VITAL SIGNSrnPOLITICSrnImage IsrnEverythingrnby Janet Scott BarlowrnFor at least a year now—ever sincernthe evidence became intellectuallyrnirrefutable while yet being emotionallyrndeniable—every second sentence writtenrnor spoken about Bill Clinton by therndominant media has begun with thernword “if.” Reduced to its essence, therntwo-sentence refrain goes like this: Americansrndo not believe Bill Clinton. If BillrnClinton can become credible, Americansrnwill believe him. And if my eyes werernbrown, they wouldn’t be blue. Absentrnpossibility, if foretells fantasy. Here isrnreality: Bill Clinton is not credible, thereforernAmericans do not believe him. Likernthe journalists who cover him, however,rnthe President seems baffled by such simplicity.rn”Character,” he has said, “is arnjourney, not a destination.” Well, so is arndrive to the Grand Canyon, but isn’t thernultimate point to get there?rnFor lack of a better theory, I haverncome to believe that the purpose of BillrnClinton’s election was existential—he isrnwhat the country had to encounter in orderrnto move on. Only with his personalityrnin that office at this moment couldrnAmericans confront with such pristinernperfection, such pragmatic promise, allrnthat they loathe about politicians: the simultaneousrnsucking up to and disdainrnfor public opinion; the nearly pathologicalrnrefusal to give a direct answer; the assumptionrnthat attitude can substitute forrnbehavior and behavior for action; the sinrnof pride made even more offensive byrndisplays of false modesty; the vanity, therncondescension, the hypocrisy, the lying.rnIn his unseemly splendor (there isrnno context in which he looks natural),rnClinton beams a ceaseless message:rnDon’t ever make a mistake like me again.rnOf course, it was all there from the beginning;rnand to see it now is to rememberrnit then. One’s first impression of BillrnClinton, you’ll recall, is that he is thernproduct of egotism added to insecurity,rnan excruciating combination in a politician,rnbecause the resulting relentlessnessrnof need wears people out. In otherrnwords, he is a man who has spent his entirernlife making first impressions (whichrnmust, on some level, wear him out). Hernis said to be dazzlingly intelligent, yetrnnothing he says, not a single thing, is inherentlyrninteresting. His idea of dialoguernis to offer as many people as possible thernopportunity to hear him. He gives unmistakablernsigns of seeing female adorationrnas his due, and he has a terror of therntruth so great (what docs he fear it willrndo to him?) that he makes blatantly selfdamagingrnstatements, his vaunted intelligencernuseless to protect him.rnOnce in office he glows, lit from withinrnwith the pleasure he takes from thernpleasure he gives merely at being seen.rn(It will transpire that Bill Clinton ofrnArkansas and Barbra Streisand of NewrnYork grew up with a shared destiny—tornvalidate each other’s sense of speeialness.)rnHe completely lacks a sense ofrnirony. He is not in the moment, he is thernmoment. (Again, he shares somethingrnwith Ms. Streisand—as well as withrnyoung children.) Though lacking irony,rnhe vibrates self-consciousness, strainingrnalways to project “aura” and appearingrnconvinced that he is succeeding.rnHe is in over his head, however, and atrnthe first signs of trouble he starts sayingrnthe kinds of things that mamas’ boys alwaysrnsay. I’ve worked like a dog… my motivesrnare pure . . . I’m being treated so badrn… people are mean .. .no one appreciatesrnme. Some psychic aspect of his manhoodrnis missing—he knows it too—andrnso he follows his complaints with boldrndeclarations of what he would “fight, indeedrn… die for.” He squints one eye andrnissues warnings; he talks about “hangingrntough.” When nothing works and finallyrnhe must grope for guidance, he veersrnfrom pollsters to academicians to selfhelprnking Tony Robbins. (Do any ofrnthem tell him the truth—that his consumingrnfear of rejection by those whomrnhe would lead makes leadership impossiblernand rejection inevitable?) He is lost,rnlost as can be, and the distaste the publicrnfeels for him slides into embarrassment.rnThe single most preposterous thing everrnsaid about him will prove to be this: “BillrnClinton is incapable of sustained error.”rnAnd then there is his wife, who is asrninscrutable as he is transparent. No onernunderstands her—not now, not later—rnmainly because she tries to control, whilernclaiming to discount, other people’srnopinions of her. She is humorless butrnhardworking, and she expends great effortrntrying to disguise her self-righteousness.rnBeneath her strangely unaffectingrnpublic face, she seems to trust no one.rnAs a result, she lacks warmth (warmthrnbeing one product of faith in others),rnwhich will prove to be as politically detrimentalrnto her as her husband’s missingrnmanhood is to him. She, too, is said tornbe highly intelligent (“smart as a whip,”rnthey keep repeating), but she must thinkrnher fellow citizens are not, for when theyrnreject her idea of government-run healthrncare, she says they have been manipulated,rnmisinformed, duped. (How tediouslyrnpredictable. For the whip-smart therernare no failures, only misunderstandings.)rnWere she not in a position of authorityrnand importance, she would be thoughtrnboring. And when she ends up in overrnher head, she turns for advice to gossiprncolumnists, hoping to learn how torn”make the public see her in the sympathetic,rnmore complicated way in whichrnshe sees herself.”rn1^ ^liS^*”‘^”^rt’SM^-^rn^ ^ ^ ^rnTo which one can only respond with arnquestion, the insistent, ever morernresounding question that has followedrnher and her husband from the start:rnWho are these people? The answer, atrnthis point, may be more trouble than it’srnworth. For the curious, however, therernare several clues to go on.rnIt is December 1993, and Bill Clintonrnappears on the cover of Rolling Stone atrnthe same moment Hillary Clinton docsrnan interview and photo spread forrnVogue—a pair of journalistic eventsrn40/CHRONICLESrnrnrn