Trump Fights — but for What?

One can only wonder what old Erwin Schrödinger would have made of the Donald Trump for President campaign — which, as it hurtles toward victory for the third primary season in a row, continues to suffer from the sort of profound logical schizophrenia that one is usually obliged to decipher on a chalkboard. Were he to take the case, one suspects that the good professor would need to put something a whole lot stronger than tobacco in that famous pipe of his.

I am, quite clearly, not Trump’s target audience — not least because I am not going to vote for him come hell or high water. But this does not mean that, as a moderately prominent conservative, I am not pitched on his candidacy every day by readers, acolytes, flacks, and more. I get emails, phone calls, and, occasionally, personal entreaties, and, when I do, I am always struck by how remarkably unclear the 2024 pro-Trump pitch has become. Simply put, when proselytizing to me as a conservative, Trump’s fans seem unable to decide whether to explain that their candidate intends to serve me or to vanquish me. On some occasions, I am told that Trump’s supposedly ineluctable victory in the election of 2024 will send me and my fellow “dinosaurs” out into the wilderness. On others, I am promised the world. Sometimes, this happens back to back: On Monday, Trump is cast as the mortal enemy of “Conservatism Inc.,” to which I supposedly belong; on Tuesday, he will be Reagan reincarnate, the apparent man of my dreams; on Wednesday, he’ll back to conquering and banishing; on Thursday, he’ll be some heady mix of the two; and on Friday he’ll be anyone’s guess. It can be enough to make one seasick.

About the Author

Charles C. W. Cooke

Charles C. W. Cooke is a senior editor at National Review and the host of The Charles C. W. Cooke Podcast.

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One can only wonder what old Erwin Schrödinger would have made of the Donald Trump for President campaign — which, as it hurtles toward victory for the third primary season in a row, continues to suffer from the sort of profound logical schizophrenia that one is usually obliged to decipher on a chalkboard. Were he to take the case, one suspects that the good professor would need to put something a whole lot stronger than tobacco in that famous pipe of his.

I am, quite clearly, not Trump’s target audience — not least because I am not going to vote for him come hell or high water. But this does not mean that, as a moderately prominent conservative, I am not pitched on his candidacy every day by readers, acolytes, flacks, and more. I get emails, phone calls, and, occasionally, personal entreaties, and, when I do, I am always struck by how remarkably unclear the 2024 pro-Trump pitch has become. Simply put, when proselytizing to me as a conservative, Trump’s fans seem unable to decide whether to explain that their candidate intends to serve me or to vanquish me. On some occasions, I am told that Trump’s supposedly ineluctable victory in the election of 2024 will send me and my fellow “dinosaurs” out into the wilderness. On others, I am promised the world. Sometimes, this happens back to back: On Monday, Trump is cast as the mortal enemy of “Conservatism Inc.,” to which I supposedly belong; on Tuesday, he will be Reagan reincarnate, the apparent man of my dreams; on Wednesday, he’ll back to conquering and banishing; on Thursday, he’ll be some heady mix of the two; and on Friday he’ll be anyone’s guess. It can be enough to make one seasick.