Under ordinary circumstances, we’d spare you the drudgery of Trumpthink in this spot. But when it’s Patricia Lockwood, Twitter’s poet laureate, you know it’s gonna be funny as hell and actually not soul-destroying. For this electric piece of Trumping in The New Republic, she dives deep into the infernal fires, right down there where the cow truthers live.
The reporters around me entered a hive rhythm, interacting with the scene entirely through their laptop screens. I wondered what they were writing, what it was possible to write. Polemic has not worked, and neither has the I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know-that-we-know tone we’ve come to adopt in straight news stories. Trump presents a surface with no handle, a wall without a door. He is the opposite of nuclear physics but has the same effect: When you set out to think about his implications, your mind runs up against the problem of scope.