I had a friend in college who, inexplicably, had a thing for Nazis. I say inexplicably because no one in his right mind should have what he had: it was a man crush, a sentimental admiration for testosterone regalia and Stukas. Fortunately he wasn’t violent and as far as I know he never drew swastikas on buildings. His fascination for the Third Reich was ingrown like entomology is for fifth graders.
Everyone do your own joke. What’s the difference between a Nazi and a bug? You only have to squash a bug once.
Adolescent masculine small “f” fascism is not, as is commonly supposed, a matter of wanton ignorance. It’s more a product of the perfervid boy-brain, still undergoing its development. Critical self-irony? None. Anger? You bet, because as the Little Prince knows, all authority figures are hateful. Why, if only he had a hundred Panzer divisions!
What’s the difference between a Nazi and a centipede? The centipede doesn’t wear boots.
What’s the difference between a Nazi and a skeleton? The skeleton has read Aristotle.
The poet Wallace Stevens wrote in one of his notebooks: “Man is an eternal sophomore.”
This is what I think when I see Trump’s arena supporters. They’re like my college pal but they never outgrew their admiration for Kingly murderers.
True adulthood is a purging of the world’s poverty and evil.
Trump is the Pied Piper of privileged and angry children.