Slayer of Dreams
As he stood, hand on a bible, and began to recite that brief oath, my hand went involuntarily to my mouth, in horror and shock. Despite intellectually knowing what was about to happen, the fact of its arrival had the power to wound all over again. So help us god. This man is now the American president.
As his inaugural address gathered pace, the overwhelming feeling I had was this: here is a vulgar man.
As he spoke of the ‘American carnage’ alive across the continent, his analysis was vulgar and distorted; the facts do not bear this assessment out. When he spoke of the DC insiders making hay whilst the rest of America suffered, his sentiments bore the vulgarity of insulting the four ex-presidents, his guests, who sat less than ten metres from him; what kind of crass car-salesman acts in such a way? When he spoke of the radical change for the better that would instantly be delivered every American by the arrival of his administration, the vulgarity of his rhetoric was laid bare, swinging in the wind; a talented child of Barron’s age would determine that such promises are met only in the land of unicorns.
On balance, the US apparatus of state and governance will be his worthy adversary, helping to contain much of this man’s most extreme whims and predelictions.
But nothing can return the insidious genie of vulgarity to the bottle. The means by which Trump has snatched power, and the tone with which he has applauded his own profane character to the detriment of all others, cannot be unremembered.
The man who speaks of a need for America to dream again is the ultimate, vulgar slayer of dreams.