That is why his memory is so much better. It is cleaner and more colorful. It is like a movie from the 1950s — everyone is just a little too tan, all their teeth are perfect and there is no nightmare of segregation because people of color simply do not exist.

In Trump’s recollection of an average afternoon, he played golf (with the best score!), all the world leaders told him how large his hands were and the Boy Scouts called to say he gave the best speech that they had ever heard. Trump remembers this happening.

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All of his mental landscapes are so overwhelmingly joyful that you assume the real man must be freezing to death in a snowdrift as the camera floats upward, like the “Little Match Girl.” (He has a great relationship with every world leader. He met with Congress and they loved it more than anything that had ever happened. Representatives left weeping with joy. Lindsey O. Graham is his best friend. Everyone is his best friend. He remembered to sign the legislation with his pen. He remembered his pen.)

Sometimes a bad thing happens but it leaves not a ripple in Trump’s clear and pristine mind. He hears the shouting, dimly, but it must have been applause.

He remembers things in fits and starts. He would forget that there had been such a thing as the Confederacy if there were not statues to remind him. (They must not take down the statues.)

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He remembers that other presidents did not make calls of condolence. He sent out condolence letters that were the best and most thoughtful condolence letters, even if they were delivered by rush post.

He remembers that what really counts is that he tried. He remembers that he said La David Johnson’s name early and clearly. He remembers that his words were well-received.

He called a Gold Star widow, and she was so pleased to hear from him. He was so nice it was almost unbelievable. Most people would not believe it, but he knew. The words that came out of his mouth were eloquent and perfect. Everyone around him was smiling. Even through the phone he could hear them smiling through their tears. “It is so wonderful you called,” they said. “We understand what you meant to say,” they said. “We understand everything.”

He went outside and a bird settled on his shoulder and a beautiful water drop fell from the sky — on other people, not on him. “You are my favorite,” a voice said from the clouds. (It was God.) “Don’t worry,” the voice said, “I saw what you meant to do, and it was just perfect.” Trump knew that it was.

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Every so often there is a glitch. He will look at the wrong TV, and it will say something mean. Or he will look at a screen where there should be a TV, and instead there is a mean man staring back at him who blinks when he blinks and whose eyes are squinty and cold.

But then there are people who will reassure him. He sits down for an interview. “You’re one of the most loved and respected,” Lou Dobbs said. He remembers all this.

Other people, he is told, can lie awake for years remembering something they said that was not quite right that they are not even sure if the other person heard. Trump remembers nothing like that. He only says the right things. He sleeps soundly, listening to the steady beating of his heart. (His doctor told him something about his heart, he remembers. Trump knows it must have been the best.)

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Those who don’t learn history are doomed to repeat it. Those who don’t learn history are doomed to think they WANT to repeat it. Those who don’t learn history have strong, positive recollections of the mid-20th century.

This is the greatness he longs for, the greatness that only exists in his memory. There were heroes in those days. Boys could be boys in those days. The food tasted better and all the women were nines, and dressed to it.