I rely on you to tell me if I’ve got the wrong impression. I want to tell you about what happened, so far as I can tell from what I’ve read here. I come to What Happened like some future century philologist squinting through a murky peephole to make sense of a contested past. They make reference to facts and feuds and factions, references which, in order to be understood, require a living memory of what I’m told was a tremendously consequential election for the United States. In the past several weeks I have encountered other reviews of Clinton’s book, but each of them exists in a context I can’t track. I think back but all I see are schools and meals and birthday parties. There’s a greyness in my memory, the result of some intolerable stress that has been lost as well, and it envelops not just the whole of 2016, but every political detail in the whole twenty-seven years of my life. I may have known them once, I can’t recall. I’d never heard of Donald Trump or Bernie Sanders. So long as we’re writing alternative history here, let me tell you a surprising fact about myself: before I read What Happened, I’d never heard of Hillary Rodham Clinton.
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