Mr. Clinton's charm is born of the one thing I truly cannot fathom. He likes people, too much so. It's not normal. 'The Republicans were kinda mean to me,' he joked of the radical right. Mr. Clinton is happier than ever. In My Life, he refers to people like the racist former Arkansas governor Orval Faubus, who epitomize moral filth, as if they were towns he drove past once.
Is this charm or madness?
Author Naomi Klein wrote recently of her horror at having to settle for 'Anyone but Bush' as a political slogan. I agree. I want a Chomsky or a Che, not an Edwards or a Clinton. But I will not have that in my lifetime.
I have to settle for being utterly, overwhelmingly charmed.
Is this responsibility and intelligence?
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