Love & War: Twenty Years, Three Presidents, Two Daughters and One Louisiana Home

Love & War: Twenty Years, Three Presidents, Two Daughters and One Louisiana Home

James Carville

Language: English

Pages: 368

ISBN: 0142181250

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Twenty years after the publication of the bestselling All’s Fair, James Carville and Mary Matalin look at how they—and America—have changed in the last two decades.
James Carville and Mary Matalin have long held the mantle of the nation’s most ideologically mismatched and intensely opinionated political couple. In this follow-up to All’s Fair, Carville and Matalin pick up the story they began in that groundbreaking bestseller and talk family, faith, love, and politics in their two winning voices. If nothing else, this new collaboration proves that after twenty years of marriage they can still manage to agree on a few things. A fascinating look at the last two decades in American politics and an intimate, quick-witted primer on grown-up relationships and values, Love & War provides unprecedented insight into one of our nation’s most intriguing and powerful couples. With their natural charm and sharp intelligence, Carville and Matalin have written undoubtedly the most spirited memoir of the year.

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admit that even I was not sure how useful all those stuffed animals would be. We dragged a truck full of mostly useless stuff to the campus, which was supersafe and beautiful. The instructors were top-notch, and Matty’s fellow students were wonderful. I started breathing, or at least stopped hyperventilating. Then it was time to leave. Matty walked into her dorm without a look back down the long tree-lined walk where I stood on the curb. Good thing, because standing quickly became not an

think Tim just died.” “That can’t be true,” I said. Another call was already coming in. I recognized the number. It was Barbara Fant, Tim’s executive producer at MSNBC. She was weeping. That’s when I knew. Here’s the thing. I talked to Tim Russert every day, including most weekends. For years, we hardly ever missed a day. Sometimes it was about politics. But most times it was about sports, about our families, about all kinds of other stuff. He’d call me sometimes when LSU scored a touchdown,

literally filled half the pews and all of the standing-room-only in the back of their church in St. Gabriel, Louisiana, at Christmas Mass). The Carvilles really know how to put the merry into Merry Christmas, complete with old-school Southern comfort of many varieties, including the traditional Christmas singing contest, which I always lost, even when my rousing rendition of “White Christmas” one year was clearly the best. (Maybe the whole anti–white Christmas thing was in their genes.) In any

fell apart.) I was in a puddle of self-pity, not even able to apologize to the girls, who were tsk-tsking me for my potty mouth. While James, the ultimate bah-humbug hater of white Christmases, had started to croak out Christmas tunes, cocking his head as if hearing reindeer hooves on the roof. He was joyful. He was merry. And, quite impossibly, James had suddenly become the epitome of holiday spirit. What was up with him? “Come on, Mary,” he said, pointing at the shrub, “I think it’s kind of

homing pigeon for his family, especially in danger. It’s a good thing too, because somebody did get hit by lightning that day. I said to the girls, “Let’s just stay right here and Daddy will come find us.” And he did. JAMES AFTER WE MOVED HERE, my children said to me one day, “Dad, would you give us a ride to Pinkberry?” I said, “Pinkberry, what the hell is that?” They said, “It’s a yogurt place.” So I told them, “We do not eat frozen yogurt in this family. We have snowballs, goddamn it. I

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