The American Spectator

Reason magazine’s Nick Gillespie explained why Casanova Clinton would keep recycling this one to get in girls’ pants:

Anyone familiar with Leaves of Grass can understand why the president might deploy it in his romantic intrigues. An undeniably great work of literature, Whitman’s poem celebrating “the procreant urge of the world,” “unspeakable passionate love,” and “blind loving wrestling touch” simultaneously exudes a touch of class and raw sex appeal. Like Ravel’s Bolero and Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, it has long been a high-end aphrodisiac.”

High-end aphrodisiac indeed. Or as I call it, Guttenberg’s Rohypnol.

The rest of the list is endlessly fascinating. It is an overly very serious collection, which is ironic because Clinton’s presidency was a decidedly unserious affair. But it speaks volumes and volumes about the man. The selection is astoundingly calculated. It is the list of someone desperate to be thought well of. Given who that someone is, it is as shameless as one might expect, and even downright offensive.

How on earth, for instance, can he list Thomas a Kempis’s The Imitation of Christ as a favorite? Good God. He really does have no decency.

A glance at the titles on the list begs countless other questions as well.

Politics as a Vocation, by Max Weber. Is Clinton feeling just a tad bit defensive about spending virtually his entire adult life on one government payroll or another?

Bill Clinton derived no small benefit from Toni Morrison declaring him our first black president. So he repays her generosity … by omitting her in favor of Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings?

By picking Thomas Wolfe’s You Can’t Go Home Again, is Clinton trying to justify abandoning his home state of Arkansas? I’ve been to Arkansas. Does anyone need justification to leave?

Did Clinton really pick Reinhold Niebuhr’s Moral Man and Immoral Society? Does he really think that highly of himself? Is he really that deluded?

To which I say, Wow.

I also say it because of what’s obviously wanting from this list (in addition to Leaves of Grass). Where’s The Bridges of Madison County? How about I, Rigoberta Menchu? Where’s John Gray? Why aren’t there any trashy Jackie Collins or Candace Bushnell novels?

And since The Big He lives in a world where everything really is All About Him, then where, oh where, is Primary Colors?

For these answers and more, I guess we’re just going to have to wait for the book.