Roger Kimball is a US columnist for The Spectator, the publisher of Encounter Books and the editor and publisher of the New Criterion.
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Freddy is joined this week by Roger Kimball, editor of the New Criterion to talk about the diminishing power of Ron DeSantis. It wasn't so long ago he looked like a serious challenger that could beat Donald Trump to the Republican nomination. Where did it all go wrong?
Humankind, said T.S. Eliot, cannot bear very much reality. A case in point was the chyron that Fox News posted briefly on June 13. That was the day that Donald Trump was arraigned in Miami. The news story featured a split screen. On the left was Joe Biden speaking at an event in Washington for the secretary-general of NATO. On the right was Donald Trump addressing supporters in New Jersey. Underneath ran the unspeakable truth: “Wannabe dictator speaks at the White House after having his political rival arrested.” That fresh-breeze-of-truth window was open for a total of twenty-seven seconds. Then it was slammed shut. But that was long enough. Our Guardians on the internet erupted in fury. Fox issued a public apology and canned the veteran producer responsible on the spot.
Every good vintner deserves a good origin story. David Bruce, the founder of the eponymous winery in the Santa Cruz hills, has one of the best. When he was at medical school at Stanford in the 1950s, he chanced upon Alexis Lichine’s classic book The Wines of France. Lichine said some fancy and evocative things about the great wines of Richebourg in Burgundy. Bruce padded down to a wine shop in San Francisco and collared a bottle of 1954 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Richebourg. “The minute I opened this bottle of wine,” he recalled, “the whole room was pervaded by this floral, spicy aroma.” Here’s the kicker: “I remember thinking, I guess you get what you pay for.” Oh yeah? He paid $7.50 for the bottle.
I was just leaving France when I got the news that that the Czech novelist Milan Kundera had died, aged ninety-four. He had emigrated to Paris in 1975, when he was forty-six, a refugee from the crackdown in Prague following the Russian obliteration of the Prague Spring in 1968. He died in his adopted city on July 11, full of honors but also, or so it seems to me, largely forgotten. I had not been following Kundera’s work for many years. But there was a moment, in the 1980s, when he was the talk of the posh, intellectual literary town. I wrote a longish essay about him for the New Criterion in 1986. I draw on that work here. Kundera was in his late thirties when he published his first novel, The Joke, in Prague in 1967.
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I think it was the once-renowned critic Clement Greenberg who gratefully acknowledged that his job as a cultural commentator allowed him to conduct his education in public. I suppose we all do it, more or less furtively, though what prompts me to mention it now is the realization that I do not know the answer to any of the questions that have motivated this column. I write in the immediate aftermath of Ron DeSantis’s official announcement that, yes, he is running for the presidency of the United States in 2024. The announcement itself was no surprise — everyone has known DeSantis was running for months.
I think it was the once-renowned critic Clement Greenberg who gratefully acknowledged that his job as a cultural commentator allowed him to conduct his education in public. I suppose we all do it, more or less furtively, though what prompts me to mention it now is the realization that I do not know the answer to any of the questions that have motivated this column. I write in the immediate aftermath of Ron DeSantis’s official announcement that, yes, he is running for the presidency of the United States in 2024. The announcement itself was no surprise — everyone has known DeSantis was running for months.
It is a crisp, beautiful spring day as I write. The air is light and clear. The skies are a color I have always thought of as Virgin Mary blue, punctuated here and there by attractively arranged puffs of clouds at their whitest and least threatening. The greens of the verdure are at their most flashing and emerald-like. That freshness will be enveloped by summer fullness by the time you read this, a contingency that makes me conclude that something like an abbreviated wine-diary — some of what Kimball drank during the month of May — might appeal to the connoisseurs and aficionados of the column. Let’s start at the tip-top.
“Because that’s where the money is.” That was the answer that Willie Sutton, an expert in his chosen field, gave when asked why he robbed banks. Maybe the Bidens, Joe and Hunter, should consider employing a kindred candor about their business activities in Romania, Ukraine and elsewhere back when Joe was Obama’s VP. So far, they have been disappointing on that score. Here’s the state of play: an FBI whistleblower revealed the existence of a complicated bribery scheme that allegedly funneled millions of dollars into the Bidens’ coffers via a network of at least twenty shell companies set up to launder the dough.
I suspect that Chris Christie’s fondest dream — a dream, that is, not involving calorie intake — is to reprise his barrage against Marco Rubio with Donald Trump as the target. Christie’s preferred rhetorical weapon is the blunderbuss, and he can be quite effective. I used to delight in watching his fusillades against whining public school teachers and, truth be told, I snickered a little watching him blow a hole in Marco Rubio’s presidential aspirations. Can he do the same thing to Donald Trump? That’s his hope. Christie, who is set to announce his candidacy for the GOP presidential nomination in New Hampshire today, is basically running as an anti-Trump attack mastiff. This was not always his role.
There were no surprises in Donald Trump's pre-taped town hall-style Fox News interview with Sean Hannity outside Des Moines, Iowa last night. The former president was relaxed and confident, Hannity was deferential, the audience was eager and enthusiastic. In sum, the hour-long interview was a love fest from start to finish. There was no drama, only vote-for-me boiler-plate from Trump and adulation from the audience. I suspect, however, that certain segments of the population were riveted by the performance. Anyone working for Trump's rivals had to be dispirited by the interview. Fox is officially off Trump, but here their most popular TV personality (now that Tucker Carlson is gone) was troweling on the love while the audience clapped and and cheered. USA, USA, USA...
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Free tickets to Disney World: maybe that’s what Ron the aspiring Don should give to the clever staffer who thought of having him announce his candidacy for POTUS on Twitter Spaces. It was only the official announcement, of course. But having him unfold the bulletin on Twitter Spaces, in an unscripted chat with Elon Musk, was supposed to transform a rote, ho-hum, so-what-I-already-knew-that non-event into a media happening. When I last checked, Tucker Carlson’s 'We’re Back' Twitter clip had garnered more than 132 million views (take that, Fox). How did Ron do? From where I and some friends sat, it was more or less like the Thresher’s final voyage. Or maybe like one of SpaceX’s rapid unscheduled disassemblies.
Is the United States a one-party state? Surely not. Just look at the ballots the next time you vote. There are nearly always Republican as well as Democratic candidates, and often there are candidates from other parties as well (Green, Working Families, Libertarian, etc.). But when you go beyond the labels, what do you find? Tucker Carlson, a recent victim of the uniparty monopoly, put it very well. “Suddenly, the United States looks very much like a one-party state,” he said in a post-Fox video. “That’s a depressing realization,” he added. “But it’s not permanent.” I think he is right about both things: the depressing reality that the United States looks more and more like a one-party state and the fact that the situation is not, at least not necessarily, permanent.
So, I’ve have been rooting around in Horace’s Epistles, which are full of amusing things. They really are not “epistles” in the conventional sense, since they were make-believe letters, artfully wrought jebux d’esprit that employ the convention of addressing a friend in order to entertain not (or not only) that friend (who may or may not exist) but one’s readers. Horace wrote two books of Epistles, one circa 21 BC when he was in his early forties, one a decade later, a few years before his death in 8 BC at the (it seems now) tender age of fifty-six. One that caught my eye when sitting down to write this column was Epistle 1.
Well, well, well. That is to say, I told you so. Finally, at last, it was about time, scary-looking special counsel John Durham has delivered his report on the stinking, corrupt, lying, no-good partisan machine that is the FBI and the Department of Justice. Just as I and the rest of the non-Hillary commentariat told you, what he showed was that the Deep State’s investigation into possible collusion (remember that once-ubiquitous word?) between Donald Trump and the Russkies was a partisan witch hunt fabricated by Team Hillary. The report is full of the antiseptic bureaucratese that specialists recommend to their insomniac patients. The FBI “failed to uphold their mission of strict fidelity to the law,” yada, yada, yada.
“Thank you, CNN, for securing Trump's upcoming landslide victory in 2024.” Perhaps that tweet slightly overstated the case, but only slightly. All across the political spectrum today, the cry echoes: “What were they thinking?” AOC and her minions are skirling about CNN’s “irresponsibility” for even hosting a town hall event with Trump in New Hampshire. “CNN should be ashamed of itself,” she tweeted. On the pro-Trump side, there was also plenty of head-shaking — but this time accompanied by a dollop of glee. The CNN host, Kaitlan Collins, tried manfully to trap Trump, but he was too agile and too brazen to be caught by her little “gotcha” attempts.
What’s that flapping sound? Could it be the sound of chickens coming home to roost? Or maybe it’s just the grating noise of secretary of state Antony Blinken rolling himself into a ball and, pressing his eyes shut and cupping hands over his ears, repeating, mantra-like, “please make it stop”? I don’t know exactly what the noise is or whence it comes. But Thursday’s revelations from the House Judiciary and Intelligence Committees about Blinken and Obama’s acting CIA director and all-round Democratic Mr. Fixit Michael Morell are certainly brewing up a storm.
Regular readers may recall how fond I am of a mot from the British diplomat, author and art collector Edgar Vincent, the first (and, as it happened, the last) Viscount d’Abernon: “An Englishman’s mind works best when it is almost too late.” When I first encountered Lord D’Abernon’s saying, I was impressed by its slightly disabused cheerfulness. “Whew,” I thought. “As usual, some impending disaster was neatly avoided at the last moment by the wit and pluck of the doughty Brits.” The drama of the near-escape added to the sweetness of relief. Surely we Yankees — most of whom, until recently, were basically displaced Brits — could also be counted on to display the requisite derring-do at the critical moment. Could we though? “Almost too late.
North of Cognac and Bordeaux, due west of Burgundy, the valley of the Loire River, attended on the second half of its journey east by the Cher River, stretches from the Pays Nantes and the Atlantic Ocean to Orléans in the heart of France. It is not quite right to say that this area is like Hamlet’s “undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns,” but it’s my sense that Americans tend to overlook it in favor of its flashier neighbors. This is a pity, not only because the Loire Valley boasts lots of excellent wine, but also because the region still offers many conspicuous bargains, something you will look long and hard for in Bordeaux or Burgundy.
I almost feel sorry for John Kirby, the National Security Council spokesman tasked with tidying up after the icky messes deposited about the landscape by Joe Biden. Let me emphasize the adverb “almost.” Kirby’s job is unenviable. Basically he has to lie and pretend that his boss and that excruciating, illiterate muppet of a press secretary, Karine Jean-Pierre, make sense. It’s always a horrible goulash that Kirby has to contend with. He has my sympathy for that. But yesterday, when Kirby stood before the press to answer questions about the administration’s report on Ameirca’s humiliating flight from Afghanistan in August 2021, his performance was not just cringe-making. It was infuriating.
So, everyone was even more right than they thought: Alvin Bragg’s breathlessly awaited arraignment of former president Donald Trump really was the Oakland of all arraignments. It was just as Gertrude Stein said of that California city: there is no there there. The indictment had thirty-four counts — thirty-four! Everyone expected them to be more or less the same count, just repeated with some sort of elegant variation to hold the attention of his audience. But, minimalist that he is, the George-Soros-funded district attorney exceeded expectation. Bragg came up with one charge. The statute of limitations had passed on it, but that didn’t matter. He liked the charge, misdemeanor though it was.
