Dislike of him should be tempered by this
consideration: He is an almost inexpressibly sad specimen. It must be misery to
awaken to another day of being Donald Trump. He seems to have as many friends
as his pluperfect self-centeredness allows, and as he has earned in an entirely
transactional life. His historical ignorance deprives him of the satisfaction
of working in a house where much magnificent history has been made. His
childlike ignorance — preserved by a lifetime of single-minded self-promotion —
concerning governance and economics guarantees that whenever he must interact
with experienced and accomplished people, he is as bewildered as a
kindergartener at a seminar on string theory.
Which is why this fountain of self-refuting boasts
(“I have a very good brain”) lies so much. He does so
less to deceive anyone than to reassure himself. And as balm for his base,
which remains oblivious to his likely contempt for them as sheep who can be
effortlessly gulled by preposterous fictions. The tungsten strength of his
supporters’ loyalty is as impressive as his indifference to expanding their
numbers.
Either the electorate, bored with a menu of faintly
variant servings of boorishness, or the 22nd Amendment will end this, our shabbiest
but not our first shabby presidency. As Mark Twain and fellow novelist William
Dean Howells stepped outside together one morning, a downpour began and Howells asked, “Do you think it will stop?”
Twain replied, “It always has.”
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