Inside Bush's Bunker
Todd S. Purdum
Vanity Fair
For any second-term president—as the pressure grows to cement his legacy, and with many of his best aides gone—the physical bunker of an electronically sealed, sniper-patrolled White House, which restricts his access to old friends and new ideas, can lead to psychological isolation. Talking to administration insiders, the author learns why George W. Bush's disconnect is even more extreme, from the "Churchillian riff" he goes into when Iraq is discussed, to his eerie optimism, to his increasing reliance on a dwindling band of diehards.
by Todd S. Purdum October 2007
Sometime early on the morning of January 20, 2009, if recent history is a reliable guide, George W. Bush will sit down at the carved oak desk in the Oval Office and compose a note wishing his successor Godspeed. The desk is made from timbers of H.M.S. Resolute, a British bark that was abandoned to the ice but later salvaged by an American whaling vessel and presented to Queen Victoria in 1856 as a token of friendship. When the ship was finally decommissioned, the Queen sent a desk made from its best wood to President Rutherford B. Hayes. Since then almost every president has used the desk in one way or another. John F. Kennedy Jr. played behind the hinged door in its front, which Franklin D. Roosevelt installed to hide his leg braces and wheelchair.
Bunkers, by their nature, reinforce the tics, the traits, the tendencies of their occupants. Illustration by Edward Sorel.
In the last winter light of his tenure, what could this president, the captain of a ship that even many of his once loyal crew think of as the U.S.S. Delusional, possibly have to say to the man or woman who takes his place? Ronald Reagan left the first President Bush a note with the exhortation "Don't let the turkeys get you down!" The elder Bush left Bill Clinton a note promising that he would be "rooting" for him. Clinton has never revealed what he wrote to the second President Bush, but it seems safe to say that, in 2001, neither of them could have envisioned just what a failed presidency the 43rd president's would turn out to be, dragged down by war, incompetence, and corruption. The man buried in Grant's tomb may soon move up a rung.
In those moments when Bush's aides seek to show that their president is more conscientious, more reflective—in a word, deeper—than he tends to appear, they release samples of his thinking, in his own hand. ("Let freedom reign!" was his jotted response to word from Condoleezza Rice that the United States had returned sovereignty to the first of several ineffectual governments in Iraq.) But far from demonstrating Bush's depth, such exercises seem only to prove that the president, like the rest of us, has an opposable thumb. If he keeps a diary of his innermost thoughts, as even Ronald Reagan did, no one has seen it. If Bush harbors doubts about the wisdom of his course, he has not been known to confide them—he is in fact famous for being unable to admit, or even to remember, a mistake. Does he have regrets? Too few to mention: he's done it his way.
By its nature, the presidency is a lonely job. Through personality, predilection, and sheer force of will, Bush has made his presidency far lonelier than most. According to Bob Woodward, Bush told a group of Republican lawmakers in late 2005 that he would not withdraw from Iraq even if his wife, Laura, and his dog, Barney, were the only ones still supporting him. He seems determined, these days, to prove the point.
(Continued here.)
Vanity Fair
For any second-term president—as the pressure grows to cement his legacy, and with many of his best aides gone—the physical bunker of an electronically sealed, sniper-patrolled White House, which restricts his access to old friends and new ideas, can lead to psychological isolation. Talking to administration insiders, the author learns why George W. Bush's disconnect is even more extreme, from the "Churchillian riff" he goes into when Iraq is discussed, to his eerie optimism, to his increasing reliance on a dwindling band of diehards.
by Todd S. Purdum October 2007
Sometime early on the morning of January 20, 2009, if recent history is a reliable guide, George W. Bush will sit down at the carved oak desk in the Oval Office and compose a note wishing his successor Godspeed. The desk is made from timbers of H.M.S. Resolute, a British bark that was abandoned to the ice but later salvaged by an American whaling vessel and presented to Queen Victoria in 1856 as a token of friendship. When the ship was finally decommissioned, the Queen sent a desk made from its best wood to President Rutherford B. Hayes. Since then almost every president has used the desk in one way or another. John F. Kennedy Jr. played behind the hinged door in its front, which Franklin D. Roosevelt installed to hide his leg braces and wheelchair.
Bunkers, by their nature, reinforce the tics, the traits, the tendencies of their occupants. Illustration by Edward Sorel.
In the last winter light of his tenure, what could this president, the captain of a ship that even many of his once loyal crew think of as the U.S.S. Delusional, possibly have to say to the man or woman who takes his place? Ronald Reagan left the first President Bush a note with the exhortation "Don't let the turkeys get you down!" The elder Bush left Bill Clinton a note promising that he would be "rooting" for him. Clinton has never revealed what he wrote to the second President Bush, but it seems safe to say that, in 2001, neither of them could have envisioned just what a failed presidency the 43rd president's would turn out to be, dragged down by war, incompetence, and corruption. The man buried in Grant's tomb may soon move up a rung.
In those moments when Bush's aides seek to show that their president is more conscientious, more reflective—in a word, deeper—than he tends to appear, they release samples of his thinking, in his own hand. ("Let freedom reign!" was his jotted response to word from Condoleezza Rice that the United States had returned sovereignty to the first of several ineffectual governments in Iraq.) But far from demonstrating Bush's depth, such exercises seem only to prove that the president, like the rest of us, has an opposable thumb. If he keeps a diary of his innermost thoughts, as even Ronald Reagan did, no one has seen it. If Bush harbors doubts about the wisdom of his course, he has not been known to confide them—he is in fact famous for being unable to admit, or even to remember, a mistake. Does he have regrets? Too few to mention: he's done it his way.
By its nature, the presidency is a lonely job. Through personality, predilection, and sheer force of will, Bush has made his presidency far lonelier than most. According to Bob Woodward, Bush told a group of Republican lawmakers in late 2005 that he would not withdraw from Iraq even if his wife, Laura, and his dog, Barney, were the only ones still supporting him. He seems determined, these days, to prove the point.
(Continued here.)
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