By George Stephanopoulos
All Too Human is a new-generation political memoir, written from the clean viewpoint of 1 who bought his palms at the levers of impressive energy at an early age. At thirty, the writer used to be at invoice Clinton's facet throughout the presidential crusade of 1992, & for the following 5 years he was once infrequently greater than a step clear of the president & his different advisers at each vital second of the 1st time period. What Liar's Poker did to Wall road, this booklet will do to politics. it's an irreverent & intimate portrait of ways the nation's weighty enterprise is performed by means of humans whose egos & idiosyncrasies aren't any sturdier than an individual else's. together with sharp photos of the Clintons, Al Gore, Dick Morris, Colin Powell, & ratings of others, in addition to candid & revelatory debts of the well-known debacles & triumphs of an management that regularly went excessive, All Too Human is, like its writer, a super blend of pragmatic perception & idealism. it truly is destined to be crucial & enduring publication to return out of the Clinton management.
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Additional resources for All Too Human
I had just moved to Springfield that summer, forty-five minutes from my parents’ lake house near Branson. Up till then, I’d rarely visited my parents there. Now, Mom and Dad were eager to show me the sights, catching me up on what I’d missed. As we strolled through Silver Dollar City, Dad kept referring to times when I was little that we had visited this Ozark theme park, this tourist trap. But as the wheel cut through the water in its lazy revolution, I felt no flicker of interest, no stir of memory.
The only girl among brothers, I found these interactions exotic. My mother and her sisters had been little girls less than thirty miles from Rocky Ridge Farm during the years that Laura Ingalls Wilder was there writing her first books. We’d all practically memorized those books. Jody and I grew up re-enacting our favorite parts, making long skirts out of sheets and pretending that our beds were covered wagons. I was thirteen the last summer that Aunt Shirley was able to travel, the summer that she took Jody and me to the places Laura Ingalls Wilder lived and wrote about.
I was transfixed by the story of the woman who didn’t speak Russian but claimed to have the same scars, birthmarks, ears, feet, handwriting, and facial proportions as the youngest daughter of Russia’s last Czar. I had been through obsessions with time travel and with children raised by wolves, gazelles, and apes. For the amnesiac, the time traveler, the feral child, the world becomes a minefield requiring constant negotiation to heal the rifts between The One that Got Away familiarity and strangeness.