he did. To at least ninety per cent of the populace he was quite real. Even most of those who voted against him thought he was “sincere.”
I liked Jack because he made such asses of the Galbraiths, Schlesingers, Bundys, etc. He led them by their own cupidity and ambition into grotesquely humiliating situations, postures they can only recall with deep embarrassment, if at all. They look intact on the surface, but actually they are ruined because they have had to know themselves for what they are. Jack was ruined in the same way at a tenderer age, but he was healthier and thought that only cleared the decks. They are not so honest. Jack also passed ruination along to every egotist he met, a subtle business rather beyond them. Atone remove he did the same for most of the country. In a way, he gave the overseer’s show away (I particularly liked that) to anyone able to comprehend the information, surely a more interesting way to play the game out than moving in tight-lipped fear from the club to the office and back again. I am sure the only surprise he had was that so few people were able or willing to understand the message. But perhaps he anticipated that, too, and didn’t mind playing to an empty house.
* * *
Source: Instauration magazine, July 1979