The former president released his second memoir, Citizen: My Life After the White House, last November. You probably didn’t hear a lot about it; Donald Trump had just won his second term, and the Clinton presidency, his post-presidential scandals, and even Hillary Clinton feel like ancient history now. It was startling to see Clinton, the country’s perpetual kid brother of a president, looking so pale and old, and sounding so hoarse, at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago last summer.
You can find some mainstream media reviewers straining to say nice things about the 464-page tome (with index). The ugly truth is that Citizen is a long, dragging, meandering series of humble-bragging stories that not so subtly reveal that Clinton, arguably one of the luckiest men who ever lived, is still soaked through to the bone in self-pity and sees himself as an always well-meaning, noble, blameless, unjustly demonized perpetual victim of that notorious “vast right-wing conspiracy.”
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