The Shadow Over Cleveland: Donald Trump as Supernatural Horror

sI’m not necessarily of the opinion that Donald J. Trump is some eldritch entity come from out of space and time with the explicit purpose of destroying humanity in both its existence and its sanity.

I’m just saying: do you have any better explanations?

1. Welcome to Whose Vote Is It Anyway?, Where Everything Is Made Up and the Facts Don’t Matter

The most revolting thing about Donald Trump is not his contempt for minorities. It is not his contempt for women. It is not his contempt for “losers”. Rather, it’s his contempt for the truth.

Don’t make the mistake of reading my meaning here as: Donald Trump is a liar. Were he a liar, the problem would not be nearly so insidious as it is, and he would not classify as a supernatural horror. No, the problem is much worse than that: Trump is perhaps the Platonic ideal of a bullshitter.

Harry G. Frankfurt, in his remarkable essay On Bullshit, lays out the crucial difference between the liar and the bullshitter after several pages of playful, deliberately pompous semantic banter on what, exactly, the nature of the term bullshit is. In short:

“Telling a lie is an act with a sharp focus. It is designed to insert a particular falsehood at a specific point in a set or system of beliefs, in order to avoid the consequences of having that point occupied by the truth. This requires a degree of craftsmanship, in which the teller of the lie submits to objective constraints imposed by what he takes to be the truth. The liar is inescapably concerned with truth-values. In order to invent a lie at all, he must think he knows what is true. And in order to invent an efficient lie, he must design his falsehood under the guidance of that truth.

“On the other hand, a person who undertakes to bullshit his way through has much more freedom. His focus is panoramic rather than particular. He does not limit himself to inserting a certain falsehood at a specific point, and thus he is not constrained by the truths surrounding that point or intersecting it. He is prepared, so far as required, to fake the context as well.

“[. . .] What bullshit essentially misrepresents is neither the state of affairs to which it refers nor the beliefs of the speaker concerning that state of affairs. Those are what lies represent, by virtue of being false. Since bullshit need not be false, it differs from lies in its misrepresentational intent. The bullshitter may not deceive us, or even intend to do so, either about the facts or what he takes the facts to be. What he does necessarily attempt to deceive us about is his enterprise. His only indispensably distinctive characteristic is that in a certain way he misrepresents what he is up to.” (Frankfurt 51-4)

Thus, the liar still has a vested interest in knowing the truth. The truth is as essential to him as it is to the truth-teller, if not moreso; because if the liar does not know the precise truth of any given situation, he cannot effectively craft a lie to turn that situation to his advantage. The bullshitter, on the other hand, has no such stake in truths, facts, or their inversions. He simply does not care either way whether what he says is or is not the case, so long as what he says benefits his ends.

There are multiple levels to the insidious nature of this state of affairs. The first is that it is almost impossible to take anything the bullshitter says at face value. We know what a known truth-teller says is likely to be true, and we know what a known liar says is likely to be false, which means we can listen to their statements with a relative degree of confidence. In the case of the bullshitter, however, we must actively tear the true from the false again and again in order to make any sense out of his statements; and even then, we do not know if what is apparently true is in fact false as far as the bullshitter is concerned (i.e. he is making a factual statement that he believes to be incorrect).

The second is that, with a large enough preponderance of bullshit, the very nature of truth itself is called into question. In what meaningful sense can we say that something is true when to the bullshitter it may as well be false, or say that something is false when to the bullshitter it may as well be the case? It simply does not matter either to him or to his followers, who have reached a point where the only thing that matters is whether or not a given statement fits into the narrative that will best benefit them.

When I say that Donald Trump is the consummate bullshitter, you’ll perhaps realize the depth of our problem.

After the Dallas shooting that left five police officers and their killer dead, Trump claimed repeatedly—first in an interview on Fox News and then at a rally in Indiana—that “some people” had called for a moment of silence for Micah X. Johnson, the deceased shooter. When Sam Clovis, a Trump policy advisor, was asked by ABC to comment on this assertion, he replied that he had not personally witnessed any such thing—and then immediately spoke from the other side of his mouth, saying:

“I’ve seen moments where I’ve seen in some of these demonstrations, I’ve seen there’s a reverence paid to the shooter that is really startling. I think that is—when you have a person who purposefully and with intent murders five police officers, that’s terrible, and I don’t think you should celebrate that in any way shape or form.”

In one breath, he denied any personal knowledge of reverence of Johnson and followed this denial with an assertion that he had in fact seen this reverence paid. For the record, ABC was able to find exactly one instance of a man calling for a moment of silence for Johnson, on his social media account. The rest of these “some people” at “some of these demonstrations” simply don’t exist.

Then there’s the recent fiasco with Trump’s wife Melania and her plagiarized speech. The aide who apparently wrote the speech has come forward to apologize for the plagiarism, but the Trump campaign has still refused to acknowledge that said plagiarism has even taken place. Instead, if has offered six contradictory excuses for the remarkable similarity to Michelle Obama’s earlier address, including a smear campaign by Hillary Clinton, the fact that Michelle Obama did not invent the English language, the fact that 93% of the speech was original, shared values between the two women, and a conspiracy in which Michelle Obama actually plagiarized My Little Pony first. For all Trump cares, all of these examples may be true or false simultaneously. Each fits his narrative so each is vomited forth.

I highlight these specific examples due to their recency, but they’re hardly the most heinous examples of bullshittery Trump and his campaign have practiced. He claimed John McCain was not a hero due to being captured, then denied saying so, then took responsibility for the claim again in a recent interview alongside Mike Pence. He proposed a ban on all Muslims entering the United States, then reversed his position, then reversed that reversal. He has continued to insist that he saw footage of Muslims celebrating when the Twin Towers went down, despite the fact that no such footage exists. He claimed that white-on-white murder only accounts for 16% of white homicide, while black-on-white murder accounts for 81%; in fact nearly the exact inverse is true, 82% vs. 15%. And so on, and so on.

His response to being called out on these extravagant examples of bullshittery has remained constant: disregard any concern for truth or falsehood. “Hey, Bill, Bill, am I gonna check every statistic? I get millions and millions of people. . .” he said to Bill O’Reilly when asked about his spreading of the above false murder statistic. In an interview with George Stephanopoulos: “People maybe call me out, but they turn out to be wrong, also. And many of the things I’ve said—and I think just about all of them—they may have been controversial at one point, George, but they’re not controversial in the end, because people start to say, you know, Trump’s actually right.” No umbrage is taken at the suggestion that he’s a liar, no serious attempt is made to prove the truth of his assertions. Because who really gives a shit? Certainly not the people voting for him.

What we have, then, is a man who possesses absolutely no distinction between truth and falsehood within his mind. If, in the moment, it benefits him, it’s true. If, in a later moment, it does not, it becomes false.

Insist, if you must, upon Hillary Clinton’s being a cold, calculating deceiver. For the purposes of this essay, we’ll even assume you’re completely right in this analysis of her character. Her deceit is an order of magnitude less dangerous than Trump’s bullshittery, and certainly less horrifying. At least for Clinton, there remains an objective reality somewhere that bolsters up a scaffolding of lies. There’s no bottom to the reality that Trump occupies—if it can even be labeled a reality at all.

2. A Brief Treatise on the Rules of Supernatural Horror

We’ve established, then, that Donald J. Trump is a bullshitter of the highest order, a man for whom truth not only is not useful or something to be respected but might as well not exist at all. What are the horrific implications? Before we can delve into them, we need some context on the nature of horror itself.

While I don’t agree on much of anything with S. T. Joshi, the man is admirably thorough and rigorous in his analysis of the horrific. In his book Unutterable Horror: A History of Supernatural Fiction, Joshi attempts to present a workable definition of what, exactly, horror is as a literary genre as well as a philosophical concept.

“[I]n addition to (and perhaps above and beyond) its suggestion of a perception of fear (stemming either from personal danger or from danger to another) and a feeling of disgust and revulsion, [horror] carries with it the idea of the contemplation of something appalling and dreadful. This last component may, indeed, allow for the genre of horror to exist at all, since the sentiment goes beyond the immediate apprehension of bodily harm (which is fear) and points toward the witnessing of some phenomenon that the human mind, whether perceiving immediate danger or not, both fails to comprehend and finds somehow wrong in a moral or metaphysical sense.” (Joshi 9)

So far, so good. But what, precisely, qualifies as one of these phenomena that revolt and appall the human mind in some special, wrong way? What is it that makes a particular evil horrific in a way that others, while they may shock and upset us, are not? Joshi elaborates:

“There is an undeniable sense of fear in witnessing the depredations of a mass-murderer, or even in sensing that the murderer may come after oneself; there is also a sense of fear in witnessing extreme aberrations of the human mind [. . .] but the fear here evoked is not a metaphysical fear, because there is no sense in which our understanding of the universe is jeopardised. But if we were forced to believe in the actual existence of a vampire or a werewolf, our whole conception of the universe would seem to be fatally erroneous, and this would occur all apart from any terrors evoked by physical mayhem or even by the vagaries of a diseased mind.” (Joshi 9)

Thus it could just as well be said that the roots of supernatural horror lie in uncertainty. As Joshi goes on to point out, the supernatural and its manifestations cannot be considered horrific in a pre-Enlightenment context, when most of the systems of the universe were based in a largely supernatural understanding. Rules were rules, theology included—in fact, theological systems are just as rigorous, in many aspects, as scientific ones. It’s only after the banishment of the supernatural from scientific discourse that it becomes something horrifying; when it begins to rip its way back into a material world that has long since discarded it. These supernatural manifestations are no longer part of an ordered system that can be treated logically; they are inherently illogical and irrational, and therefore an offense to our conception of the way things work.

That is the crucial difference between our terror at the idea of being mauled by a wolf and our horror at the idea of being mauled by a werewolf. Were I to have my throat torn out by the teeth of the former, it would be a terrifying experience, but it would do nothing to violate my idea of how the universe works. This wolf was born, and is killing me to eat me, and will die afterward and be mourned by its children, just as I was born, have killed and eaten things, and am dying now to be mourned by my family. A werewolf, on the other hand, has no business existing, much less eating me. Something that should not be is offering me irrefutable proof that it is in fact very much a being.

It’s worth quoting at length here a passage from Stephen King’s horror novel It:

“There were things that were not supposed to be. They offended any sane person’s sense of order, they offended the central idea that God had given the earth a final tilt on its axis so that twilight would only last about twelve minutes at the equator and linger for an hour or more up where the Eskimos built their ice-cube houses, that He had done that and He then had said, in effect: ‘Okay, you can figure out the tilt, you can figure out any damn thing you choose. Because even light has weight, and when the note of a trainwhistle suddenly drops it’s the Doppler effect and when an airplane breaks the sound barrier that bang isn’t the applause of angels or the flatulence of demons but only air collapsing back into place. I gave you the tilt and then I sat back about halfway up the auditorium to watch the show. I got nothing else to say, except that two and two makes four, the lights in the sky are stars, if there’s blood grownups can see it as well as kids, and dead kids stay dead.’ You can live with fear, I think, Stan would have said if he could. Maybe not forever, but for a long, long time. It’s offense you maybe can’t live with, because it opens up a crack inside your thinking, and if you look down into it you see there are live things down there, and they have little yellow eyes that don’t blink, and there’s a stink down in that dark, and after awhile you think maybe there’s a whole other universe down there, a universe where a square moon rises in the sky, and the stars laugh in cold voices, and some of the triangles have four sides, and some have five, and some have five raised to the fifth power of sides. In this universe there might grow roses that sing. Everything leads to everything, he would have told them if he could.  Go to your church and listen to your stories about Jesus walking on the water, but if I saw a guy doing that I’d scream and scream and scream. Because it wouldn’t look like a miracle to me. It would look like an offense.” (King 411-2)

Horror, then, is a matter of violation, of disorder raping order. Of a universe in which regard for the facts is thrown to the wind, of monsters taking the desperate plea “It isn’t real” and hurling it back in the faces of those who recite it as a mantra. As H. P. Lovecraft wrote in a letter to Edwin Baird: “Only a cynic can create horror—for behind every masterpiece of the sort must reside a driving demonic force that despises the human race and its illusions, and longs to pull them to pieces and mock them.”

3. Horror as Bullshit, Bullshit as Horror

Thomas Ligotti, in his philosophical work The Conspiracy Against the Human Race: A Contrivance of Horror, writes:

“In experiencing the uncanny, there is a feeling of wrongness. A violation has transpired that alarms our internal authority regarding how something is supposed to happen or exist or behave. An offense against our world-conception or self-conception has been committed. Of course, our internal authority may itself be in the wrong, perhaps because it is a fabrication of consciousness based on a body of laws that are written only within us and not a detector of what is right or wrong in any real sense, since nothing really is right or wrong in any real sense. That we might be wrong about something being wrong would in itself be wrong according to our internal authority, which would then send out a signal of the uncanny concerning its own wrongness that would be returned to it for another round of signaling on the principle that everything it knows is wrong, which is to say that Something is always wrong. For the welfare of our functioning, however, we are insured against the adverse effects of an ever-cycling signal of uncanny wrongness by our inability to recognize it, although it might be going on all the time, thus accounting for our uneasiness about Something.” (Ligotti 85-6)

It is my contention that the reason there is such a diabolical tinge to our fear and loathing of Donald J. Trump is precisely because of our awareness, conscious or no, that he represents a profound offense against our conception of reality.

The previous archetype of the Crooked Politician was Richard Nixon, a man almost universally reviled as a liar and a crook. Nixon, too, was feared and hated with incredible zeal by those who stood against him, because he, like Trump, represented a paradigm shift in the way his constituents viewed politicians. It had always been a matter of course to lambast politicians as corrupt and dishonest, but to see such traits exhibited at such an unprecedented scale upon so high a pedestal was earth-shaking. It redefined the people’s perception of the President, and the public’s relationship to politics.

But Nixon, for all his crimes, has not become a figure of supernatural horror. Not that artists and journalists haven’t tried to paint him as such—Philip K. Dick even went so far as to portray Nixon as the Antichrist himself in his Gnostic science-fiction VALIS trilogy. But the Antichrist is not a horrific spectre for the reason given above—he remains part of a logical, ordered system, comprising the whole universe and containing truth at its base. The truth is occluded, hidden, in Gnostic theology, but that renders it even more precious—Nixon’s Antichrist in Dick’s trilogy is the Father of Lies, existing solely to obscure what is true, but that truth still exists and is worth fighting for.

Trump offers no such assurances. It is impossible to confront him on the matter of truths and falsehoods, because they simply aren’t part of his conception of existence. When he opens his mouth, what pours forth could be a speech, it could be his confession to the murder of John F. Kennedy, it could be the lyrics to “November Rain”. There is absolutely no meaningful difference. His words exist neither to bring forth nor to obscure the truth, because the truth, for him, does not exist. There is only Trump, and what Trump wants, and those who stand in Trump’s way.

In his very existence, then, Trump represents a violation of our orderly conception of the universe, the conception that says there is ground beneath our feet and there are four lights not five and two plus two is four. Trump could insist that we stand upon nothing but air tomorrow, and his followers would swallow it. He could assert that two plus two is in fact fifty-nine and be greeted with cheers. And the next day he could reverse both those positions, claiming he never took either, and this too would be accepted.

It is not enough for Trump to destroy our existence. And he will, mind you—never forget that. If he takes office he will destroy the existence of whichever country punctures his thin-skinned hide enough that he decides to bomb it into oblivion, he will destroy the existence of the minorities that he depends upon as scapegoats, he will destroy the existence of those who operate within the economy that he will shatter into unsalvageable shards. But these won’t be the worst evils he wreaks.

The worst evil he will wreak—that he has already wrought—is to forever and always eradicate truth and falsehood as meaningful ideas in the mind of the public. They were under attack long before his ascendancy—bullshit has always been with us—but Trump is the eldritch abomination that has put their heads beneath his beak and crunched down. There is no going back from this point on, no restoring our conception of the universe to its prior state. Public discourse is being reshaped into an arena from which emerge no truths or lies, only what is useful to a certain narrative and what is not. There are those who continue to fight for the value of Truth as a concept, but the sound and fury of the shrieking hordes that Trump has loosed upon the world drown this call out with ease.

And there we have it. Trump, in his monumental bullshittery and insidious disregard for the truth as meaningful, is indistinguishable from any number of other Lovecraftian entities who desire to strip humanity of its sanity, its surety, its confidence that if nothing else facts are facts and lies are lies.

The difference is—unlike those other supernatural horrors? He’s won.

The Power of Story: SF/F and the Beauty of Diversity

In the face of tragedy, our first impulse is always to find some meaningful way to respond. All too often, these responses end up being knee-jerk screams into the void that are useless at best and actively cause harm and hurt at worst. We allow our lack of understanding, our swirling emotions, our confusion and fear and anger, to take possession of our lips, our fingers, our keyboards, and pour themselves out.

I don’t have much that’s valuable to offer in the wake of the senseless murders of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, or the shooting in Dallas, or the attack on the Pulse club in Orlando, or any of the other tragedies that occur over and over again on American soil. I’m a white, cis, mostly straight, middle-class male, and no matter how much I read the words and listen to the stories of women and LGBTQ+ people and people of color, I will never understand what it’s like to live their lives for the span of even five minutes, let alone every day. Any advice I have to give is ultimately presumptuous, any insights on the situation hopelessly removed. So rather than comment on this madness directly, I want to write something about stories.

The guiding star in my literary tastes since the age of fourteen has been Jonathan Strahan’s annual anthology The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year. I discovered it when I was first falling into SF/F fandom, and it’s not an exaggeration to say it’s been the single greatest influence on my writing in the last six years—most of the authors who are most influential to my style, including Caitlin R. Kiernan, Kij Johnson, and Catherynne M. Valente, are writers whose stories I first read within its pages. Just as important as its guidance on my writing, if not moreso, has been its guidance on my mindset.

Prior to my exposure to the series, my SF/F reading had been composed entirely of novels written by and for white males. The first tale from Strahan’s anthology to burn itself into my brain was Elizabeth Bear’s “Shoggoths in Bloom”, the story of a black professor living in the midst of World War II. The story is a remarkable example of racist genre fiction of the past being reclaimed by progressivism—it takes the shoggoth, a creature invented by the obscenely racist H. P. Lovecraft, and turns it into a metaphor for the enslavement of black men and women by whites. At the time, I wasn’t at all aware of this subversion—Lovecraft was completely unknown to me—but the story was nevertheless singularly powerful. Not only was it written beautifully, its dual remove from my perspective—a female author and a black protagonist—rendered it a learning experience. Here was a character whose mindset I would never be able to assume, whose experiences were entirely removed from mine, but who I could grow to understand better, if not to understand on the deepest level, through the power of story and imagery.

This kind of story is far from unusual for The Best SF/F of the Year—Strahan goes out of his way each year to select stories by people of all races, background, and orientations, writing from places that come from their singular experiences. My first exposures to feminist and LGBTQ fiction, to stories that dealt with Islamic culture, that bent boundaries of race and sex and gender, all came within its pages. And there was a period in which I wanted to resist some of these exposures—I was a conservative evangelical at the time I first picked up the series, and remained so until the age of sixteen—but I couldn’t. The stories were too beautiful, too fascinating, too true to look away from. They were humanity reflected and refracted in all its glittering, shifting facets. My awareness of all the possibilities our species has to offer itself grew and grew.

I have grown so, so tired of a certain kind of creatively bankrupt fiction over the last few years. An exemplar of that sort of fiction is the tale of the middle-aged white academic who dwells obsessively upon his sexual prowess and the sexual attractiveness of his students, and once he is caught with one of them (or worse, betrayed by one of them) feels nothing but righteous indignation that anyone could question his right to sex. My objection to this sort of story is not first and foremost a moral one, although that certainly is a major part of it. It’s first and foremost that this sort of story is so damned boring.

Everyone knows the agonies of the white male. They’re unavoidable. All of his problems, his confusions, his prejudices, have been laid out on the page or on the screen over and over and over and over again ad nauseum. Not to say that talented people haven’t written about them in the last several decades—I dearly love a great deal of Philip Roth’s work, and early to mid-period Paul Auster is one of my favorite authors—but even they can’t relieve the tedium from a perspective that becomes more and more solipsistic and facile with each reiteration. It’s enough to make one lose their faith in literature.

But every time I feel this way, I can return to SF/F and find myself renewed. I can tear through the latest volume of The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year, drinking in story after story written from a unique perspective. I can immerse myself in the behemoth Dhalgren, written by a gay black man in the 1970s and containing within its pages an entire apocalyptic dream-world informed by his gayness and his blackness. I can examine the minute, perfect gems that are the short stories of Caitlin R. Kiernan and Catherynne M. Valente, stories that take traditional concepts of gender and love and twist them into Mobius strips. I can watch Ex Machina and ponder a riveting thriller that becomes superlative because of its insights into feminism and the male gaze; or lose myself in the roller-coaster ride of The Force Awakens, an adventure that is incredibly enriched by its eschewing of the white Chosen One in favor of a woman, a black man, and a Latino man; or be riveted by Mad Max and its transcendent madness of women’s liberation and intricate violence. I can return to genre fiction again and again and remain confident that I will be exposed to new perspectives, and learn from them, and be better for it. And the literature will be better for it too.

There have been attempts to hijack this celebration of diversity. Most recently, a neo-fascist group of fans, led by the odious Theodore Beale/Vox Day (who among other things believes that black people are subhuman and that feminists deserve to be burned by acid), attempted to burn down the Hugo Awards with cries that they had allowed politics to infest the nomination process and had robbed SF/F of what makes it so much fun. These attempts to regress genre fiction back to some Golden Age of pre-political white man’s paradise are so monumentally off the mark that they would be laughable were they not so potentially damaging. The best SF/F—the kind that has endured—has always been political. Bradbury’s presentation of Mars as second Eden destroyed by the stupidity of American jingoism. Delany and Le Guin and Tiptree’s refusal to play by the rules of gender. Butler’s withering critiques of racism. Gaiman’s constant push to expose his readers to LGBT culture. And had these authors not been political, their work would have been utterly neutered. Instead, they dared to show us perspectives we were not comfortable with, and decades later, they’re still vital presences.

This is the world that I desire to live in.

The future of humanity does not lie with insularity. It does not lie with colorblindness, or cover-ups, or willful insistence on the comfort of the familiar. It lies with the people who embrace the existence of our species not as a monolithic whole but a variegated, scintillating, ever-shifting sea of different lenses with which to view the beautiful, horrifying, awe-inspiring universe in which we all live. Who open themselves to all the differences their black and brown and Asian and bi and gay and trans and Muslim and pagan and etc. etc. etc. brothers and sisters have to offer, and embrace their own differences as integral to who they are, to what makes them beautiful people. Who enshrine these differences in stories, in books and music and film and video games and art.

Hate can’t extinguish this beauty. It will do its utter damnedest. It will break black bodies on the curb, it will gun down people in gay clubs, it will slander and bully and scream. But even as it does these things, it is slowly, slowly dying. It will never, ever entirely go away—”Our prefrontal lobe is too small, our adrenal glands too big,” in the words of a man not otherwise known overmuch for his celebration of diversity—but it will die and die and die, growing smaller and smaller. Those who espouse it will grow more and more shrill, more and more piteous.

And those of us who do our parts to kill it will live. We will spread love, and spread beauty, and make art, and share experiences, and eventually we will die. And we will have left a better world behind us.

Bigotry is many things—hateful, vicious, ignorant—but above all it is boring. And diversity is exhilarating. I thank the universe every day that I was able to discover this through the SF/F community. My deepest wish is that that exhilaration will be humanity’s defining legacy.