In his valedictory press conference Monday, George Bush talked about the emotional burden of the presidency, challenged the notion that the job can be isolating, and repeatedly mused about what he'll do in retirement. These observations were remarkable not so much for their insight but for their mere existence. Like his father, Bush has steadfastly (and sometimes defiantly) resisted self-analysis—in private as well as in public. This may be the most fundamental difference between the 43rd and the 44th president: In Barack Obama, America will have a president who not merely allows for self-reflection. He revels in it.
In Bush's final press conference, we saw what may be the last flash of presidential anti-introspection for at least four years. Discussing the emotional weight of the office, which has been known to cause presidents to become self-reflective, Bush quickly dismissed such moments as wallows in self-pity. "I believe this—the phrase 'burdens of the office' is overstated. You know, it's kind of like, why me?" he said, taking on a whiny voice and hunching over. "Oh, the burdens, you know. 'Why did the financial collapse have to happen on my watch?' It's just—it's pathetic, isn't it, self-pity." (Which makes me wonder what Bush thinks of Lincoln, a president he has been reading a lot about lately and one who suffered nearly crippling bouts of depression.)
Obama, meanwhile, is not just a writer. He's an inveterate memoirist whose self-reflection is not merely an exercise in self-love (as all memoir-writing is, in part) but an act of personal definition. It's how he has come to know himself and create himself, writing and rewriting his history as he lives it. He is our first palimpsest president since Theodore Roosevelt.
In his first book, Dreams From My Father, Obama describes growing up in several worlds but feeling part of none of them. "I had been forced to look inside myself and had found only a great emptiness there," he writes, a line that could be on every page. Through the book, we see him try on personas and discard them, retaining some elements of each as he builds his new self.
Bush, by contrast, still has much of the Midland, Texas, identity of his boyhood, which he has jealously guarded all his life. In his final press conference, it was natural that Bush would refer to the opinion of his Midland friends.
Obama's self-authorship didn't end with the publication of his first book. In a 1996 interview discovered this week by ABC News, he discussed himself and his marriage: "I think that in a certain way, I've tried all my life to fabricate a family through stories, memories, friends or ideas."
In his second book, The Audacity of Hope, he regularly plumbs his own feelings to define the contours of his new self. It is this practice, perhaps, that helped him form a quick empathy with Bush. "I find the president and those who surround him pretty much like everybody else, possessed of the same mix of virtues and vices, insecurities and long-buried injuries, as the rest of us. No matter how wrong headed I might consider their policies to be … I still find it possible, in talking to these men and women, to understand their motives, and to recognize in them values I share."
Obama not only shares the same values as Bush; he shares a lot of the same traits. Still married to his first wife, he is the devoted father of two girls. He loves sports, is rigorous about his exercise routine, and has struggled with addiction (though clearly not at the same level). Like Bush, Obama talks easily and openly about how Jesus Christ fundamentally changed the direction of his life and how Christianity ultimately gave him that sense of belonging that had been absent for so long. (For Obama, however, unlike Bush, self-reflection and self-knowledge seem to be a part of his religious experience. During a 2004 conversation about religion, Obama said: "I think I have an ongoing conversation with God. I think throughout the day, I'm constantly asking myself questions about what I'm doing, why am I doing it."
One of his best speeches as a senator—an attempt to find a new synthesis between religion and politics—was founded on a reconsideration of an event that had happened months earlier. He'd given a response to a question about religion that, on reflection, he'd found wanting.