Roger Kimball

One of the entertainments that every election season brings revolves around polling. Every season seems to bring more and more and more frequent polls. The measure registered voters and (for all I know) unregistered ones. They register people who are designated “likely voters” and they claim to filter for gender(s), age, race, ethnic back, party affiliation or non-affiliation, ZIP code, income, and favorite pastimes, and what seems like a thousand other things.    Like everyone else who is interested in politics, I pay fretful attention to the results of these surveys and questionnaires beginning about a year out from the election itself.

What happens when you continually demonize someone as “Hitler,” insist that he is “a dictator” and “a threat to democracy?” Why, you get chaps like Thomas Matthew Crooks, who tried to kill Donald Trump at a rally in Butler, Pennsylvania, two months ago. Yesterday, Crooks was joined by Ryan Wesley Routh, a self-described “revolutionary.” Routh who showed up at the Trump International Golf Course in West Palm Beach with an AK-style rifle and a GoPro video camera. The Secret Service espied him in the underbrush a few hundred yards from President Trump. He fled the scene after the agents opened fire on him but was soon apprehended by the local police.

Sydney Smith (1771-1845), the great English wit and Anglican divine, once said that he never read a book before reviewing it because he found that “it prejudices a man so.” (He also confided that his idea of heaven was “eating pâté de foie gras to the sound of trumpets.”) I have nothing to add to Smith’s soteriological dictum. In partial defense of his announced journalistic practice, however, I will note that while it might compromise his reliability as a literary cicerone, there are plenty of situations for which such lack of exposure is a beneficial prophylactic. I write during the Democratic National Convention. I have sat down to watch none of it. Like Smith, I know that doing so would prejudice me.

The main takeaway from the ABC News ambus— er, presidential debate last night? That someone should sue the network for creating a hostile workplace environment.  The evening was supposed to offer Kamala Harris and Donald Trump an opportunity expose themselves to the public and explain their positions on various policy matters that are important to the public.   In the event, it was an event in which the immoderators, David Muir and Linsey Davis, repeatedly pecked at and corrected, or pretended to correct, one candidate, Donald Trump, while passing over lie after lie after lie emitted by Kamala Harris.  Trump did not say “there were fine people on both sides” at Charlottesville. He did not “incite an insurrection” on January 6.

I write at the end of July, just on the threshold of the “silly season,” “the months of August and September, when newspapers supply the lack of real news by articles or discussions on trivial topics.” I think the season may have come a bit early this year. That, anyway, is how I am interpreting the sudden tsunami of gossip, prognostication, animadversion and speculation about certified female-of-color Kamala Harris. By the time you read this, some of the frenzy surrounding Harris may have abated. But for the time being the news is full-to-gagging with puppies and unicorn stories about how strong, dynamic and potentially transformative she is. Also, it may not be amiss to point out, she is not Donald Trump. Watching the makeover has been partly amusing, partly alarming.

Unless you are drinking from the cistern that Bill Kristol and his herd top off daily, you will have been impressed by Donald Trump’s long press conference yesterday at his golf course in Bedminster, New Jersey. Kristol’s latest puddles include the charge that Trump and Elon Musk are “mediocre” (“two repulsive and mediocre oligarchs”), a comment that elicited more snickers than your local candy shop stocks.   It turns out that, like the House of the Lord, Donald Trump is a house with many mansions. You go to his rallies, and he is in rah-rah-cheerleading mode. He works the crowd. The enthusiasm among the tens of thousands of people is palpable. He is a master of off-the-cuff paratactic delivery and what the rhetoricians call aposiopesis.

OK, it’s August 6, the anniversary of the detonation of Little Boy over the city of Hiroshima in 1945. That marked the end of World War Two. (I know, it took one more bomb and a little more time, but August 6 was the gang plank to the signing of the act of surrender aboard the Missouri.)  Fast forward to August 6, 2024. As of 9:25 ante meridiem there have been no huge detonations. True, the market has yet to open. If we have a repeat of yesterday cautious folk will lock windows on the upper stories in the buildings where the financial experts congregate. But we do have a little whimper of news, a tiny pssst of a political crepitation. Kamala Harris has just chosen Tim Walz, tapioca progressive and governor of Minnesota as her running mate.

The question going into Joe Biden’s address to the national from the Oval Office tonight was: will he, having announced that he is dropping out of the race to be president, will he also resign the presidency now? Or would he announce that he was sticking it out till 11:59 a.m. on January 20, 2025? Given the perks of the office, and the appetites of Dr. Jill Biden, I thought it likely that he would choose to stick it out. I am often wrong in my political predictions, but about this I was right. In his sad, at times maudlin, painfully mendacious eleven-minute speech, Joe Biden told the American people that he wasn’t going anywhere. Circumstances may intervene to change that. All of us are subject to the sudden intervention of fate.

The events of the last few days have made incontrovertible something that candid observers have known for some time now: that the word “democracy” in the maw of Democrats bears the same relation to really existing democracy that the Russian word “Pravda” bore to really existing truth in the Soviet era. If you look it up, you’ll see that “Pravda” means “truth.” At least, that’s what the dictionary says it means. But anyone on the ground, experiencing the full-court press of Soviet disinformation knew that the newspaper Pravda deployed the word “truth” only to undermine it. It was necessary to pay lip service to the charade.

It’s odd how things that have been widely predicted and even widely anticipated can nevertheless occur with an emotional thunderclap. I suppose death would qualify as an example. Joe Biden’s announcement on X earlier today that he would not be seeking reelection certainly does.  The announcement had its curious aspects. For one thing, it came from his personal account, not the account of POTUS. Indeed, for a moment that made me wonder whether it was for real. A glance at the internet assured me that it was. Most of the letter is political thru-text.

Dr. Johnson once remarked that the prospect of hanging in a fortnight concentrates the mind. So, apparently, does being shot.    At least, that’s part of what I took away from Donald Trump’s long and sober acceptance speech at the Republican National Convention last night.   Many commentators have observed that there was a kinder, gentler Trump on view at the convention last night. Perhaps.   Certainly, the detailed account he gave of his experience being shot last week at his rally in Butler, Pennsylvania, was edged with a solemness and humility that have not been prominent parts of Trump’s rhetorical armory. I hope readers will appreciate that little exercise in litotes.

Last week at a fundraiser, Joe Biden said that it was time to get beyond his poor performance at his June 27 debate with Donald Trump. Now, said Biden, “it’s time to put Trump in a bullseye.”  Politico described that as a “forceful message from Biden.” I guess someone was paying attention. Shortly after 6 p.m. ET last night, just minutes after Donald Trump took the stage at a rally in Butler, Pennsylvania, several shots rang out. One person was killed, two were seriously wounded. The real target, of course, was the former president. He escaped with a flesh wound to the top of his right ear. Images of a defiant Trump, bloodied but waving his fist in the air as he was shuttled off stage by a gaggle of Secret Service agents, have flooded the internet.

In 1927, Sigmund Freud published a book about religion called Die Zukunft einer Illusion (The Future of an Illusion). As a contribution to the understanding of religion, it is, like much of Freud’s work, both banal and outrageous. But it occurs to me that its catchy title as well as its main thesis — religion, Freud wrote, was invented to fulfill “the oldest, strongest and most urgent wishes of mankind” — has a certain pertinence to the large-scale entertainment now being offered to the public by Democrats eager to salvage the reputation of President Joe Biden.