Post-President For Life

The post-presidency of Bill Clinton will, like the Clinton Administration, be noisy and attention-getting. Will it accomplish anything—or turn out to be limbo in overdrive? Clinton is the youngest ex-President since Teddy Roosevelt—and he is still the most skillful politician in the Democratic Party. What he does with the rest of his life will set a precedent for the growing number of vigorous and long-lived ex-Presidents to come
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Late last year I spent an afternoon talking with Bill Clinton in Fayetteville, at the University of Arkansas. When it was over, all I wanted was to get either a coffee or a beer. Clinton had made one major speech and several other appearances earlier that day, and was due in Chicago that night. As we stepped out of the interview room, we found scores of people still waiting to catch a glimpse of him. Naturally he headed for them and, with apparent delight, shook hands with each person and had his picture taken with most. Once, such a performance could have been explained as part of his thirty-year campaign for electoral approval. Now he does it because he likes to.

And because he can. Two years after he left the White House at age fifty-four, the youngest former President since Theodore Roosevelt, nearly a century earlier, Bill Clinton remains almost alarmingly vigorous. Roosevelt, who was an ex-President at fifty, had served seven years and could have chosen to run again. He soon regretted not having done so, and for the next presidential election he was back, in a losing effort as the Bull Moose Party nominee. But running for President is one of the very few options not open to Bill Clinton. (Before Clinton only Dwight Eisenhower and Ronald Reagan were affected by the Twenty-second Amendment, and both were too old and sick to have run again anyway.)

Clinton would clearly run again if he could. In speeches he says he was "too young" and "too restless" to just retire after leaving office. What will he do with himself? How he uses these stores of energy is of obvious importance to him. It will also matter to the rest of us, both because of factors peculiar to Clinton and because of general trends in the role of former Presidents.

The factors peculiar to Clinton involve the aftereffects of his presidency. His central rhetorical theme in office concerned transition—building the "bridge to the twenty-first century," moving the economy from the industrial to the technological age, expanding alliances to reflect the end of the Cold War, changing the Democratic message so that the party could win national elections. The strategy was an obvious success while Clinton was in office. But two years after his departure the completion of each transition is in doubt.

Clinton's Vice President, Al Gore, could not hold the presidency. Clinton himself probably could have done so, as he is known to believe, which only reinforces the suspicion that his two terms demonstrated personal virtuosity more than lasting institutional effect. Consider the contrast with Ronald Reagan: Reagan was not in shape to have won a third term, but his Vice President, the elder George Bush, was elected, and Reagan's impact on his party helped it toward its current natural-majority status in Congress.

The prosperity of Clinton's 1990s, hailed as a "long boom" then, is being reconsidered as a "bubble" now. Both labels overstate reality, but the prolonged current recession inevitably raises doubts about the previous gains. The main defense and security problem of the moment, dealing with terrorism, is one that Clinton today says he was deeply concerned about, but it was hardly the centerpiece of the Administration's public statements.

Clinton is lionized around the world to an extraordinary degree. He is more popular in most foreign countries than those countries' own leaders. When he appeared with Tony Blair last fall at the British Labour Party's annual conference, and made an indirect but unmistakable attack on the domestic policies of George W. Bush, he received a two-minute standing ovation and rapturous comment in the press. "There is no single definition of what makes a great political speech," the Guardian observed in a representative editorial. "Yet no one who was present at Blackpool yesterday afternoon was in any doubt that they had just heard one ... If one were reviewing it, five stars would not be enough ... What a speech. What a pro. And what a loss to the leadership of America and the world."

The performance was so powerful that Blair promptly called Bush to assure him of his continued loyalty and support. At another recent gathering in England, Clinton so upstaged all others, including Blair, that some attendees thought the Prime Minister was miffed. In response to a question I put to him, Blair graciously said of Clinton, "I'm giving no secrets away by saying his contribution was, for many people, the highlight of the weekend ... People listen because they know that he knows what he is talking about."

Yet in his own country Clinton's position is as ambiguous as ever. An illustration of a point everyone understands: On my way to hear Clinton's speech in Fayetteville, I was trapped in traffic amid the throngs of supporters eager to get there. The taxi driver, a native Arkansan, used the time to give an extra-detailed explanation of why Clinton was not simply a terrible President but perhaps the greatest liar ever born.

The polarizing nature of Clinton's personality is a given. But while in office he could always point to his "job approval" rating—essentially, public gratitude for peace and prosperity —as proof of his worth. Retroactively that rating is being revised. Although he cannot run for re-election, he may feel he has to run for history's approval, as Jimmy Carter has done with his good works, and as Richard Nixon attempted to do with his many books about foreign policy. And as was the case with Nixon and Carter, the end of Clinton's presidency has not meant the end of a vociferous anti-Clinton chorus in politics and parts of the press.

In short, Clinton has both motive and opportunity to keep himself in the public eye: motive because of doubts about his legacy; opportunity because of his vigor and relative youth. His circumstances fit a more general trend, which is the institutionalization of the post-presidency as part of political life.

When George W. Bush took office, America had five living former Presidents. Only once before, and briefly, had there been so many. A series of one-term administrations in the pre-Civil War decades left five ex-Presidents on the scene at the start of Abraham Lincoln's term. (Several of them opposed Lincoln's anti-slavery policies, and one, John Tyler, was actually elected to the Confederate House of Representatives.) The difference now is all the structure, expectations, and opportunities that come with being an ex-President.

A presidential-library system gives former Presidents a reason to raise millions of dollars, and provides a venue for conferences, staff reunions, historical displays, and so on. There are corporate directorships, the lecture circuit, celebrity golf tournaments. A world media market has made U.S. Presidents some of the best-known people on earth. They are invited to give speeches, receive awards, resolve disputes, support worthy causes. Foreign publishers bid eagerly for rights to their books.

Different ex-Presidents find different ways of using these opportunities, but the younger they are, the more opportunities they are likely to seize. They have more energy. They need more money for the years ahead. They often have more to prove. They have more time in which to carry out their plans. When Jimmy Carter received the Nobel Prize, twenty-two years after he left the White House, he was only a few months older than Ronald Reagan had been at the end of his second term. Carter was fifty-six when he left the presidency, Reagan seventy-nine.

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James Fallows is a national correspondent for The Atlantic and has written for the magazine since the late 1970s. He has reported extensively from outside the United States and once worked as President Carter's chief speechwriter. His latest book is China Airborne. More

James Fallows is based in Washington as a national correspondent for The Atlantic. He has worked for the magazine for nearly 30 years and in that time has also lived in Seattle, Berkeley, Austin, Tokyo, Kuala Lumpur, Shanghai, and Beijing. He was raised in Redlands, California, received his undergraduate degree in American history and literature from Harvard, and received a graduate degree in economics from Oxford as a Rhodes scholar. In addition to working for The Atlantic, he has spent two years as chief White House speechwriter for Jimmy Carter, two years as the editor of US News & World Report, and six months as a program designer at Microsoft. He is an instrument-rated private pilot. He is also now the chair in U.S. media at the U.S. Studies Centre at the University of Sydney, in Australia.

Fallows has been a finalist for the National Magazine Award five times and has won once; he has also won the American Book Award for nonfiction and a N.Y. Emmy award for the documentary series Doing Business in China. He was the founding chairman of the New America Foundation. His recent books Blind Into Baghdad (2006) and Postcards From Tomorrow Square (2009) are based on his writings for The Atlantic. His latest book is China Airborne. He is married to Deborah Fallows, author of the recent book Dreaming in Chinese. They have two married sons.

Fallows welcomes and frequently quotes from reader mail sent via the "Email" button below. Unless you specify otherwise, we consider any incoming mail available for possible quotation -- but not with the sender's real name unless you explicitly state that it may be used. If you are wondering why Fallows does not use a "Comments" field below his posts, please see previous explanations here and here.
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