Fire and fury pdf download free

The Democrats see victory at the polls, and perhaps impeachment, in front of them. Trump, meanwhile, is certain he is invincible, making him all the more exposed and vulnerable. Week by week, as Trump becomes increasingly erratic, the question that lies at the heart of his tenure becomes ever more urgent: Will this most abnormal of presidencies at last reach the breaking point and implode?

Both a riveting narrative and a brilliant front-lines report, Siege provides an alarming and indelible portrait of a president like no other. Surrounded by enemies and blind to his peril, Trump is a raging, self-destructive inferno—and the most divisive leader in American history. It's time to take you back to the Hidden Palace.

You're going home. There's one thing Lei knows - she can never return to the Hidden Palace. The trauma and tragedy she suffered behind those opulent walls will plague her forever. She cannot be trapped there with the sadistic king again, especially without Wren. The last time Lei saw the girl she loved, Wren was fighting an army of soldiers in a furious battle to the death. With the two girls torn apart and each in great peril, will they reunite at last, or have their destinies diverged forever?

Score: 3. Whistleblowers thus face conflicting impulses: by challenging and exposing transgressions by the powerful, they perform a vital public service--yet they always suffer for it. This episodic history brings to light how whistleblowing, an important but unrecognized cousin of civil disobedience, has held powerful elites accountable in America. Analyzing a range of whistleblowing episodes, from the corrupt Revolutionary War commodore Esek Hopkins whose dismissal led in to the first whistleblower protection law to Edward Snowden, to the dishonesty of Donald Trump, Allison Stanger reveals the centrality of whistleblowing to the health of American democracy.

She also shows that with changing technology and increasing militarization, the exposure of misconduct has grown more difficult to do and more personally costly for those who do it--yet American freedom, especially today, depends on it. American Nightmare Author : Henry A. As white supremacy, ultra-nationalism, rabid misogyny and anti-immigrant fervor coalesce, a new and uniquely American form of fascism looms.

Could our current moment actually bring about the end of democracy in the United States? Are Americans willing to surrender their freedom and dignity, along with their ongoing struggle for equality, justice and mutual respect in the face of the rising tide of political and ideological extremism?

In this provocative collection of essays, Henry Giroux warns of the consequences of doing too little as Trump and the so-called alt-right relentlessly attack critics, journalists, and target the hard-earned civil rights of women, people of color, immigrants, the working class, and low-income Americans. As we face down the frightening reality of living under a system that serves only the interests of the wealthy few, Giroux makes a passionate call for ordinary citizens to organize, educate, and resist by all available means.

Praise for American Nightmare: "In this current era of corporate media misdirection and misinformation. Henry Giroux is one of the few great political voices of today, with powerful insight into the truth. Operatives like himself—and now, like Bannon—worked with all kinds. It was the ultimate symbiotic and codependent relationship. Politicians were front men in a complex organizational effort. Operatives knew the game, and so did most candidates and officeholders.

But Ailes was pretty sure Trump did not. Trump was undisciplined—he had no capacity for any game plan. He could not be a part of any organization, nor was he likely to subscribe to any program or principle. In early August, less than a month after Ailes had been ousted from Fox News, Trump asked his old friend to take over the management of his calamitous campaign.

This was the job Bannon took a week later. Wearing a disheveled blazer, his signature pairing of two shirts, and military fatigues, the unshaven, overweight sixty-three-year-old joined the other guests at the table and immediately took control of the conversation.

He just needs the right staff around him. Bolton was an Ailes favorite, too. But you need him. Who else is good on Israel? Flynn is a little nutty on Iran.

You know Bolton is an acquired taste. He had first met Trump, the on-again off- again presidential candidate, in ; at a meeting in Trump Tower, Bannon had proposed to Trump that he spend half a million dollars backing Tea Party-style candidates as a way to further his presidential ambitions. Bannon left the meeting figuring that Trump would never cough up that kind of dough. Everywhere there was a sudden sense of global self-doubt.

Even the most dedicated exponents of globalism were hesitating. Bannon believed that great numbers of people were suddenly receptive to a new message: the world needs borders—or the world should return to a time when it had borders. When America was great. Trump had become the platform for that message.

He meant did Trump get it. This seemed to be a question about the right-wing agenda: Did the playboy billionaire really get the workingman populist cause? But it was possibly a point-blank question about the nature of power itself. Did Trump get where history had put him? Bannon took a sip of water. Let them deal with it. Or sink trying. The Saudis are on the brink, Egyptians are on the brink, all scared to death of Persia. Yemen, Sinai, Libya. Is Russia that bad?

But the world is full of bad guys. China was the first front in a new cold war. That was the failure of American intelligence. The Pentagon is totally disengaged from the whole thing. Intel services are disengaged from the whole thing. The media has let Obama off the hook. Take the ideology away from it, this is complete amateur hour. Nobody on Capitol Hill knows him, no business guys know him—what has he accomplished, what does he do?

Bannon snorted. Nothing else matters. This whole thing is very simple. China is where Nazi Germany was in to Bannon smiled. Ailes, since his ouster from Fox, had become only more bitter towards Murdoch.

Now Murdoch was frequently jawboning the president-elect and encouraging him toward establishment moderation—all a strange inversion in the ever-stranger currents of American conservatism. Bannon wanted Ailes to suggest to Trump, a man whose many neuroses included a horror of forgetfulness or senility, that Murdoch might be losing it.

Like for Putin. Sucks up and shits down. Right up until the last weeks of the race, the Trump campaign headquarters had remained a listless place. All that seemed to distinguish it from a corporate back office were a few posters with right-wing slogans.

Conway now was in a remarkably buoyant mood considering she was about to experience a resounding if not cataclysmic defeat. Donald Trump would lose the election—of this she was sure—but he would quite possibly hold the defeat to under 6 points. That was a substantial victory. She had spent a good part of the day calling friends and allies in the political world and blaming Priebus. Instead of being all in, the RNC, ultimately the tool of the Republican establishment, had been hedging its bets ever since Trump won the nomination in early summer.

The other part was that despite everything, the campaign had really clawed its way back from the abyss. Conway, who had never been involved in a national campaign, and who, before Trump, ran a small-time, down-ballot polling firm, understood full well that, post-campaign, she would now be one of the leading conservative voices on cable news. But neither Conway nor Trump himself nor his son-in-law Jared Kushner—the effective head of the campaign, or the designated family monitor of it—wavered in their certainty: their unexpected adventure would soon be over.

Only Steve Bannon, in his odd-man view, insisted the numbers would break in their favor. Almost everybody in the campaign, still an extremely small outfit, thought of themselves as a clear-eyed team, as realistic about their prospects as perhaps any in politics. The unspoken agreement among them: not only would Donald Trump not be president, he should probably not be.

Conveniently, the former conviction meant nobody had to deal with the latter issue. As the campaign came to an end, Trump himself was sanguine. He had survived the release of the Billy Bush tape when, in the uproar that followed, the RNC had had the gall to pressure him to quit the race.

FBI director James Comey, having bizarrely hung Hillary out to dry by saying he was reopening the investigation into her emails eleven days before the election, had helped avert a total Clinton landslide. Nunberg did not get an answer. Now Trump, encouraged by Ailes, was floating rumors about a Trump network.

It was a great future. He would come out of this campaign, Trump assured Ailes, with a far more powerful brand and untold opportunities. Donald Trump and his tiny band of campaign warriors were ready to lose with fire and fury.

They were not ready to win. The leitmotif for Trump about his own campaign was how crappy it was and how everybody involved in it was a loser. Time spent with Trump on the campaign plane was often an epic dissing experience: everybody around him was an idiot.

Ever after, Trump proclaimed his campaign doomed without Lewandowski. Wish Corey was back. At this dire moment, Trump in some essential sense sold his losing campaign. Trump had no real relationship with either father or daughter. He only expressed vast incomprehension about why anyone would want to do that. The candidate who billed himself as a billionaire—ten times over—refused even to invest his own money in it. There was in fact no real campaign because there was no real organization, or at best only a uniquely dysfunctional one.

Roger Stone, the early de facto campaign manager, quit or was fired by Trump—with each man publicly claiming he had slapped down the other. Sam Nunberg, a Trump aide who had worked for Stone, was noisily ousted by Lewandowski, and then Trump exponentially increased the public dirty-clothes-washing by suing Nunberg. The campaign, on its face, was not designed to win anything. And if, during the fall, winning seemed slightly more plausible, that evaporated with the Billy Bush affair.

Just kiss. You can do anything. Grab them by the pussy. It took two hours for the Trump team to coax him across town. He and Melania spent relatively little time together. They could go days at a time without contact, even when they were both in Trump Tower.

Often she did not know where he was, or take much notice of that fact. Her husband moved between residences as he would move between rooms. Along with knowing little about his whereabouts, she knew little about his business, and took at best modest interest in it. An absentee father for his first four children, Trump was even more absent for his fifth, Barron, his son with Melania. Still, the notion that this was a marriage in name only was far from true. He admired her looks— often, awkwardly for her, in the presence of others.

He sought the approval of all the women around him, who were wise to give it. In , when he first seriously began to consider running for president, Melania was one of the few who thought it was possible he could win. It was a punch line for his daughter, Ivanka, who had carefully distanced herself from the campaign. She believed it would destroy her carefully sheltered life—one sheltered, not inconsiderably, from the extended Trump family— which was almost entirely focused on her young son.

But her terror and torment mounted. There was a whisper campaign about her, cruel and comical in its insinuations, going on in Manhattan, which friends told her about. Her modeling career was under close scrutiny. In Slovenia, where she grew up, a celebrity magazine, Suzy, put the rumors about her into print after Trump got the nomination.

Then, with a sickening taste of what might be ahead, the Daily Mail blew the story across the world. The New York Post got its hands on outtakes from a nude photo shoot that Melania had done early in her modeling career—a leak that everybody other than Melania assumed could be traced back to Trump himself. Inconsolable, she confronted her husband. Is this the future? But he was unaccustomedly contrite, too. Just a little longer, he told her. It would all be over in November.

He offered his wife a solemn guarantee: there was simply no way he would win. And even for a chronically—he would say helplessly—unfaithful husband, this was one promise to his wife that he seemed sure to keep.

Since they will be found out only if the show is a hit, everything about the show is premised on its being a flop.

Accordingly, they create a show so outlandish that it actually succeeds, thus dooming our heroes. Winning presidential candidates—driven by hubris or narcissism or a preternatural sense of destiny—have, more than likely, spent a substantial part of their careers, if not their lives from adolescence, preparing for the role.

They rise up the ladder of elected offices. They perfect a public face. They manically network, since success in politics is largely about who your allies are. They cram. Even in the case of an uninterested George W. And they clean up after themselves—or, at least, take great care to cover up. They prepare themselves to win and to govern. The Trump calculation, quite a conscious one, was different. Many candidates for president have made a virtue of being Washington outsiders; in practice, this strategy merely favors governors over senators.

Every serious candidate, no matter how much he or she disses Washington, relies on Beltway insiders for counsel and support. But with Trump, hardly a person in his innermost circle had ever worked in politics at the national level—his closest advisers had not worked in politics at all. Throughout his life, Trump had few close friends of any kind, but when he began his campaign for president he had almost no friends in politics. The only two actual politicians with whom Trump was close were Rudy Giuliani and Chris Christie, and both men were in their own way peculiar and isolated.

And to say that he knew nothing—nothing at all —about the basic intellectual foundations of the job was a comic understatement. Paul Manafort, the international lobbyist and political operative who Trump retained to run his campaign after Lewandowski was fired—and who agreed not to take a fee, amping up questions of quid pro quo—had spent thirty years representing dictators and corrupt despots, amassing millions of dollars in a money trail that had long caught the eye of U.

For quite obvious reasons, no president before Trump and few politicians ever have come out of the real estate business: a lightly regulated market, based on substantial debt with exposure to frequent market fluctuations, it often depends on government favor, and is a preferred exchange currency for problem cash— money laundering.

Modern politicians and their staffs perform their most consequential piece of opposition research on themselves. If the Trump team had vetted their candidate, they would have reasonably concluded that heightened ethical scrutiny could easily put them in jeopardy.

But Trump pointedly performed no such effort. Nor could he tolerate knowing that somebody else would then know a lot about him—and therefore have something over him. And anyway, why take such a close and potentially threatening look, because what were the chances of winning? Nor would he even remotely contemplate the issue of his holdings and conflicts. Or losing was winning. Trump would be the most famous man in the world—a martyr to crooked Hillary Clinton.

His daughter Ivanka and son-in-law Jared would have transformed themselves from relatively obscure rich kids into international celebrities and brand ambassadors. Steve Bannon would become the de facto head of the Tea Party movement. Kellyanne Conway would be a cable news star. Melania Trump could return to inconspicuously lunching. That was the trouble-free outcome they awaited on November 8, Losing would work out for everybody. Melania, to whom Donald Trump had made his solemn guarantee, was in tears—and not of joy.

But still to come was the final transformation: suddenly, Donald Trump became a man who believed that he deserved to be and was wholly capable of being the president of the United States. Even his close friends were still shocked and bewildered, and there was a dazed quality to the gathering.

But Trump himself was mostly looking at the clock. Rupert Murdoch, heretofore doubtlessly certain Trump was a charlatan and a fool, said he and his new wife, Jerry Hall, would pay a call on the president- elect.

But Murdoch was late—quite late. Trump kept assuring his guests that Rupert was on his way, coming soon. When some of the guests made a move to leave, Trump cajoled them to stay a little longer. Murdoch, who, with his then wife, Wendi, had often socialized with Jared and Ivanka, in the past made little effort to hide his lack of interest in Trump.

When, in , Ivanka Trump told Murdoch that her father really, truly was going to run for president, Murdoch dismissed the possibility out of hand. But now, the new president-elect—after the most astonishing upset in American history—was on tenterhooks waiting for Murdoch.

You have to stay to see him. And Murdoch, finally arriving at the party he was in more than one way sorely late to, was as subdued and thrown as everyone else, and struggling to adjust his view of a man who, for more than a generation, had been at best a clown prince among the rich and famous. Few people who knew Trump had illusions about him.

That was almost his appeal: he was what he was. Twinkle in his eye, larceny in his soul. But now he was the president-elect. And that, in a reality jujitsu, changed everything. So say whatever you want about him, he had done this. Pulled the sword from the stone. That meant something. The billionaires had to rethink. So did everyone in the Trump orbit. The campaign staff, now suddenly in a position to snag West Wing jobs—career- and history-making jobs—had to see this odd, difficult, even ridiculous, and, on the face of it, ill-equipped person in a new light.

He had been elected president. So he was, as Kellyanne Conway liked to point out, by definition, presidential. Still, nobody had yet seen him be presidential—that is, make a public bow to political ritual and propriety. Or even to exercise some modest self-control. Others were now recruited and, despite their obvious impressions of the man, agreed to sign on. Jim Mattis, a retired four-star general, one of the most respected commanders in the U. We can make this work, is what everybody in the Trump orbit was suddenly saying.

Or, at the very least, this could possibly work. In fact, up close, Trump was not the bombastic and pugilistic man who had stirred rabid crowds on the campaign trail. He was neither angry nor combative. He may have been the most threatening and frightening and menacing presidential candidate in modern history, but in person he could seem almost soothing. His extreme self-satisfaction rubbed off.

Life was sunny. He was charming and full of flattery; he focused on you. He was funny—self-deprecating even. PayPal cofounder and Facebook board member Peter Thiel—really the only significant Silicon Valley voice to support Trump—was warned by another billionaire and longtime Trump friend that Trump would, in an explosion of flattery, offer Thiel his undying friendship. Still, power provides its own excuses for social lapses. Other aspects of the Trump character were more problematic. Almost all the professionals who were now set to join him were coming face to face with the fact that it appeared he knew nothing.

There was simply no subject, other than perhaps building construction, that he had substantially mastered. Everything with him was off the cuff. Whatever he knew he seemed to have learned an hour before—and that was mostly half-baked. But each member of the new Trump team was convincing him- or herself otherwise—because what did they know, the man had been elected president.

He offered something, obviously. Indeed, while everybody in his rich-guy social circle knew about his wide-ranging ignorance—Trump, the businessman, could not even read a balance sheet, and Trump, who had campaigned on his deal-making skills, was, with his inattention to details, a terrible negotiator—they yet found him somehow instinctive.

That was the word. He was a force of personality. He could make you believe. Everything that made him Trump and that defined his savvy, energy, and charisma was there. But Trump had not written The Art of the Deal. His co-writer, Tony Schwartz, insisted that he had hardly contributed to it and might not even have read all of it. And that was perhaps the point. Trump was not a writer, he was a character—a protagonist and hero.

To the amusement of his friends, and unease of many of the people now preparing to work for him at the highest levels of the federal government, Trump often spoke of himself in the third person.

Trump did this. The Trumpster did that. So powerful was this persona, or role, that he seemed reluctant, or unable, to give it up in favor of being president —or presidential.

However difficult he was, many of those now around him tried to justify his behavior—tried to find an explanation for his success in it, to understand it as an advantage, not a limitation.

A s man, a Rat Pack type, a character out of Mad Men. He would provide a tour of his casino. His friend assured the model that there was nothing to recommend Atlantic City. It was a place overrun by white trash. It was something of an outlaw prescription for winning—and winning, however you won, was what it was all about.

Or, as his friends would observe, mindful themselves not to be taken in, he simply had no scruples. He was a rebel, a disruptor, and, living outside the rules, contemptuous of them. A close Trump friend who was also a good Bill Clinton friend found them eerily similar—except that Clinton had a respectable front and Trump did not.

One manifestation of this outlaw personality, for both Trump and Clinton, was their brand of womanizing—and indeed, harassing. Even among world-class womanizers and harassers, they seemed exceptionally free of doubt or hesitation. Do you still like having sex with your wife? How often? You must have had a better fuck than your wife? Tell me about it. We can go upstairs and have a great time. I promise. Previous presidents, and not just Clinton, have of course lacked scruples.

What was, to many of the people who knew Trump well, much more confounding was that he had managed to win this election, and arrive at this ultimate accomplishment, wholly lacking what in some obvious sense must be the main requirement of the job, what neuroscientists would call executive function.

He had somehow won the race for president, but his brain seemed incapable of performing what would be essential tasks in his new job. He had no ability to plan and organize and pay attention and switch focus; he had never been able to tailor his behavior to what the goals at hand reasonably required.

On the most basic level, he simply could not link cause and effect. The charge that Trump colluded with the Russians to win the election, which he scoffed at, was, in the estimation of some of his friends, a perfect example of his inability to connect the dots. He warned Trump of potentially damaging material coming his way. The Pre-Election Presidential Transition Act of established funding for presidential nominees to start the process of vetting thousands of candidates for jobs in a new administration, codifying policies that would determine the early actions of a new White House, and preparing for the handoff of bureaucratic responsibilities on January Hurriedly, the bare-bones transition team moved from downtown Washington to Trump Tower.

This was certainly some of the most expensive real estate ever occupied by a transition team and, for that matter, a presidential campaign. And that was part of the point. More famous. With better real estate. And, of course, it was personalized: his name, fabulously, was on the door. Upstairs was his triplex apartment, vastly larger than the White House living quarters. Washington insiders, or would-be insiders, would have to come to him.

Trump Tower immediately upstaged the White House. Everybody who came to see the president-elect was acknowledging, or accepting, an outsider government. An act of obeisance, if not humiliation. Nobody had a political background. Nobody had a policy background. Nobody had a legislative background. Politics is a network business, a who-you-know business. He hardly even had his own political organization. Lean and mean and gut instincts—the more people you had to deal with, Trump found, the harder it was to turn the plane around and get home to bed at night.

The professional team—although in truth there was hardly a political professional among them—that had joined the campaign in August was a last- ditch bid to avoid hopeless humiliation.

Reince Priebus, getting ready to shift over from the RNC to the White House, noted, with alarm, how often Trump offered people jobs on the spot, many of whom he had never met before, for positions whose importance Trump did not particularly understand. He tried to impress on Trump the ferocity of the opposition that would greet him. Your people are more important than your policies.

Your people are your policies. As much as the president himself, the chief of staff determines how the White House and executive branch—which employs 4 million people, including 1. The job has been construed as deputy president, or chief operating officer, or even prime minister.

Anyone studying the position would conclude that a stronger chief of staff is better than a weaker one, and a chief of staff with a history in Washington and the federal government is better than an outsider. Donald Trump had little, if any, awareness of the history of or the thinking about this role.

Instead, he substituted his own management style and experience. For decades, he had relied on longtime retainers, cronies, and family. Even though Trump liked to portray his business as an empire, it was actually a discrete holding company and boutique enterprise, catering more to his peculiarities as proprietor and brand representative than to any bottom line or other performance measures. His sons, Don Jr. In this construct, they saw themselves tending to the day-to-day operations.

Epstein, who remained close to Barrack, had been whitewashed out of the Trump biography. He would run the business and Trump would sell the product—making American great again. For Barrack, as for everybody around Trump, the election result was a kind of beyond-belief lottery-winning circumstance—your implausible friend becoming president.

Trump was unconcerned or in denial about his own business conflicts, but Barrack saw nothing but hassle and cost for himself. Also, Barrack, on his fourth marriage, had no appetite for having his colorful personal life—often, over the years, conducted with Trump—become a public focus. On the campaign, after months of turmoil and outlandishness if not to Trump, to most others, including his family , Kushner had stepped in and become his effective body man, hovering nearby, speaking only when spoken to, but then always offering a calming and flattering view.

Corey Lewandowski called Jared the butler. Trump had come to believe that his son-in-law, in part because he seemed to understand how to stay out of his way, was uniquely sagacious. The Trumps, all of them—except for his wife, who, mystifyingly, was staying in New York—were moving in, all of them set to assume responsibilities similar to their status in the Trump Organization, without anyone apparently counseling against it.

After a great deal of pressure, he at least agreed not to make his son-in-law the chief of staff—not officially, anyway. Christie, like most Trump allies, fell in and out of favor. The Atlantic City gaming mogul. Trump had backed Christie as he rose through New Jersey politics. When Christie dropped out of the race in February and signed on with the Trump campaign, he endured a torrent of ridicule for supporting his friend, whom he believed had promised him a clear track to the VP slot.

It had personally pained Trump not to be able to give it to him. But if the Republican establishment had not wanted Trump, they had not wanted Christie almost as much.

So Christie got the job of leading the transition and the implicit promise of a central job—attorney general or chief of staff. Charlie Kushner, pursued by the feds for an income tax cheat, set up a scheme with a prostitute to blackmail his brother-in-law, who was planning to testify against him. But other accounts offer a subtler and in a way darker picture.

Jared Kushner, like sons-in-law everywhere, tiptoes around his father-in- law, carefully displacing as little air as possible: the massive and domineering older man, the reedy and pliant younger one. In the revised death-of-Chris- Christie story, it is not the deferential Jared who strikes back, but—in some sense even more satisfying for the revenge fantasy—Charlie Kushner himself who harshly demands his due. It was his daughter-in-law who held the real influence in the Trump circle, who delivered the blow.

But Trump pronounced many people in favor of it anyway. In the weeks leading up to the election, Trump had labeled Bannon a flatterer for his certainty that Trump would win. But now he had come to credit Bannon with something like mystical powers. The anti-Bannon forces—which included almost every non-Tea Party Republican—were quick to react.

Murdoch, a growing Bannon nemesis, told Trump that Bannon would be a dangerous choice. In fact, Bannon presented even bigger problems than his politics: he was profoundly disorganized, seemingly on the spectrum given what captured his single-minded focus to the disregard of everything else. Might he be the worst manager who ever lived? He might. He seemed incapable of returning a phone call. He answered emails in one word—partly a paranoia about email, but even more a controlling crypticness.

He kept assistants and minders at constant bay. And somehow, his own key lieutenant, Alexandra Preate, a conservative fundraiser and PR woman, was as disorganized as he was.

No sane person would hire Steven Bannon for a job that included making the trains run on time. Priebus, forty-five, was neither politician nor policy wonk nor strategist. He was political machine worker, one of the oldest professions.

A fundraiser. A working-class kid originally from New Jersey and then Wisconsin, at thirty- two he made his first and last run for elective office: a failed bid for Wisconsin state senate. He became the chairman of the state party and then the general counsel of the Republican National Committee. In he stepped up to chairmanship of the RNC. With significant parts of the Republican Party inalterably opposed to Trump, and with an almost universal belief within the party that Trump would go down to ignominious defeat, taking the party with him, Priebus was under great pressure after Trump captured the nomination to shift resources down the ticket and even to abandon the Trump campaign entirely.

Convinced himself that Trump was hopeless, Priebus nevertheless hedged his bets. The fact that he did not abandon Trump entirely became a possible margin of victory and made Priebus something of a hero equally, in the Kellyanne Conway version, if they had lost, he would have been a reasonable target.

He became the default choice for chief. And yet his entry into the Trump inner circle caused Priebus his share of uncertainty and bewilderment. He came out of his first long meeting with Trump thinking it had been a disconcertingly weird experience.

Trump talked nonstop and constantly repeated himself. So you have to have one point to make and you have to pepper it in whenever you can. Trump was falling back on his own natural inclinations to let nobody have real power. Priebus, even with the top job, would be a weaker sort of figure, in the traditional mold of most Trump lieutenants over the years.

The first nine months of Donald Trump's term were stormy, outrageous - and absolutely mesmerising. Now, thanks. From the author of Fire and Fury, this irresistible account offers an exclusive glimpse into a man who wields extraordinary power and influence in the media on a worldwide scale—and whose family is being groomed to carry his legacy into the future. But what does the regime in North Korea actually want?

Is Kim Jong-un truly the mad cartoon villain that the media love to portray? The epic romance of Lei and Wren comes to a breathtaking conclusion in the explosive finale to the acclaimed, New York Times bestselling Girls of Paper and Fire series. It's time to take you back to the Hidden Palace. You're going home. If you can judge a book by its enemies, Too Famous could be an instant classic.

Bestselling author of Fire and Fury and chronicler of the Trump White House Michael Wolff dissects more of the major monsters, media whores, and vainglorious figures of our time. His scalpel opens their lives,. Literary ombudsman John Crace never met an important book he didnt like to deconstruct.

From Salman Rushdie to John Grisham, Crace retells the big books in just bitingly satirical words, pointing his pen at the clunky plots, stylistic tics and pretensions to Big Ideas, as he turns publishers golden dream. In March , George W. Bush, President of the United States of America, visited India to finalize the landmark civil nuclear deal between the two countries. But far from the hum of expectations, the US negotiating team was hard at work in South Block-making every possible attempt to alleviate the concerns.