A psychiatrist examines, from afar, the President’s mind.
‘That night, as he lay in bed, ready to fall asleep, having given Melania her good night kiss, his head resting comfortably on the softest of pillows, he asked himself what kind of leader he was. He was a leader, all right… a tribal leader. But the great American nation was comprised of many tribes. Three years on, he had not been able to find common denominators between the tribes. He hadn’t been looking either. He was too thin skinned, too sectarian, too vain… whatever… it just wasn’t in him. But he could charm a crowd… oh yes, he could… and his supporters loved him… nay, adored him… and remembering the applause he was lavished with at his many rallies… the maddening euphoria… the exhilaration… the worship… he smiled… and fell asleep… contentedly.’
A contrast between the President and Clayton Hoskins, a man in search of his freedom.
‘What could there be in the color of a person’s skin that would lead some to rank themselves as better or see others as inferior? It had happened to him. He had thought that way. And what had freed him was the contact with all those people superficially different from him. What had freed him was working alongside them, discovering that beneath the surface, they were one. What had freed him was to dare not close prematurely the inquiry into what it is to be human.’