A couple of weeks ago, right before I got married, I stayed at the Trump SoHo with some friends for a final weekend in New York before M and I eloped to Annapolis & beyond (specifically, the Inn at Little Washington, aka the best place in the world). There is a common room at the Trump SoHo called “The Library.” You can order and drink whiskey, neat, in the library. You can look out over Spring Street and marvel at the Village from the library and trade witty reparte with your friends who have come to send your single self off in big-hearted Manhattanish style. You cannot, though, find much in the way of books in the library. There are some built-in shelves, a few bestselling masculine biographies: John Adams, JFK, that sort of thing. I recall a hand full of huge hardbacked Taschen volumes, which are lovely objects, definitely, but not really books. It was that kind of library, if you know what I mean. It was the sort of “library” made for the sort of “reader” that I have always assumed Donald Trump to be. For those people, the ones who made and enjoy the Trump SoHo library, behold: the Table of Books
Right now it’s down from $330 to the bargain price of $195.
I think I speak for all of us when I say, baby, I’ve been sleeping next to a stack like this for the last 13 years of my life. I don’t pay it, it pay me. Anyway, that’s the dream. The other dream is to become so neatly middle-class that instead of bothering to stack actual books, you pay someone $300 to construct a reasonable facsimile of a stack of fake books for you. America!