Diplomats (1948) by Pablo Neruda

If you're born a fool in Romania you pursue the fool's profession, if you're a fool in Avignon your quality is known by France's venerable stones, by the schools and disrespectful farm boys.

But if you're born a fool in Chile you'll soon be appointed Ambassador.

Whether your name is fool John Doe or fool Joaquín Fernández or fool

So-and-So, keep a well-trimmed beard if at all possible.

It's all that's required to "enter into negotiations."

Then you'll send an expert report on your spectacular presentation of credentials, saying: Etc., the carriage, etc., His Excellency, etc., clichés, etc., benevolent.

Assume a solemn voice and a protective cow's tone, be decorated jointly with Trujillo's envoy, discreetly maintain a "garconière" ("You know the convenience of these things for Border Treaties"), remit in slightly disguised form the doctoral newspaper's editorial that you read over breakfast the day before yesterday: it's a "report."

Mingle with the "cream" of "society," with that country's fools, acquire all the silver you can buy, speak at anniversaries beside bronze horses, saying: Ahem, the ties, etc., ahem, etc., ahem, the descendants, etc., the race, ahem, the pure, the sacrosanct, ahem, etc.

And keep a stiff upper lip:

You're a good Chilean diplomat, you're a decorated and prodigious fool.