On the homepage today, I have an essay titled “Our Political World, Topsy-Turvy: The Right today often sounds like the Left of yore.” That essay is here. Over the weekend, I noticed a couple of articles in Air Mail magazine — articles related to my theme.
Here is one: “FROM SEATTLE: Twenty-five years ago, fighting globalization was a cause of left-wing anarchists. How did it become a cornerstone of Trumpism?”
Here is the second: “FROM CAMBRIDGE: At Harvard and other Ivy League colleges, long-dormant Republican clubs are back with a vengeance — and bringing the likes of Vivek Ramaswamy and R.F.K. Jr. to their campuses.”
The Republican Party and the Right in general are transformed. On that, pretty much everyone agrees. Where people disagree is over the question “Is this good?”
One of the topics I cover in my essay today is “moral equivalence,” as we used to call it. You know: Dictatorships, democracies, they’re all the same. We’re no better than the Kremlin, etc.
Campaigning for president in the 2016 cycle, Donald Trump gave a flagrant example of moral equivalence. During an interview, Joe Scarborough pointed out to him that Putin kills people who don’t agree with him. The candidate answered, “Well, I think our country does plenty of killing also, Joe.”
He did no less, or no more, as president. In another interview, Bill O’Reilly said to him, “Putin is a killer.” President Trump replied, “There are a lot of killers. We’ve got a lot of killers. What, you think our country’s so innocent?”
I cite the second instance in my piece today. But, since finishing my piece, I noticed something from Trump’s interview on Friday with Joe Rogan.
“He’s a brilliant guy,” says Trump of Xi Jinping. “He controls 1.4 billion people with an iron fist. I mean, he’s a brilliant guy, whether you like it or not.”
Rogan says, “It doesn’t mean he’s not evil or it doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.”
Trump says, “Actually, we have evil people in our country.”
“Yes!” says Rogan.
This is the kind of thing that used to drive conservatives nuts. “I remember. I was there,” as Bob Dole once said.
All right, let’s have some mail. A reader writes,
Morning, Jay,
I hear via the comments under your Impromptus column today that you may have access to Ukrainian, Taiwanese, and other such money. If that’s true, would appreciate a bit of your take. Been a tough sales year, so commissions have been lacking, and my husband expects a certain lifestyle (not a cheap one, by the way).
Hmmm. The take from Kyiv and Taipei is not great. I’m barely keeping up with my mortgage. Try the Russians, who recently funneled $10 million to “conservative influencers” who make videos and stuff.
The reader refers to my column from last Thursday, headed “Taiwan’s fate, &c.” Toward the end of that column, I linked to a report on right whales, which are under threat of extinction (like Taiwan, and Ukraine). I thought I had read a typo. “White whales”? No, “right whales.”
I’ve received many notes like the below:
Jay, did you not follow Mr. Buckley down the Moby-Dick path? Chapter 75 is a whole discussion of the right whale, especially its crazy head.
A confession, 40 years later: When I read Moby-Dick, I maybe did not linger over every word . . . (Don’t tell Professor Blotner.)
In a column last month, I had a reflection on September 11 — that day in 2001, of course — and my reflection, specifically, was about the weather. It was such a beautiful day. Cruelly beautiful, in a sense. Mid-September in New York tends to be wonderful.
A reader says,
Attached is a poem I wrote shortly after that day. It is about the next day. In it, I tried to express the anguish and frustration we likely all felt.
Our poet is Michael Frachioni, and the poem in question is below. It is included in his collection Bus Poems, forthcoming from The Poet’s Press.
September 12
By dawn’s tentative light,
determined to maintain routine,
he finds his shell in the boathouse,
lays it in the river.Focusing on a distant point
he pulls oars through water.
The familiar cadence returns,
his work buoys him.Whorls of mist
dance above his wake;
on either side, concentric circles ripple,
mark his beats, sigh“I am here,”
“I am here,”
“I was here,”
then fade.The heron stands in its accustomed spot
on the western shore,
quietly watches as he passes.
Their eyes meet briefly.“God protect you,”
he whispers between strokes.
“God protect you.”
“God protect you.”The tiny craft moves swiftly,
silently, tacking True;
his efforts an offering,
a hopeful prayer.He fights to direct
a flood tide of emotion
into his arms, into his boat
into the river.He pulls ever harder;
the oars now make
tiny, violent splashes
as they enter the water.Of a sudden,
he gives a quick, anguished cry,
slumps forward,
releases the oars.Coasting a while
in silence, head bowed.
The river still,
its reflection almost perfect.The sky the same astonishing blue
as the morning before.
Despite exertions and prayers,
it is the only thing unchanged.