Many political figures decide to condense their life stories into autobiographies, cementing their perspectives and greatest achievements into literature for generations to read. The appeal of autobiographies is the first person recounting of commonly-known events, drawing back the curtain on someone’s life to go beyond the mere facts of an event and instead dive into how they felt during each moment. From Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s “My Own Words” to Barack Obama’s “A Promised Land,” delving into these novels often leaves me sitting in one spot for hours, unable to put the book down. As for Melania Trump’s autobiography “Melania,” I struggled to put this book down in the same way you struggle to look away from a car crash.
Sitting at 256 pages, this book should have been both shorter and longer. Longer, because Melania does an excellent job leaving thoughts unfinished, opting to jump from story to story instead. And shorter, preferably to 0 pages, because it shouldn’t have been published. Instead of discussing the numerous historical events and controversies of her husband, former president and now president-elect Donald Trump, she instead opts to discuss his skincare routine.
This book should have been called “Donald” for all intents and purposes. Throughout her autobiography, Melania finds a way to bring up her husband over and over again. While unsurprising given its October 2024 publication date, this novel was a poorly-veiled attempt to change the narrative surrounding her husband leading up to this year’s election, an ode to her “darling husband.” With abortion rights consistently at the forefront of women voters’ minds, it’s no surprise Melania spent 12 paragraphs dramatically professing her contradictory stance, as if to say, “I disagree with my husband and I married him, don’t let this stop you from voting for him.”
The novel’s jumping in and out of events and overflowing theatrical prose begs the question of just how much she paid her ghostwriter and at what point in time did the Trump campaign ask her to write this book. Whenever that was, they clearly didn’t give her enough time to organize her thoughts, though frankly, no amount of time would have made this biography good if its only purpose was to crudely flatter her husband. At times, I wasn’t quite sure what I was reading.
At one point, Melania writes that “it was a Saturday in October, a seemingly normal weekend when my memories of 9/11 came flooding back.” She chooses not to elaborate beyond that. I’m confused, the editors are confused, I think Melania may also be confused.
One obvious theme is consistently present throughout the novel: the world is out to get Melania Trump. Whether it be the media or the Democrats or systematic unfairness, nothing that goes wrong in Melania’s life has anything to do with her. One memorable example of this is when Melania is telling the reader about her time as a model. At one Slovenian modeling competition, Melania received second place, stating the first-place model had the “right connections.” Her very own speechwriting team is quickly thrown under the bus and blamed for the embarrassment Melania faced after reading an interestingly similar version of one of Michelle Obama’s speeches during the 2016 Republican National Convention.
If Melania Trump’s biography is one thing, it’s inconsistent. Growing up in the portion of communist Yugoslavia that became modern-day Slovenia gave Melania the opportunities and resources to help launch her education and, later, her career. Despite how she benefitted from a communist system, Melania crudely and inaccurately uses the term — stating that it’s “communism” when her husband is tried by U.S. courts for crimes he actually committed. Melania goes out of her way to name-drop celebrities throughout her book, but when discussing people she sees as less than herself, she does not deign to mention their names. When she talks about George Floyd, he becomes just “a Black Minneapolis resident,” and her subordinates are erased into just “secretary” and “speech-writer.” Melania’s “line of high-end skincare products,” despite selling remarkably well on QVC, never amounted to anything — due to her manufacturing manager of course — as Melania can do no wrong. Many of Melania’s shallow tangents would have been ideal opportunities to share personal insights about her relationship with her family, her mixed feelings about the beauty industry and so on. Instead, they’re given about as much thought as the book’s cover, which shows only her first name, leaving readers with a laundry list of shallow stories and parroted phrases.
Ultimately, I found that this biography is actually a love story. While it may fail to change readers’ political opinions in any capacity, I closed this book thoroughly convinced Melania and Donald Trump were soulmates. How two people so perfect for each other in all their flaunting and theatrics could somehow unite despite being oceans apart is a tale I would gladly reread all 256 pages for. Well, probably skim.