This is a man who seems to have no joy in his life. His only pleasure, if you can even call it that, comes from putting down anyone who opposes him, which his father apparently taught him is winning - and losing is completely unthinkable. He doesn't seem to enjoy music or art; he doesn't go to plays or concerts; he doesn't appreciate nature; he doesn't even like pets; he doesn't read anything but news items about himself; he has no real friends, just toadies and hangers-on; his wife doesn't seem to especially like him and all of his wives have been nothing but arm-candy for him (and he cheated on all of them); his relationships with his oldest children are weird, to say the least, and he seems to have none at all with the youngest; he has no hobbies other than golf, at which he cheats because he always has to win; and he's so absurdly vain that he is said to need two hours to do his hair and makeup. Everthing is superficial. He has to have the biggest, the best, the most expensive, the most ostentatious because he needs everyone to know that he's rich. His NYC apartment looks like Versailles redecorated by Saddam Hussein's pimp. He spends every waking hour fretting about the possibility that someone else might be richer, more powerful, more appreciated, more valued, and it drives him crazy. I can't imagine a more miserable existence. But in the process of trying to fill the bottomless black hole of his ego he is causing immeasurable damage, even killing people. So, yes, he's a sad, wretched specimen, but I can't bring myself to feel sorry for him except maybe in the Buddhist sense of compassion for all sentient beings.