Trouble Defies The Law Of Gravity. It's

It's Been So Long Since A Talented Writer Last Occupied The White House; No Wonder, Then, That American Writers Have Been Among The Most Prominent Of All The Demographic Groups Claiming A Piece Of Barack Obama For Themselves.

I've Taught The Better Class Of Tourist Both To See And Not To See; To Lift Their Eyes Above And Beyond The Inessentials, And Thrill To Our Western Nature In Her Majesty.

When New Yorkers Tell One About The Dangers Of Their City, The Muggings, The Dinner Parties To Which No One Turns Up For Fear Of Being Attacked On The Way, The Traffic Snarl-ups, The Bland Indifference Of The City Cops, They Are Unmistakably Bragging.

Living In Cities Is An Art, And We Need The Vocabulary Of Art, Of Style, To Describe The Peculiar Relationship Between Man And Material That Exists In The Continual Creative Play Of Urban Living. The City As We Imagine It, Then, Soft City Of Illusion, Myth, Aspiration, And Nightmare, Is As Real, Maybe More Real, Than The Hard City One Can Locate On Maps In Statistics, In Monographs On Urban Sociology And Demography And Architecture.

The Trouble With Ghostwriting Is That It Raises The Issue Of Whether The President Is In A State Of Diminished Responsibility For What He Says. Does He Actually Grasp The Implications Of The Words He Speaks?