In New York‘s May 30 issue, Rebecca Traister’s sprawling adoration of Hillary Clinton wades into the candidate’s inner world, revealing that “she presents as … a nana,” “sounds just like my mother,” to know her is to love her (“she is so different one-on-one”)—and a bit about what she’s been reading:
Let’s forget for a moment the apparent sexism that will reduce haters to sneering: After cramming a lifetime’s worth of policy papers, she’s ready for a break, books by ladies—and isn’t it just like a self-loathing careerist to suggest what women write is easy-reading dross? As Traister would tell us, that’s no way to talk about somebody’s nana.
And, really, although it’s what she said, it’s hard to imagine she meant women writers Winspear and Leon, by virtue of their being but weak and feeble women, create simpler characters and easier-to-follow plotlines than, say, Dashiell Hammett’s. Maybe Hillary thinks P.D. James was a man!
Traister’s inside scoop affords a precious glimpse into Hillary’s book club, so let’s venture a recommendation: Louise Penny’s mysteries set in the quaint Quebecois village of Three Pines. In the Three Pines books, she’ll find a delightful setting for her retirement to Canada—not to mention many “relaxing” women-driven storylines to reenact once she gets there—just in case this whole ruler of the free world thing doesn’t work out, that is.
