To the Editor of Return of the Reluctant:
I can remember the day when Marla told me, “Hey buddy, toupee or no toupee, it’s the size of your wallet that counts. No matter how ugly you get, I’ll still happily jump your bone.” Five minutes after she said this, I was on the phone with my attorneys about a prenup. But as we all know, somehow I messed it all up.
You might call me a heartless tycoon. But I’m smarter and better than you. Feelings are the stuff that I reserve for scoundrels named Mark Singer, whose liver I am now using to wipe the floor of one of my many apartments. Let that be a lesson to my critics.
I like to think that my heart of anthracite is an advantage. It keeps my ego in focus. There’s a big DT in my bathtub and a mirror above my bed so that I can get a nice view of Melania’s merkin. Can you say as much?
Whether you like it or not, facts are facts and hubris is hubris. And when it comes to contending with the real pests of our society — namely, beady-eyed freelancers skipping from gig to gig, I know how to sway my muscles.
Jeff McGregor will never be published in the New York Times Book Review again, nor anywhere else. He will work as a waiter for the rest of his life. Because I am Donald Trump and he is not. My terror is great and it has struck godless fear into Sam Tanenhaus’ soul. Your brownie watches, Mr. Reluctant — Mr. Champion, Mr. Segundo, whoever you are — no longer apply. Just before publishing my letter, I made sure that Mr. Tanenhaus’ hair would turn prematurely white. Let his consternation serve as a warning.
Do not dare to cross my path, for I am a human Katrina who sold off his sense of humor on eBay three years ago for the princely sum of $2.2 million. That’s what I call business.
DONALD TRUMP
New York
Magic Hours by Tom Bissell: This marvelous collection of essays chronicles everything from film shoots to novelists rescued from oblivion. (The essay on the Underground Literary Alliance, with its portrait of raucous factions, unexpectedly reveals how soft today's literary world has become.) But if you peer between the cracks of these smart pieces, you may very well see how cultural lives are formed from the most unexpected life choices. And as we follow Bissell's development as a writer over the years, that goes for Bissell as well. (
Angelmaker by Nick Harkaway: Harkaway's latest novel greatly improves on his previous book, The Gone-Away World, which I'm already on record as praising. Angelmaker adopts genre elements without ever feeling like a genre book, and it leads me to believe that Harkaway is well on his way to a narrative grace close to China Miéville's. Yet inexplicably this very fun book, which includes an eightysomething badass named Edie Banister, a mysterious mechanical object that may destroy the world, farcical scenarios involving lawyers and the police, and some unexpectedly moving moments about fatherhood, doesn't appear to be getting much attention in American newspapers. Nothing from the snobs at The New York Times Book Review, nothing from The Washington Post. And since I can't get Harkaway on Bat Segundo, I hope this Jump Up and Down mention gets you hopping as well.
The Age of Insight by Eric Kandel: Unless you're really pressed for time, forget Jonah Lehrer. If you want to understand creativity and its relationship to neuroscience, then the bowtie-wearing Nobel laureate is your man. In addition to being a physically beautiful book (you will drool over many of the paintings), there are helpful overviews on optical illusions, science, biographical backgrounds, and many vital figures from the Vienna Secession. Kandel's enthusiasm (and his call for greater unity between the humanities and science) is contagious.