Over the weekend I had a life-changing experience. I met a man who had recently retired. From Monsanto. There was nothing in his handshake, in his gaze, in his countenance, to suggest anything evil. And yet, there he was.
In my struggle to sleep Saturday night, I turned to T.S. Eliot. The Hollow Men seemed best to illustrate the feeling in the pit of my stomach.
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
The final stanza of the poem is haunting, and captures precisely what I felt:
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
Saturday night, as I sobbed and struggled against the fact of having had someone in our home who had lived and breathed and worked at this unconscionable institution, I was reminded that they are only men. Individual men, who as a collective realize their power on the world stage. Their time is coming. This is the way the world ends.
