By the time Madeleine Albright sinks into a wicker chair at a corner table in a quiet Georgetown restaurant, the circles under her eyes are dark and deep. She's running an hour late; she's skipped a reception at the Czech embassy. Her ambassador in Paris is dying. It has been a long day. The Merlot comes in a big glass.
When she is tired, she can slide, invisibly and gracefully, into auto-pilot, so she can keep on thinking even as she tells her stories. Her voice is at once warm and precise--her transitions seamless as she knits together bits of speeches,...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In