Trump and Me Read Free

I’ve read John Updike, I’ve read Orhan Pamuk, I’ve read Philip Roth. When Mark Singer enters their league, maybe I’ll read one of his books. But it will be a long time—he was not born with great writing ability…Maybe he should…try to develop himself into a world-class writer, as futile as that may be, instead of having to write about remarkable people who are clearly outside of his realm.
    I’ve been a best-selling author for close to 20 years. Whether you like it or not, facts are facts. The highly respected Joe Queenan mentioned in his article “Ghosts in the Machine” (March 20) that I had produced “a steady stream of classics” with “stylistic seamlessness” and that the “voice” of my books remained noticeably constant to the point of being an “astonishing achievement.” *
    This was high praise coming from an accomplished writer. From losers like Jeff MacGregor, whom I have never met, or Mark Singer, I do not do nearly as well. But I’ll gladly take Joe Queenan over Singer and MacGregor any day of the week—it’s a simple thing called talent!
    I have no doubt that Singer’s and MacGregor’s books will do badly—they just don’t have what it takes. Maybe someday they’ll astonish us by writing something of consequence.
    Donald Trump
    New York
    Within forty-eight hours, several fellow scribblers solicit advice on how to provoke Trump into attacking them, my book rockets to No. 385 on the Amazon list, and I hear my mother’s voice reminding me to write a thank-you note. But I want to acknowledge my appreciation with more than a mere note. What should I send Trump? What does he like?
    Money!
    I decide to send him a thousand dollars.
    Then it occurs to me that I don’t have a thousand dollars. I come up with another figure.
Dear Donald,
    Thank you so much for that wonderful letter to
The New York Times Book Review.
A number of friends have called or written to say that it’s one of the funniest things they’ve read in a long time.
    Though I’m sure that you, as an author, are aware that it’s considered bad form to pay the people who review one’s books, I nevertheless enclose a check for $37.82, a small token of my enormous gratitude. You’re special to me.
    Also, I enclose a couple of Band-Aids. Because you seem unable to stop picking at this particular scab, these should come in handy.
    Cheerfully, Mark
    I suspect that’s not going to be the end of it and, indeed, ten days later I receive an envelope embossed with the Trump Organization logo and return address. Inside is my letter. Trump has returned it, inscribed in thick black all-caps: “MARK, YOU ARE A TOTAL LOSER! AND YOUR BOOK (AND WRITINGS) SUCKS! BEST WISHES, DONALD. P.S. AND I HEAR IT IS SELLING BADLY.”
    To his credit, he’s correct about my anemic book sales. My Amazon ranking is already back down to 53,876.
    Then one more thing happens. I get a letter from Citibank. I open it. Inside is my bank statement. My account, I see, is $37.82 lighter.
    Trump has cashed the check.
    ----

    * Lacking any aptitude for irony, Trump is blithely oblivious to Queenan’s.

One spring morning in 1997, Donald Trump, who under routine circumstances tolerates publicity no more grudgingly than an infant tolerates a few daily feedings, sat in his office on the twenty-sixth floor of Trump Tower, his mood rather subdued. As could be expected, given the fact that his three-and-a-half-year-old marriage to Marla Maples was ending, paparazzi were staking out the exits of Trump Tower, while all weekend helicopters had been hovering over Mar-a-Lago, his private club in Palm Beach. And what would come of it? “I think the thing I’m worst at is managing the press,” he said. “The thing I’m best at is business and conceiving. The press portrays me as a wild flamethrower. In actuality, I think I’m much different from that. I think I’m totally inaccurately portrayed.”
    So, though he’d agreed to a conversation at this decisive moment,