Behind Enemy Lines The allegory of the economy

Author: Andrey Tolstoy

The economist is the creator of beautiful theories. To reveal theory and conceal reality is the aim of economics. The economist is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of the economy.

The highest and the lowest form of economics is a mode of nonsense. Those who punch holes in flawless theories are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

Those who contrive beautiful theories in a vacuum are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom things mean only money.

There is no such thing as a correct or incorrect theory. Theories are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The moral life of man forms no part of the subject-matter of the economist, because morality consists in a less profitable allocation of limited resources.

No economist should feel like he has to prove anything. Even things that aren't true can be proved with the right model. No economist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an economist is an unpardonable weakness. No economist is ever morbid, the economist can B.S. his way out of anything.

It is the economist, and not life, that economics really mirrors. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he sells it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one manages to sell it above the equilibrium price.

For that, economics is quite useful.

The kitchen was filled with the steam of re-used oil, and when the sweltering summer heat was especially intense, there came through the open door the delicate perfume of adolescent cooks toiling in the basement.

Ronald McDonald was relaxing at his seaside villa. From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, he could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-colored blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs.

Ronald fell into a brief reverie before being interrupted by a minion, who squeaked "Annual report, your Excellency!" and scampered away fearfully.

Ronald made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of the report and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized a sizeable profit margin for the first time. He stood there for a few minutes, motionless and in wonder, before engaging the text.

"And yet, how sad it is!" murmured Ronald McDonald a few hours later, with his eyes still fixed upon the report. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and maybe even poor. But this report will remain always rich. It will never be poorer than this particular profit margin! If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always rich, and the report that was to grow poor! For that - for that - I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!"

Ronald buried his head in his hands and started to sob uncontrollably. His entire body convulsed with sorrow as he wept. Then, suddenly, realizing he was being watched by one of his attendants, he jumped in a fit of embarrassed fury: "OUT WITH YOU, MONGREL! OUT! OUT!"

The page scurried out, tripping over something large and gem-encrusted.

Ronald sunk to the floor and dissolved into tears once again.

Later that evening, the minion returned to pick up comments on the report. When he entered, he found the report lying on the floor in all its wonder with exquisite wealth and beauty. Lying next to the report was a dead man, in yellow overalls and red-striped socks, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and the loathsomeness of his visage was evident despite the heavy make-up. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was.