Some Like It Cool

These may simply be the vagaries of the campaign trail, but it's different for Obama than for McCain: different because he is the less-well-known candidate, the unexpected candidate, the one who is "different," the candidate to whom endless column inches have been devoted in the past months, in an effort to determine who he is and what he stands for and what he will do and what his failings might be. Like the gifted child in a family, or the disabled child in a family, Obama is the one upon whom everyone's gaze is rather tiresomely concentrated. Whether you like him or not, he's more interesting than the other guy. He's the charismatic candidate.

The German sociologist Max Weber, who wrote extensively on charisma almost a century ago, defined it as a quality that sets an individual apart from ordinary men and causes him to be "treated as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional qualities." Such leaders arise "in times of psychic, physical, economic, ethical, religious, political distress," and, exceptionally, arise only out of the authority they can create—an authority, that is, born of popular devotion, rather than arising out of tradition or legal precedent. McCain, in this instance, is the traditional choice, a man familiar through decades of public life, bearing not his own authority but that of the institutions, military and political, of which he is a part. Obama, on the other hand, arisen at breakneck speed from the common mass, faces the task of creating his own authority, of convincing voters of his forcefulness simply by showing that, as his team's chant would have it, "Yes, We Can."

To create his charismatic authority, Obama has had to work a storyteller's magic, making of his peculiar biography an iconic narrative. Up till now, he's been very good at it. "Dreams From My Father," written more than a decade ago when he was just out of law school, is a memoir in the tradition of Saint Augustine: a confessional reflection upon his supposedly idle, occasionally misspent youth; an account of his spiritual awakening and ensuing sense of mission, and a synthesis of the two into the formation of a highly aware, ethical and committed social being. He writes surprisingly well, often lyrically, with a keen sense of detail and a wry detachment. Indeed, this self-awareness, manifest so early, is a constant in his construction of a public self. It's as if he believes—in an almost magical way—that to air all faults, to foresee criticisms and complications before they arise, is to vaccinate himself against them. (In this way, more recently, he has voiced potential Republican complaints about his candidacy on the campaign trail—such as, indeed, the aforementioned idea that Republicans will dub him risky—in the apparent hope that in so doing he will defuse them.) But as the campaign proceeds into its final months, Obama faces a new difficulty, one in which the compensations of his forethoughtfulness and his storytelling talent are strenuously challenged. These gifts don't count for much if someone else—the press—is shaping the story.

When Obama appears in public, his charisma is evident. He flashes his 1,000-watt smile. He rolls up his sleeves. He modulates his voice, and his syntax, and his sentence structure, depending upon his audience. We know from his writings that he is an observer of details; we know from his biography that he is eminently adaptable, and a quick learner. If humility is called for, he takes the physical postures of humility, his head bowed, his hands behind his back, his slender frame seeming to reduce itself before our eyes. When strength is in order, his height, his prominent sober head, his long arms all lend him a commanding aura, and his voice, with its oratorical cadences, booms. When he is called upon to listen, he truly listens, his head cocked to one side, his face furrowed in concentration, his eyes all but unblinking, his body completely still. He cracks jokes; he asks intelligent questions; he maintains a level of civility and gravitas for which, by all indications, the American public is thirsty. People, hearing him speak, are swayed by this presence; they are frequently converted.

When Obama makes a truly unannounced stop at the Bell Restaurant in Lebanon, Mo., a small town in the Ozarks, there is an audible intake of breath at his arrival. The Bell is a diner with cracked orange vinyl seats, speckled Formica floors and fat slices of pie in tight Saran Wrap, visited by frustrated flies, dotted along the counter. Out back, there is a bell-shaped pool, empty now, visible through smeary plate-glass windows. The air inside hangs heavy with tobacco, and many of the patrons are leathered by a lifetime of smoking. They are largely older, white, country people, surprised at their late lunches or early suppers by the grand retinue and the man at its center. A woman of 80 or thereabouts, rail thin, with a shock of flossy hair, dressed as if for church in a puffy white blouse and a long skirt, introduces herself and embraces Obama enthusiastically near the door, while another customer pushes his baseball cap back on his forehead and mutters, "Don't that beat all."

Obama makes his way slowly through the restaurant, stopping to chat quietly with all who are interested. He responds to one middle-aged man's question about oil production and offshore drilling ("What I don't want to do is say something just because it sounds good politically"), then shakes the hands of four retirees in a booth, saying, "Gentlemen, I'm sorry for all the fuss," before discussing the state of the economy. Mary Andersen, the young waitress in a crimson smock at the cash register, is all aflutter, busy, like many others in the diner, taking Obama's photograph with her cell phone: "I think he's awesome," she says. "His personality—I'm just—I'm so nervous and overwhelmed." At her shoulder, Shirley Tucker, 58, of nearby Phillipsburg, confides, "I started liking him the first time I saw him. I can't believe he's here. He reminds me of JFK."

In the back room, in front of a faded woodland diorama, Obama shakes the hand of John Daniels, a ruddy young construction worker with his front tooth missing. Daniels speaks of being out of work for six months; Obama speaks about stabilizing the economy and creating jobs. "You do that, and I'll vote for you forever," says Daniels. After Obama has moved on, a journalist asks Daniels if he will, in fact, vote for the candidate: "Yes, I will," he says. "Him talking to me helps. I hadn't made up my mind before now." There is some sense that the dazzle of Obama's presence would have sufficed, without even the words.