Books: Kind Words for Mr. Bastard

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On top of his other troubles, the Foreign Service officer usually has to dig into his own pockets to cover official expenses. Villard tells how, when he was posted to Senegal as ambassador in 1960, he discovered that his bathroom had magnificent picture windows but no curtains. Repeated pleas to Washington produced no funds for the curtains, until Villard fired off a cable: "Have magnificent view of Dakar from my bathroom and vice versa."

Latter-Day Laocoöns. An avowed elitist, Villard frankly pines for the good old days when the service numbered some 600 rigorously screened officers instead of the present 3,700. He deplores the fact that "entrance requirements have been tailored to meet a lower common denominator," bristles at the notion that preferential treatment should be given to any group—Negroes, Puerto Ricans or American Indians. With persuasive logic, he argues that to dilute the service's caliber, whatever the reason, would be to impair the effectiveness of U.S. diplomacy.

Under Villard's scrutiny, the Foreign Service's parent, the Department of State, comes in for particularly pointed criticism. He considers its bureaucracy appalling, its pressure for conformity oppressive. So titanic are its flaws, in fact, that Villard resorts to Greek mythology to describe them. To him, the State Department is a Hydra-headed monster, with two committees springing up whenever one is lopped off; its officers are latter-day Laocoöns, entwined not in the coils of two enormous serpents but in miles of red tape. And the In boxes of its diplomats, neaped high with meaningless memos and wordy cables, are, of course, Augean stables.