“Holbrooke? Yes, I knew him. I can’t get his voice out of my head.”
That narrator’s voice is George Packer’s opening gambit, his way of saying in the first few sentences, “I know what you think this book is, but it’s actually several shades darker and many layers deeper than that.” It doesn’t seem to be Packer’s voice per se — more like that of a composite character fashioned from any number of cynical, burned-out cases commiserating in a dive in Logan Circle; they grew up spellbound by the romance of “The Year of Living Dangerously” and decided to become foreign correspondents, only to find there is nothing glamorous or romantic about stumbling into the hastily abandoned mass graves of Srebrenica, or killing time deep in the Green Zone in Baghdad while 20-year-old kids were getting themselves blown up in the alleyways of Fallujah.
From the first pages of “Our Man,” that mesmeric voice propels you through the early idealism and eventual collapse of a peripheral character to history — not a great man, but one who wanted so desperately to be great and nearly was. Holbrooke, as captivating as he can be (his diary, excerpted at length here on multiple occasions, is remarkably clear and insightful), is not really the point of the book. His life is a vehicle, a device, a metaphor. In the hands of a lesser writer, this conceit might have overextended itself into a goulash of ‘end of the American-led liberal order’ cliches.
But Packer is that rare creature of the establishment who hasn’t lost his allergy to such cliches. He opts instead for a brutally frank and clinical examination of the actions and internal contradictions that shaped American statecraft during its half-century astride the world, from the end of the Second World War right up to the new millennium. Holbrooke was there for much of it, starting in his twenties in the rice paddies of South Vietnam, trying his best to use American stockpiles of bulgar wheat, an inferior staple grain, to gain leverage over local village leaders. To his credit, it only took him a few years in the tropics to grasp that Vietnam was unwinnable, least of all by the techniques McNamara and Rostow and Westmoreland were agitating for.
McNamara later recapitualted his disastrous tenure at the Pentagon in a memoir with the truncated title “In Retrospect,” I guess the subtextual second clause being “We Fucked Up.” Everyone now knows Vietnam was a calamity, but what is less remembered is that in the early years of the war, before Operation Rolling Thunder and the Tet Offensive, the American civilian officials in Saigon, in their thousands, lived a charmed existence, levitating above roiling tensions that manifested in the 1963 self-immolation of a Buddhist monk on a busy street corner. Yeah, in retrospect, it is outrageous that such an act barely seemed to register amid the daily tennis matches, the lavish embassy parties, the thousands of cables urgently fired off to Washington, which gave them their sense of noble purpose. (Donald Rumsfeld claimed in an interview with Errol Morris to have written a million or so such cables over the course of his own career, equally blind in his prodigious output.) This was our professional diplomatic class, by turns idealistic and self-absorbed, serving its own purpose and that of the greater good, to the extent it could fuse the two into the same thing.
If anything, our men in Washington were even further removed from reality. In the haunting words of Tony Lake, Holbrooke’s close friend, rival, and eventual enemy:
“We remember, more clearly than we care to, the well carpeted stillness of those government offices where some of the Pentagon Papers were first written. The efficient staccato of the typewriter, the antiseptic whiteness of nicely margined memoranda, the affable, authoritative and always urbane men who wrote them—all of it is a spiritual as well as geographic world apart from piles of decomposing bodies in a ditch outside Hue or a village bombed in Laos, the burn ward of a children’s hospital in Saigon, or even a cemetery or veteran’s hospital here.”
One of Holbrooke’s virtues as a literary device is his embodiment of the quintessentially American mixture of idealism and egotism that so defines our foreign policy. He was voracious in his appetites for the most expensive foods and the toniest of zip codes. Between stints in government, he took a bullshit seven-figure job at Lehman Brothers and helped himself to the same subsidized VIP mortgages his shady friends at Countrywide used to buy off senators and congressmen for decades. He didn’t go into public service with the thought of eventually cashing in, but when the opportunity to cash in presented itself, he didn’t seem to have any second thoughts. And what misgivings, if any, did Henry Kissinger or Colin Powell or Madeleine Albright have the first time they were offered six figures for a one-hour speech? To turn down such benevolence and forego his patrimony as a member of the elite would have required an almost superhuman fealty to old ideas of abstinence and honor, which he and his contemporaries had long since shed.
I don’t recall Donald Trump’s name ever showing up in the book’s 560 pages, but he is a kind of spectral figure lurking in the background of the narrative. Holbrooke was, after all, deeply devoted to Hillary Clinton, someone characterized by a kindred duality of idealism and cunning, who thrived under the same set of cozy arrangements for celebrity politicos. As Secretary of State she flew to over a hundred countries, pushed hard for our intervention in Libya, and by all accounts won the devotion of a foreign service that had felt sidelined by the Bush administration’s unilateral military adventurism. But in the years between Hillary Clinton’s service at Foggy Bottom and her second presidential campaign, she too found time to cash in; by 2016, she and her husband were reportedly worth a quarter of a billion dollars.
Not that any of this was illegal or even unusual, except in its scale. The venality and opportunism of Holbrooke and his contemporaries don’t erase their good qualities or their moments of true accomplishment — and that’s maybe the point of Holbrooke as metaphor. Even his worst tendencies don’t erase the fact that Holbrooke more than anyone at Carter’s State Department fought for the U.S. government to dramatically increase its intake of refugees from Southeast Asia, such that within a decade we took in over 1.5 million refugees from across the region. We had royally fucked up, and Holbrooke at least felt a duty to do something more about it than write a solipsistic memoir decades after the fact.
His overweening sense of entitlement also doesn’t cancel out the relentlessness with which he negotiated, against enormous odds, an end to the war in Bosnia. And by the time he was shuttling back and forth on an endless Kabul-Islamabad-DC circuit, his health and career in a downward spiral, Holbrooke was hemorrhaging hundreds of thousands of dollars every month from mortgages taken on more houses than he knew what to do with. But he nonetheless saw more clearly than virtually anyone else the truth about the war in Afghanistan. He understood better than Obama and Petraeus and Hillary did the war’s basic commonalities with Vietnam — another counterinsurgency campaign fought on impossible terrain surrounded by porous borders, ultimately doomed to failure — even if Obama thought the analogy anachronistic and self-serving.
One interpretation of the meaning of this book reads as follows: The mounting failures and hypocrisies of our foreign policy elite have fostered a corrosive, transpartisan cynicism in the American public, which ultimately gave way to a kind of nihilistic synthesis between Chomskyan and Trumpian views of America’s role in the world, which says that the System, the Deep State, is irredeemable, and that the thousands of men and women who spend their days anonymously carrying out the foreign policy of the United States are either deluded or in it for themselves, whether they know it or not, because any notion of a higher national purpose was long ago shown to be a lie. The narrative of “Our Man” gathers some of its force from the undercurrents of this line of reasoning, though it reveals a more complicated underlying picture, one that takes care to acknowledge the good that has come from American leadership. Our eventual decline as a great power may have been inevitable, but it took a special kind of nihilism in the body politic for someone as brazenly corrupt and dishonest as Donald Trump to seize power and so accelerate the pace of that decline. That nihilism gained at least some of its purchase from the unwillingness of our mandarin class to take responsibility for even the most disastrous of its mistakes, and from its unwillingness to seek its reward in heaven rather than at Davos or on Wall Street.