FOR STUDENTS OF IRONY and pity, the presidential race last week offered its most piercing lessons yet. There was Bob Dole, the Dust Bowl, small-town boy who would still have the use of his right arm if the war had ended three weeks earlier, finding his fate in the pink, uncallused hands of a millionaire preppie publisher who grew up in a house with a name and claims to have honed his survival skills at summer camp.
After a long year of gritting his teeth and strumming the pro-life, family-values chords that are supposed to win Republican primaries, Dole now has...
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