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Obama and Putin. Then Kathy Ruemmler, who has just left her job as White
House Counsel joins. She is already in the mix as a possible next attorney
general, but, in fact, will withdraw from consideration in part to work with
Epstein.
Larry Summers wife, Elisa New, drops by. She teaches Americna
poetry at Harvard and is putting together a proposal for a series on poetry
that WGBH in Boston may produce and Epstein is advising on where she
might go for added support (he also makes mince meat of her budget).
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Perhaps it’s just the ultimate feminist nightmare: Men (and a few
opportunistic women) continue to come to Epstein’s because, no matter their
public bows to modern manners, they simply don’t care that he offends
every aspect of feminist sensibility; when it comes to power, feminism
doesn’t count.
Or, it’s a guilty pleasure. People who know Jeffrey exchange
“Jeffrey” stories. “That’s Jeffrey,” says Mort Zuckerman, the real estate
billionaire and publisher of the Daily News (ever vitriolic in its coverage of
Epstein), with a twinkle in his eye and obvious enjoyment, to tales of
Epstein escapades. It is an outréness that Epstein seems delighted to
cultivate. In Epstein’s Paris apartment, 20,000 square feet on the Avenue
Foch, a neighborhood otherwise occupied by foreign potentates, there is a
stuffed baby elephant in his living room—that 1s, the elephant in the room.
The single book on his bedside table is Lotlita (he is, beyond the joke, a
great Nobokov fan).
Or, in a more sophisticated view, it’s a two tier understanding of the
world. There is a media version of the world, which most of us live in and
largely accept, and are certainly influenced by. And then there are those
people who live in the media itself and therefore know that it’s mostly bunk.
If the media says it, as likely some version of the opposite is true. I might
guess too that for many of his visitors there’s an order of identification: there
but for the grace of God. Any hyper-prominent person might, at any time,
run afoul of prosecutors, the political moment, the media, or the Internet hoi
polloi.
Epstein is the Dreyfus of the rich.
And then there is the glue of wealth. Once, at lunch in the Epstein
dinning room with Bill Richardson, the former Governor of New Mexico,
and past Presidential aspirant, when Epstein left the room for a few minutes,
I asked the obvious question, the one everybody asks each other, “How did
you meet Jeffrey?” Richardson seemed surprised: “Jeffrey,” he said, as
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