SPEECH-LESS(ISBN=) 英文原版

　　From a top speechwriter to President George W. Bush and Donald
Rumsfeld, this may be the most deliciously candid memoir ever
written about official Washington—a laugh-out-loud cri de coeur
that shows what can happen to idealism in a town driven by
self-interest. 
　　Despite being raised by reliably liberal parents, Matt Latimer
is, from an early age, lured by the upbeat themes of the Reagan
Revolution and, in the tradition of Mary Tyler Moore, sets off from
the Midwest for the big city, determined to “make it after
all.”  In Matt’s glory-filled daydreams, he will champion
smaller government and greater self-sufficiency, lower taxes and
stronger defense—and, by the force of his youthful passion,
eradicate do-nothing boondoggleism and lead America to new heights
of greatness.
　　But first he has to find a job.
　　Like an inside-the-Beltway Dante, Matt chronicles his descent
into Washington, D.C., hell, as he snares a series of increasingly
lofty—but unsatisfying—jobs with powerful figures on Capitol Hill.
One boss can’t remember basic facts. Another appears to hide from
his own staff, barricading himself in his office. When Fate offers
Matt a job as chief speechwriter for Secretary of Defense Donald
Rumsfeld and Matt finds he actually admires the man (causing his
liberal friends to shake their heads in dismay), his youthful
passion is renewed. But Rummy soon becomes a pi?ata for the press,
and the Department of Defense is revealed as alarmingly
dysfunctional.
　　Eventually, Matt lands at the White House, his heart aflutter
with the hope that, here at last, he can fulfill his dream of
penning words that will become part of history—and maybe pick up
some cool souvenirs. But reality intrudes once again. More like The
Office than The West Wing, the nation’s most storied office
building is a place where the staffers who run the country are in
way over their heads, and almost everything the public has been
told about the major players—Bush, Cheney, Rice, Rumsfeld, Rove—is
wrong.
　　Both a rare behind-the-scenes account that boldly names the fools
and scoundrels, and a poignant lament for the principled
conservatism that disappeared during the Bush presidency,
Speech-less will forever change the public’s view of our nation’s
capital and the people who joust daily for its power.
　　From the Hardcover edition.

　　MATT LATIMER was one of President Bush’s top speechwriters
from March 2007 to October 2008. He was also chief speechwriter to
Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld for three years.

Introduction: Where’s Goofy?
CHAPTER ONE　Shining City on a Hill
CHAPTER TWO　”One Catastrophic Gaffe a Week”
CHAPTER THREE　The Purse Boys
CHAPTER FOUR　Rummy
CHAPTER FIVE　”I’m Going to Die with These Dummies”
CHAPTER SIX　The Cleaners
CHAPTER SEVEN　The Real West Wing
CHAPTER EIGHT　The Secret Speechwriters Society
CHAPTER NINE　The Mayor of Control
CHAPTER TEN　Going Wobbly
CHAPTER ELEVEN　Final Delusions
Acknowledgments
ndex

　　CHAPTER ONE
　　SHINING CITY ON A HILL
　　I guess there’s a point in most children’s lives when they
believe that their hometown is the worst place in the world. Well,
those kids can choke on it, because I actually did come from the
worst city in America–a fact certified by one of the largest
publications in the nation. When I was growing up, Money magazine
ranked the major cities in the United States from the perspective
of which was the best place to live. My hometown of Flint,
Michigan, ranked at the absolute bottom. I must admit, even I was
surprised by that. Second to worst, maybe. But the worst of the
worst? Wow. The townspeople of Flint made a big show of burning the
magazine in effigy, but no one could credibly argue our case.
　　Flint became internationally famous in the documentary Roger and
Me, directed by that self-appointed spokesman for working-class
outrage and future millionaire Michael Moore. The film chronicled
Flint’s economic decline after the one company that had been
keeping it alive, General Motors, packed up most of their
automobiles and sputtered out of town. It wasn’t the smoothest
departure the world had ever seen. Basically, the company broke up
with Flint by e-mail and then changed its phone number.
　　I was born in the heart of the city to two liberal teachers. My
dad, Maurice, was born while the country was still reeling from the
Great Depression, and he was the first boy in his family to go to
college. He had thick jet-black hair and looked vaguely like Ricky
Ricardo. My mom, Larcia, was the second of ten children and didn’t
have a single enemy in the world. During my childhood, Mom had
round glasses and a brown beehive hairdo that she painstakingly
wrapped up every evening with tissue paper. Sometimes I’d wake her
at night when I had a scary dream. She’d shoot up in bed with white
cream on her face and her hair wrapped like a mummy. (I think
that’s where my troubles began.)
　　My parents lived in Flint several years before I was born. When I
was about one, they adopted a baby girl. My sister, Jennifer, was
born on an Indian reservation in Canada. One of the first things I
did when I was young was kick her in the eye. Otherwise, we were
very close.
　　We grew up in a neighborhood filled with people of many different
income levels and races. There were abandoned homes a few doors
down and vacant lots where you could always find trouble. Everyone
in our neighborhood knew where the drug houses were. There were at
least two within a block of our home. It wasn’t uncommon to hear
police sirens at all hours of the night. Once on my way home I was
stopped by the Flint police. They put me in the backseat of the
squad car and started demanding proof that I lived in the
neighborhood. I was young, white, with a nice car. I think they
suspected I was on a drug buy.
　　We had a beautiful brick Tudor-style house with five bedrooms. If
it had been built in any other city, it would have been worth more
than a million dollars. In Flint, it was worth about $50,000. But
whatever Flint’s problems, my parents were stick-it-out types. Even
if our house had exploded, Mom and Dad would have sat in the rubble
and camped out with tents.
　　My parents often invited random people to come to stay, sometimes
for months or years at a time. When my sister and I were very
young, Mom and Dad brought foster children into our home. For most
of my childhood, young men would move into our house as our
temporary brothers. Most of them had been abandoned or abused by
their biological parents and, understandably, had severe emotional
problems. One guy who shared my bedroom used to hide under a
blanket while wearing my sister’s bathing suit. Another guy took
apart our electronic equipment–cameras, remote controls, VCRs–to
see if he could repair them. He couldn’t. One day I was sitting
with him at the breakfast table when our cat, Mindy, walked by. His
eyes darkened, then he pointed at her. “You will pay for your
actions,” he vowed. (Didn’t ask. Didn’t want to know.)
　　Another day one of the older guys who lived with us disappeared.
Years later, he showed up with a garbage bag. He was slurring his
words and acting strangely. He put down the bag and said he’d come
back to ask my dad for my sister’s hand in marriage. We weren’t
sure if the bag was part of a trade (we never opened it). Dad, of
course, had no intention of entertaining the offer. “Hey, Dad,” I
whispered, “let’s hear the man out.” No one else thought that was
funny, especially my sister. Dad took the man for a ride somewhere,
and we never saw the guy again. (Didn’t ask. Didn’t want to
know.)
　　I always knew Mom and Dad would be there for me when I really
needed them. But when they got home from work they had to
prioritize. My “crisis” over getting a B on a homework assignment
didn’t rate quite as high as one of the foster kids threatening to
burn down our house, being accused of indecent exposure, or
breaking into the house next door. So I tended to fend for myself.
I did household chores without being told. And I did well in
school, at least academically. I even taught myself to read.
Socially, well, that was another story. For most of my young
adulthood, I was a classic nerd with thick glasses, cowlicky hair,
and pale skin. I was shy and quiet, and could go for hours without
saying a word. In first grade, everyone in the class made
papier-mache puppets of ourselves. Mine didn’t have a mouth.
　　To add to those woes, I was really overweight. But I finally beat
my weight problem the old-fashioned way: by becoming a subject of
total humiliation. I was with my parents, my sister, and one of our
foster brothers on a summer vacation in the Pocono Mountains. We
all decided to go horseback riding, which was the most exercise I’d
had in my entire life. My usual workout routine was trying to get
as many scoops of ice cream as I could before The Dukes of Hazzard
came back after commercials.
　　As we waited to get assigned horses, another vacationing family
waited with us. They had two kids, a girl and a boy. The boy was
about my age and extremely overweight. I felt bad for him. The
horse people brought out horses for everyone–my parents, my
sister, the other kids’ parents, his sister. Finally, it was down
to the fat kid and me. As we stood there, I saw them bring forward
the biggest horse I’d ever seen, the T. rex of the equestrian
world. I overheard the workers talking on their way over. One asked
which one of us he should give Horse-zilla to.
　　”Give it to that fat kid,” the other worker replied.
　　I felt so terrible for the boy standing right next to me. He
could hear them too. How awful. Then they brought that giant horse
right up to us and handed the reins…to me. They’d been talking
about me! From that day forward, I never drank a glass of regular
pop again. I started walking and running. I lost thirty pounds over
the next two months, and I did it completely on my own. I was
becoming a believer in the power of self-sufficiency.
　　While my family and I were facing these and other challenges,
Flint was facing several as well. Our valiant civic leaders always
seemed to have some new scheme certain to pull us out of our
Depression-like doldrums. The biggest of these brainstorms was
AutoWorld. AutoWorld was, in the wisdom of our leading citizens, a
no-lose proposition: an amusement park that would be a tribute to
the auto industry and its origins. Except, as it turned out, there
were hardly any rides and not a single roller coaster. Instead the
“attraction” was a walk-through history of Flint. Come one, come
all, to hear about the famous Sit-Down Strike and the birth of the
United Auto Workers! All the family will want to listen to a
mannequin of town father Jacob Smith talk about Flint’s founding!
Did you enjoy building dioramas in high school? Now you can
actually walk through one–and come back to walk through it again
and again. AutoWorld was going to cost millions to build, but
everyone was sure it was going to be Flint’s salvation. The city
tore down homes to build large parking lots for the overflow crowds
that would certainly teem in. The Hyatt Regency built a hotel
downtown to host all the expected guests. City officials went to
the trouble of installing signs on highways and streets to help
guide the expected tourists. “What if too many show up for the
opening?” the local newspaper fretted.
　　Predictably, every prominent politician in Michigan rushed to
glom on to the AutoWorld magic–and free publicity–on opening day.
Governor Jim Blanchard, who was rumored to be considering a run for
president, offered his typical bromides. “This is a great day for
Flint,” he said, “but it is also a great day for the entire state
of Michigan!”
　　”AutoWorld is a magnificent dream come true,” Senator Don Riegle
gushed. “And many of you dreamers are here tonight.”
　　Not to be outdone, Flint’s mayor compared AutoWorld’s opening to
America’s decision to declare independence from Great
Britain.
　　My parents took me to AutoWorld–once. I didn’t really care what
an assembly line looked like or how an engine was built. I attended
for one reason only: to see the Cosby kids. Somehow, AutoWorld had
lured Theo and Rudy Huxtable from the hit TV program The Cosby
Show. What those two had to do with the world of automobiles I
didn’t know. They weren’t even old enough to drive. But I wanted to
see them. So did a whole bunch of other kids. All of us were behind
a fence staring at little Rudy, who was five or six years old and
probably a millionaire. Some beside me were screaming: “Hi, Rudy!”
“Little Rudy!” “Come here, Rudy!” Rudy clung to her fake brother,
Theo, for dear life. The crowd was so frenzied that if either kid
had moved a millimeter closer to the fence, it would have been all
over.
　　Sadly, for all their glamour, even the Cosby kids couldn’t save
AutoWorld. It folded within a year. Hordes of people did not want
to spend money to walk through a giant diorama after all.
Eventually, the entire building–the “miracle”–was torn down. The
Hyatt Regency people, who knew a loser when they saw it, pulled up
stakes. All the politicians who had come to AutoWorld’s grand
opening were noticeably absent a…