The Manchurian Candidate by Richard Condon

them was the heir of that father and which of them had the right to say that he should stand in that father’s shoes and place and memory. She vowed and resolved, dedicated and consecrated, that she would beat him into humiliation at whatsoever he chose to undertake, and it was to the eternal shame of their country that he chose politics and government and that she needed therefore to plunge in after him.

    Her clot of a brother had absorbed the native clottishness of her mother, a clot’s clot. How could her father have loved this woman? How could such a shining and thrilling and valiant knight have lain down with this great cow? Everyone who knew them said that Raymond’s mother was the image of her mother.
    After her beating with the hockey stick she had given her family no rest until she had been sent away to a girls’ boarding school of her own choice in the Middle West. It was chosen as her natural base of operations in politics because it was the heart of the Scandinavian immigrant country; at the chosen time the outstanding Norse nature of her father’s name and his heroic origins could be turned into blocs of votes.
    At sixteen, because she had taught herself to believe that she knew exactly what she wanted, no matter what she got, she escaped from the school every weekend, dressed herself to look older, and arranged to place herself in locations where she could use herself as bait. She seduced four men between the ages of thirty and forty-six, got no pleasure from it nor expected any, had definitely lost two of the contests after a gluttonous testing period, could have turned either of the remaining two in any direction she chose, decided on Raymond’s father because the man had a good, open face for politics and hair that was already gray although he was only thirty-six years old. She married him and bore him Raymond as soon as the gestation cycle allowed.
    Generalities, specifics, domestic manifestations, or her youth never made Raymond’s mother’s thinking fuzzy or got in the way of her plan. She knew, like a mousetrap knows the back of a mousie’s neck, that she was far too immature to be accepted publicly as the bride of a man seeking public office. She knew that it was possible that her husband might even get slightly tarred because of her age, so she had set her own late twenties as the time when she would have Raymond’s father make his move. Her reasoning was sound: by that time, when it was reported during a campaign that Raymond’s father had taken a child bride of sixteen some twelve faithful, productive years before, it would have become a romantic asset and Raymond’s father would be seen by women voters as a suggestively virile candidate. Meanwhile, she had accomplished her primary objection of escaping the authority of her mother, her brother, and the school. She had her share of her father’s substantial estate. She had started a family unit that, with few modern exceptions, was essential to success in American politics.
    Raymond’s mother was an exceptionally handsome woman who was dressed in France. This was quite shrewd, because money displaces one’s own taste when one chooses to be dressed in France. She was coiffed in New York and her very laundry seemed to have been washed in Joy de Patou. Her hair was straw blond, in the Viking tradition, and it was kept that way, no matter the inconvenience. Her sense of significant birth, her grinding virtue, and her carriage completed her pre-eminence in any group of women, and she assiduously recultivated all three attributes as a fleshy-plant fancier might exalt and extend orchid graftings. What was especially striking in the earlier photographs of Raymond’s mother was the suggestion of a smile on her full lips as they counterfeited sensuality, and in her large ecstatic eyes, which were like those of a sexually ambitious girl. In later likenesses, such as the Time cover in 1959 (and she being of the same political party as Time ’s