P.J. ON HRC
P. J. O’Rourke has a biting, hilarious, and somewhat unfair review of Hillary Clinton’s memoirs and, thus, HC herself. While amusing, it’s also rather sad:
IN FACT, Hillary and her husband aren’t representative of much of anything American. Neither can drive a car. Hillary hasn’t been behind the wheel since 1996. (“I cajoled my lead [Secret Service] agent, Don Flynn, into sitting beside me. . . . Don’s knuckles were white as dice by the time we arrived.”) And Bill should never try. (“He has so much information running through his head at any given moment that he doesn’t always notice where he’s going.”) In nearly twenty years of family life, the Clintons did not own a home or go to the mall without armed guards. And when they had a cat and dog, “I had to set up a separate correspondence unit . . . to answer their mail.”
“Living History” arrived from the publisher with a seven-page executive summary (itself ferociously tedious) that indicates no one is intended to read this book. Of course, a couple of people had to. There is the junior associate–doubtless a strong, intelligent woman–at the law firm of Bland and Blander who slogged through every word to make sure nothing was actionable. And then there’s me. Poor me. But, except for us, “Living History” suffers the fate of modern poetry, with an authorship of many and an audience of none.
And, ain’t this the truth:
However, it says something unflattering about our era that prominent political figures–who used to write declarations of independence, preambles to constitutions, Gettysburg addresses, and such–now use the alphabet only to make primitive artifacts, like the letter-inscribed tablet that Charlemagne is said to have put under his pillow each night, in the hope he’d wake up literate.
(Hat tip: A Fearful Symmetry)