In spite of the ancient injunction, I am prone to falling inexorably into despair. I despair about the national debt. I despair about the state of our political conversations. (Once, I was even berated on Twitter by someone who explained to me that my stated affection for my kids was a “ploy” to distract my readers from the perfidy of my political positions.) I despair about the relentless usurpations that are staged by the executive branch. And, yes, I despair about Donald Trump, who has been a part of our politics for nearly eight years now, and who, despite having racked up a losing record over that time, is doing his level best to ensure that he sticks around for at least four more. Sometimes, to quote Frédéric Chopin, it seems that my only choice is to “groan, and suffer, and pour out my despair at the piano” — or, even better, into a tall glass.
But old Thomas Aquinas was correct, you know: To despair really can be a sin. And it can especially be a sin when driving you to despair happens to be your opponent’s deepest wish. It has occurred to me lately that the existential dread that I feel each and every time I read Donald Trump’s primary polling is, in an important sense, contrived. By word and by deed, Trump and his team have made it clear that they intend to cast Trump’s return as an inevitability and thereby to clear the field of his strongest challengers before some of them even declare. Which is all well and good, but that . . . well, that takes two to be effective, doesn’t it? Anyone can pronounce himself inevitable. The important question is whether the audience believes him when he says it.
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