More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Bannon realized that Trump did not know the most rudimentary business of politics.
“I love that. That’s what I am,” Trump said, “a popularist.” He mangled the word. “No, no,” Bannon said. “It’s populist.” “Yeah, yeah,” Trump insisted. “A popularist.” Bannon gave up.
It was one of Trump’s paradoxes: He attacked the mainstream media with relish, especially the Times—but despite the full-takedown language, he considered the Times the paper of record and largely believed its stories.
“Twelve million fucking dollars in cash out of the Ukraine!” Bannon virtually shouted. “What?” Mrs. Manafort said, bolting upright. “Nothing, honey,” Manafort said. “Nothing.”
Trump read: “My language was inappropriate, not acceptable for a president.” It was political speak—not Trump, all Giuliani and Christie. Trump was surly. “I can’t do this,” he said. “This is bullshit. This is weak. You guys are weak.”
Trump was a guy who “never went to class. Never got the syllabus. Never took a note. Never went to a lecture. The night before the final, he comes in at midnight from the fraternity house, puts on a pot of coffee, takes your notes, memorizes as much as he can, walks in at 8 in the morning and gets a C. And that’s good enough. He’s going to be a billionaire.”
White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer, who was a commander in the Naval Reserves, tried several times to persuade Mattis to appear on Sunday talk shows on behalf of the administration. The answer was always no. “Sean,” Mattis finally said, “I’ve killed people for a living. If you call me again, I’m going to fucking send you to Afghanistan. Are we clear?”
“You’re a goddamn staffer!” Bannon finally screamed at Ivanka. “You’re nothing but a fucking staffer!” She had to work through the chief of staff like everyone else, he said. There needed to be some order. “You walk around this place and act like you’re in charge, and you’re not. You’re on staff!” “I’m not a staffer!” she shouted. “I’ll never be a staffer. I’m the first daughter”—she really used the title—“and I’m never going to be a staffer!”
“I am the president,” Trump said. “I can fire anybody that I want. They can’t be investigating me for firing Comey. And Comey deserved to be fired! Everybody hated him. He was awful.”
Trump had a giant TV going much of the time, alone in his bedroom with the clicker, the TiVo and his Twitter account. Priebus called the presidential bedroom “the devil’s workshop” and the early mornings and dangerous Sunday nights “the witching hour.”
In a small group meeting in his office one day, Kelly said of the president, “He’s an idiot. It’s pointless to try to convince him of anything. He’s gone off the rails. We’re in crazytown.” “I don’t even know why any of us are here. This is the worst job I’ve ever had.”
There was plenty of history and technical detail. “I don’t give a shit about that,” Trump said.
Grievance was a big part of Trump’s core, very much like a 14-year-old boy who felt he was being picked on unfairly. You couldn’t talk to him in adult logic. Teenage logic was necessary.
Trump didn’t have genuine friends. He was a throwback to a different time—1950s America.
It was quite a sight seeing the president of the United States fuming like some aggrieved Shakespearean king.
“But he’s not man enough to admit it. He’s never been wrong yet. He’s 71. He’s not going to admit he’s wrong, ever.”
“Well,” Mueller said, “I guess that’s it.” “What are you talking about?” Dowd asked. “Where are the questions?” “You know, I don’t know,” Mueller said, a poker player in mid-game. “Jim said that’s what was going to happen here.” “Well, you know, I don’t know,” Mueller said again. “Seems to me you’re not going to testify.” “Under the circumstances, exactly right.” “Well, you know,” Mueller said, “I could always get a grand jury subpoena.” “You go right the fuck ahead and get it!” Dowd said, striking the table with his hand.
