…or possibly Trumphobia or, if you are inclined to the clinical, sloth—no matter how you diagnose it, my reading fell off rather alarmingly last month. I am now, however, in recovery with a nifty volume of writings from Vanity Fair, recommended by the irreplaceable M via our Midwest and Elsewhere Bureau, more about which—the book, that is—anon.
Meanwhile, notes.
Sinclair Lewis, in 1935, wrote a novel called It Can’t Happen Here which, if you were to read it now, would make you believe it was written yesterday, or possibly next year. It’s available for ten bucks from the various purveyors of digital media, but I would suggest trolling a library first if you’re interested in giving it a look. It’s a trying read, full of topical allusions from the 1930’s that can be pretty distracting at best. Nor is it by any means Lewis’s best work. Still, if you’re wanting a tale in which The Donald is a D and not an R, this is the one for you.
And, in poking around on the political web site RealClearPolitics.com I discovered there’s also a RealClearBooks.com and, for the glutton, a RealClearHistory.com as well.
So may words…
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