The Women of the White House

You would have to look long and hard in the dim, disappointment-darkened lengths of Michael Wolff’s White House to find the women. There is the stench of stale male stress sweat; the dispiritedness of pent-up testosterone, of ambitions dashed and intrigues exposed; there is even the corpulent President, munching on burgers and watching TV. But there are hardly any women. Where ordinarily this would be a cause for concern, yet another indication of the galling persistence of misogyny well into yet another century, it is in this, even less for , so one cannot but be grateful for the bits it tosses one’s way. Being spared a part in one of the most fetid and retch-incurring episodes of American political depravity seems to be one of them.