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First published January 1, 2014
He was eager to read the newspaper's accounts of the presidential campaign, now in full October flower. A black man running for the presidency! Harry had lived outside the country for so long he could not fathom how such a thing could happen, yet here he was, a graduate of both Columbia University and Harvard Law, a white man's pedigree. He was a marvelous writer. The last time a writer had occupied the White House was the time of the Civil War, and what a writer he was. Teddy Roosevelt wrote, too, but not very well; and nothing at all from that time to this, except Wilson and Jimmy Carter. Some caution warranted there. Probably a writer's temperament would not fit well in the modern White House, too much time given over to the shape and music of sentences while all around him clamored for action. A writer required repose, moments of stillness wherein an angel might speak. However, angels did not always bring benevolent thoughts, and they were not always angels. Sometimes they arrived in disguise.