To their confusion, and often to their regret, Americans seemed faced with two Jimmy Carters. One was the man whose presidency, won by a squeak and relinquished amid the humiliation of the Tehran hostage crisis, seemed an essay in weakness and naivety. This was the chief executive who once addressed the nation in a grey cardigan, sitting by a guttering fire; who, at the peak of the energy crisis in 1979, as Americans queued miserably for petrol, wanly criticised their malaise; who, at peak of the cold war, seemed to hope he could effect a thaw by writing a personal letter to the exiled nuclear physicist Andrei Sakharov; and whose bid to rescue the hostages ended with a helicopter crash in the desert. This was also the man who, out fishing, was said to have been assailed by a “killer rabbit” that swam towards him; who, when jogging, suffered heatstroke; and who admitted to Playboy magazine that he had often committed “adultery in my heart”, inciting a wave of mockery from sophisticates on both coasts.
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