I’m sitting here with my English muffin and coffee, having a moment with the New York Times Book Review. I figure: if I’m reduced to listening to books on tape instead of actually reading, I can sure as heck read a crummy book review.
So here I am, reading about this new biography of Alexander Hamilton, who (for those like me who can’t remember why he’s on the $10 bill) was the Founding Parent of our country who was really into, you know, economic policy.
I read this:
“While others resented him with a furious passion or gaped at him with amazement–Talleyrand considered him one of the three greatest men of the epoch–Hamilton himself was lacerated with a feeling of ‘personal inadequacy that the world seldom saw.’ ”
And I find myself in tears, boohooing into my cup of Costco Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, imagining the poor guy duking it out with Thomas Jefferson over the future of the American economy. Oh, Al! Lacerated. You poor slob! You must have been working so hard.
Does anyone else out there have this kind of hormonal freakout? It’s one thing to see a baby and burst into tears, but really. Alexander Hamilton? Get me a red tent, please. I’m going into hibernation until this passes.