November 26, 2021


On his deathbed, in the final moments, an angel appears radiant and glorious by Machiavelli’s bedside. Niccolo, it says in a gentle, sonorous whisper, your time here comes to an end. Come, the hour has struck that you must move on; know in your rest that your works will endure.

Among kings, queens, he asks in relief? Princes and ministers, their consorts and counsels?

No, the angel smiled, leaning close. No, Niccolo, no. It’s mostly assholes in airports.


A lot of them are moving their lips while they read.

“what is… how many?”

About half. I’d say half.