To the Manor Born
Even though Conrad Black was born wealthy - to the manner born indeed - this is a man who invented himself. Wealth is relative, and although he inherited wealth from his family he lost little time as an enthusiastic entrepreneur in increasing his initial wealth substantially. Inherited wealth is a very nice gift, but not nearly as potent as, for example, power. On the other hand power has a way of complementing great wealth. Both of which Lord Black assumed for himself as he assiduously went about making the world very aware of his presence.
Again, the combination of wealth and power can be extremely satisfying, setting oneself into the superior realm well above the common fray. People who achieve are so often dissatisfied with their achievements; there is never quite enough of enough. And then there's another elusive element, one to which very few are born but yet in some countries can still aspire to in a manner of speaking. It's rather certain that Conrad Black felt himself to have been cheated by the matter of his birth. He should have been born to royalty.
His inspiration for a life well lived; recognition of his accomplishments as a canny businessman, an intellectual historian, a man of letters and social graces - a royal acknowledgement bestowing upon this immodest man the least title to which he felt himself to be so deserving. Lord Black had no reason to exhibit a modesty that ill became him in any event, for he is of the opinion he has nothing whatever to be modest about. He's right. His forceful personality, his accomplishments in acquiring all the accoutrements of high living filthy lucre could attain to bespeak the result of his very own clever devices.
It was so very clever of Conrad Black to fashion himself aeons back as the Genghis Khan of Canadian corporate raiders, recognizing and targeting well-known companies in financial distress, leveraging their buy-outs, gutting their assets for profit and discarding the hollow shells, leaving countless unemployed in the wake of his early successes. And always moving in the right circles, the hoi-poloi of social and business elites, making a name for himself as a clever manipulator, a man on the make. Whose penchant for piquantly dismissing the peons around him became legendary.
He re-made himself again, launching a career for himself as a newspaper magnate, acquiring one newspaper after another, and here, it would appear, his true interests lay. As a newspaper proprietor, one who honoured the printed word he became dedicated to making news accessible to a vast array of readers with an eye to quality performance and reportage. He wasn't averse to making his opinions known to readers through the very medium of his own papers, stooping so low as to scatter the beneficence of his brilliant analytical mind for the benefit of those same low-brows he generally dismissed out of hand.
No denying it, he has a fine intelligence, conveys his opinions through a well-rounded thought process and doesn't at all mind that other, obviously lesser beings, can admire these positives in his make-up. But isn't it ever so true that pride goeth before a fall? And isn't it so sad, but true that Lord Black engineered his own downfall for the simple reason of his overweening vanity, his dissatisfied ego, his all-encompassing sense of his entitlement to whatever it was his grasping mind and hand fell upon?
The man quite honestly doesn't believe he did anything incorrect; that the small-minded and inadequate peasants of the world are out to get him simply because they envy his exalted position. All things accrue to those who are deserving of them, and Conrad Black deeply believes he earned everything that he claimed. Irrespective of the fact that he was dealing dishonestly with what most businesspeople would recognize was not theirs to reward themselves with. The most puzzling element here is not that he believed shareholders' money was his to do with as he would, but that he behaved in such a picayune manner.
With his vast wealth why choose to cheat, even if he didn't consider it to be cheating? Why not write his own cheques from his own bank accounts to pay for all those luxury goods and services and travel expenses? Now he's being called to account for his stupid indiscretions, for his faulty decisions to misuse finds not his own. His is not a thick head, but his exquisite ability to reason still leads him down the garden path to rationalizing his exclusive ownership of others' money.
Well, he always enjoyed attention. But the kind of attention larded with admiration and envy, not the kind of attention his behaviour has merited him. That particular breed of individuals whose work is comprised of haunting scenes of indiscretion, disaster, criminal activity, those very people whom his business acumen granted nice payroll amenities have turned against him with a vengeance. There's just something in human nature that celebrates a front-row view of the mighty being toppled from their heights. Schadenfreude.
Ah, but these are not the creme de la creme of reporters, these are the dregs, the flotsam, the, well Barbara Amiel Black named them reporter-sluts. Herself a news person of some note, more than capable of discerning fact from fiction, of turning an elegant phrase or two into a well-received opinion piece, she is now suffering the gross indignity of her intelligence, poise, and status being subjected to the parsing of her wardrobe for the delectation of avid Black-watchers.
Everything becomes relative, if somewhat irrelevant.
Again, the combination of wealth and power can be extremely satisfying, setting oneself into the superior realm well above the common fray. People who achieve are so often dissatisfied with their achievements; there is never quite enough of enough. And then there's another elusive element, one to which very few are born but yet in some countries can still aspire to in a manner of speaking. It's rather certain that Conrad Black felt himself to have been cheated by the matter of his birth. He should have been born to royalty.
His inspiration for a life well lived; recognition of his accomplishments as a canny businessman, an intellectual historian, a man of letters and social graces - a royal acknowledgement bestowing upon this immodest man the least title to which he felt himself to be so deserving. Lord Black had no reason to exhibit a modesty that ill became him in any event, for he is of the opinion he has nothing whatever to be modest about. He's right. His forceful personality, his accomplishments in acquiring all the accoutrements of high living filthy lucre could attain to bespeak the result of his very own clever devices.
It was so very clever of Conrad Black to fashion himself aeons back as the Genghis Khan of Canadian corporate raiders, recognizing and targeting well-known companies in financial distress, leveraging their buy-outs, gutting their assets for profit and discarding the hollow shells, leaving countless unemployed in the wake of his early successes. And always moving in the right circles, the hoi-poloi of social and business elites, making a name for himself as a clever manipulator, a man on the make. Whose penchant for piquantly dismissing the peons around him became legendary.
He re-made himself again, launching a career for himself as a newspaper magnate, acquiring one newspaper after another, and here, it would appear, his true interests lay. As a newspaper proprietor, one who honoured the printed word he became dedicated to making news accessible to a vast array of readers with an eye to quality performance and reportage. He wasn't averse to making his opinions known to readers through the very medium of his own papers, stooping so low as to scatter the beneficence of his brilliant analytical mind for the benefit of those same low-brows he generally dismissed out of hand.
No denying it, he has a fine intelligence, conveys his opinions through a well-rounded thought process and doesn't at all mind that other, obviously lesser beings, can admire these positives in his make-up. But isn't it ever so true that pride goeth before a fall? And isn't it so sad, but true that Lord Black engineered his own downfall for the simple reason of his overweening vanity, his dissatisfied ego, his all-encompassing sense of his entitlement to whatever it was his grasping mind and hand fell upon?
The man quite honestly doesn't believe he did anything incorrect; that the small-minded and inadequate peasants of the world are out to get him simply because they envy his exalted position. All things accrue to those who are deserving of them, and Conrad Black deeply believes he earned everything that he claimed. Irrespective of the fact that he was dealing dishonestly with what most businesspeople would recognize was not theirs to reward themselves with. The most puzzling element here is not that he believed shareholders' money was his to do with as he would, but that he behaved in such a picayune manner.
With his vast wealth why choose to cheat, even if he didn't consider it to be cheating? Why not write his own cheques from his own bank accounts to pay for all those luxury goods and services and travel expenses? Now he's being called to account for his stupid indiscretions, for his faulty decisions to misuse finds not his own. His is not a thick head, but his exquisite ability to reason still leads him down the garden path to rationalizing his exclusive ownership of others' money.
Well, he always enjoyed attention. But the kind of attention larded with admiration and envy, not the kind of attention his behaviour has merited him. That particular breed of individuals whose work is comprised of haunting scenes of indiscretion, disaster, criminal activity, those very people whom his business acumen granted nice payroll amenities have turned against him with a vengeance. There's just something in human nature that celebrates a front-row view of the mighty being toppled from their heights. Schadenfreude.
Ah, but these are not the creme de la creme of reporters, these are the dregs, the flotsam, the, well Barbara Amiel Black named them reporter-sluts. Herself a news person of some note, more than capable of discerning fact from fiction, of turning an elegant phrase or two into a well-received opinion piece, she is now suffering the gross indignity of her intelligence, poise, and status being subjected to the parsing of her wardrobe for the delectation of avid Black-watchers.
Everything becomes relative, if somewhat irrelevant.
Labels: Human Fallibility
posted by Pieface | 12:45 PM
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