The Prison of Self

Ophelia Benson


One of the things I resent most (personally resent most, as opposed to fear most, hate most, or despair at most) about Life Under Trump is the way he makes it impossible to think about anything else. I resent having my thoughts dragged back to him all the time, because there is so much more to think about, so much that’s more important, more interesting, more valuable.

Trump himself is remarkably uninteresting—it never ceases to amaze how empty his head is, how repetitive and dull his words are, how shallow and embryonic his thoughts. The phenomenon of him and the consequences of him do have a morbid sort of interest, as he keeps demonstrating how childishly outrageous he can be, but that’s a function of his position and not his own nature. Stripped of the role and the money and plopped down in a bus station, he would be just another boring, cranky guy who won’t stop talking; no one would give him the time of day.

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