America is an empire. I hope you know that now. All empires, by

The poet and publisher Felix Dennis, a man of both wealth and rebellion, once spoke the searing words: “America is an empire. I hope you know that now. All empires, by definition, are bumbling, shambolic, bullying, bureaucratic affairs, as certain of the rightness of their cause in infancy, as they are corrupted by power in their dotage.” Beneath this bold declaration lies not merely a criticism of one nation, but a timeless reflection on the nature of empire itself—a mirror held to every age that has sought to rule the world in its own image. Dennis speaks not as an enemy of America, but as a witness to the eternal cycle of rise and decay, of idealism transformed into arrogance, of justice corroded by dominion. His words ring with the wisdom of the ancients, for every civilization that has reached for the heavens has eventually fallen beneath the weight of its own glory.

To call America an empire is not an insult, but an acknowledgment of destiny. Like Rome in its prime, America extended its influence far beyond its shores—not only through armies or conquest, but through the more subtle weapons of commerce, culture, and ideology. It became a beacon of freedom and progress to some, a symbol of dominance and hypocrisy to others. But as Felix Dennis reminds us, all empires are born in certainty—believing their purpose righteous and their mission divine. The Romans claimed to bring civilization; the British claimed to bring order; America claimed to bring democracy. Yet history shows that no empire, however noble its beginnings, can escape the corrupting gravity of power.

In the early days, an empire is youthful and idealistic. Its founders speak of liberty, vision, and the common good. The citizens believe that their nation’s strength is proof of moral superiority. But as centuries pass, this idealism fades. Bureaucracy replaces purpose, pride replaces humility, and fear replaces wisdom. The empire becomes shambolic, as Dennis says—clumsy in its ambition, blind to its own contradictions. Its leaders justify oppression as protection, its wars as peacekeeping, its greed as necessity. It bullies not because it is strong, but because it fears decline. This, the poet warns, is the tragic rhythm of human history: power breeds decay, and even the brightest flame, left unchecked, burns itself to ash.

Consider the Roman Empire, that grand mirror of all who followed. It began with the dream of justice and the law—the idea that civilization could unite the world. But in its later years, Rome grew decadent and divided. Its senators debated while its borders crumbled; its emperors adorned themselves in gold while its people starved. Its greatness became its own undoing, and its name, once sacred, became a whisper among ruins. America, Felix Dennis suggests, walks a similar path—not yet fallen, but aging in spirit, burdened by the contradictions of its power. Its technology and wealth may dazzle the eye, but within its heart grow the old diseases of empire: pride, bureaucracy, and moral exhaustion.

Yet the quote is not merely a condemnation; it is also a warning born of compassion. For Dennis understood that the fall of empires is not inevitable—it is the consequence of forgetting humility. The cycle of rise and ruin can be broken, but only if a nation remembers that power is not purpose, and that true greatness is measured not by dominion, but by wisdom and mercy. When an empire learns to serve rather than subjugate, to build rather than boast, it may yet defy the pattern of history. But to do so, it must first recognize its own fragility—the truth that strength, untempered by conscience, becomes its own enemy.

We can see this lesson not only in nations, but in ourselves. For every human heart is a small empire, capable of the same arrogance and decline. In youth, we are certain of our righteousness; in power, we become proud; and if we do not temper that pride with reflection, we, too, crumble under the weight of our own self-importance. The wisdom of Dennis is therefore not only political—it is spiritual. He reminds us that the fate of empires begins in the soul of man. The corruption of nations is but the magnified reflection of the corruption of individuals who have forgotten humility, empathy, and the limits of their own vision.

So, my child, learn from this: whether you wield a nation’s might or the small power of a single life, beware the blindness of certainty. Question always your righteousness; doubt the purity of your motives; and seek to balance strength with understanding. For those who rule themselves with humility may guide others with wisdom, but those who believe themselves infallible are already nearing their decline. Remember Felix Dennis’s words: every empire ages, every empire stumbles, and every empire that forgets compassion invites its own fall. Let this truth temper your pride and awaken your conscience, that you may help build a civilization not of domination, but of balance—a kingdom not of iron and greed, but of spirit and truth.

For in the end, all empires fade, but the lessons they leave endure. Let us then build not an empire of power, but an empire of wisdom, so that when our own age passes—as it must—the next may remember not our arrogance, but our understanding.