There's a lot to take away from The New Yorker's recent inside look of Trump, as told to Jane Mayer mostly by Trump's one-time ghost-writer Tony Schwartz. In particular, there are two lessons that should especially not escape a discerning soul.

The first is the admonition to read more. It is true, of course, that the world of journalism extolls the virtues of reading perhaps above all else. That those who have "made it" in an industry that relies on readership and cultivates high-brow thoughts should be disproportionately made up of people who like to read, and that they snub their nose at those who do not, should come as no surprise. But it is still a damning judgement. Trump ostensibly doesn't read books, and those whom we may love more do. Whom would we rather emulate?

The second chilling moment comes at the revelation that, at the time Schwartz was following Trump to write The Art of the Deal, he discovered that Trump ended most calls with people by telling them that they're "the greatest!". This deceptive and generously-spread superlative reeks of insincerity and ego-stroking. But it is most chilling because it's an easy pit to fall into. Recently I had been thinking about my own over-use of all-too-easy superlatives, the casual conversations with friends that inevitably left me falsely flattering them, or the feeling I got when I was ingenuously lauded with such titles. (Am I REALLY the greatest? Or...do you say that to everyone?)

In a world that increasingly leaves us feeling helpless, if making the world less Trumpian is desired, perhaps we should all read a little more and flatter a little less.

We have our work cut out for us.