RUTHFULLY YOURS

The photograph of a bloodied former President Trump defiantly pumping his fist in the air beneath the American flag as his Secret Service minders struggle to protect him was immediately among the most indelible political images of the past half-century. As memorable as a hunched Richard Nixon signaling V for victory, or JFK standing tall in West Berlin, these are the kinds of images that are impossible for political operatives to gainsay or counterfeit, because they capture character in action. Once seen, these images are impossible to unsee. This was one of them.

In Trump’s case, the photograph was of a man who took a bullet in front of his supporters and lived, just like he said he would. He got up with blood on his face, in front of 10,000 or more people, and showed both the presence of mind and the unkillable ego strength to stage the political photograph of the century with himself as the star. Worship him or hate his guts, it was the most Trumpian act imaginable.

For the record, I don’t vote. I think it’s wrong for reporters to pick sides. But I found Trump to be a vulgarian whose first term in office was mostly a disaster, culminating in the social catastrophe of mass lockdowns and mandatory vaccinations whose health effects remain to be reckoned with. In his time in office, he was: easily distracted; surrounded himself with a sordid assortment of flunkies and scum; confused words with actions; and displayed the managerial ability to run a shoeshine stand in one of his few remaining Manhattan buildings, which are decorated in taste so gaudy it seems likely to repel even midlevel Azerbaijani millionaires, or whoever the audience for these places was originally supposed to be.

However, as it turns out, I am even less of a fan of the people who have spent the last seven years weaving wild conspiracy theories about a duly elected president in an attempt to drive him from office by zeroing out the store of public trust in every institution in America, and in doing so have turned the American press, academia, and other places that once served entirely useful social functions into a Soviet-style moral, intellectual, and aesthetic wasteland.