Trump Sets Foot on the Lord of the Flies Island and Brings Reality to the Wild Children
Donald Trump is that Navy officer who reaches the Lord of the Flies island, after seeing the fire, to find Ralph, the ordinary citizen, exhausted and surrounded by a mob of feral kids about to murder him. It’s all in the old William Golding novel. The officer looks at young Ralph in tears, and then at the other children, possessed by the violence and savagery that come with the absence of authority, trying to understand. And all the children need is to make eye contact with the real world to bow their heads and cry.
We do not know how the children will react to these traumatic times, however, we do know what the officer who arrives on the island of barbarism must do.
During the last few years, our world seems to have been rolling like a peanut cast down the slide of some aquatic park towards a pool that seemed further and further away every day. Classicism, rationalism, structuralism, Marxism, and Nazism have been studied. Almost everything has been studied. But it is almost impossible for sociologists and historians to succeed, a century from now, in tracing the theoretical structure of postmodern thought. There is only one way to define it: random.
One of the reasons why I will never make it as a leftist is because, perhaps due to my age, I am no longer a good athlete. Progressives live exhausted, because every time they settle on a certain ideological position, for example, the rights of homosexuals, someone moves the game board, and they have to run off somewhere else.
The ‘in’ thing now is to finance sex change operations, something that would seemingly contradict the primitive theses on gay pride. Or when they finally manage to place themselves within the ranks of the workers’ struggle, they learn that the struggle is now exclusively feminist. But when, after a long race of obstacles and contradictions, they manage to put on the feminist T-shirt, they have to run off again, because the old feminism has already gone to shit, and now the truly progressive thing is crazy-ass Butler’s queer doctrine.
They just can’t sit still. Maybe because they build on a foundation of sand. It is as exhausting as trying to bite a mosquito. There are progressives who started out 150 kilos overweight and now they look like fairies and could win any beauty pageant. Oh, wait. No, they can’t. Because now beauty pageant winners have to be fat, ugly, and if at all possible, have a penis. See how tiring it is to keep track of them?
Luckily, we have conservatism, which is anything but random. Conservatism is certainty, stillness, and eternal truths. It is grounded in tradition and does not need to move to the rhythm of any stupid current. It does not require enormous efforts because it is blessed with freedom, so we do not need to take charge of directing the lives of others, it is enough for us to take care of our own.
Conservatism doesn’t move, it doesn’t need you to become an athlete or jump hurdles. Perhaps that explains the size of Chesterton, Churchill, or Taft, of whom legend has it that his weight led him to get stuck in a White House bathtub, which is the dream of every self-respecting conservative: to be fat, smoke cigars, drink whiskey, and get stuck in the bathtub.
Trump’s first 24 hours are those of a classic conservative doing something that leftists, out of habit, find impossible: keeping his word. Trump was supposed to be an eccentric guy, but the truth is that as a ruler he could not be more centered.
There have been some timid progressive attempts to be shocked by the official affirmation that there are only two sexes, but before finishing their counterargument they decided to go into mute mode before being ridiculed. That also happened to Jack, the kid from the Lord of the Flies who screwed everything up out of jealousy and lust for power, giving way to his totalitarian wild child. After all, when faced with the naval officer, he became mute, and perhaps for the first time he missed his former innocence.
Trump has reached the beacon of the West. He has set foot on the island of the wild children. And he brings nothing particularly novel. For the moment he only brings everything that should never have needed to be prescribed on the island, because it was much like prescribing the sunrise, or that trees should bear fruit, or that gravity should keep the Obamas glued to the ground, even if their heads are always in the clouds, although Newton’s apple is not to blame for that.
What we have been through the last ten years is an unreal nightmare of isolation on the woke island of Lord of the Flies, leaving in Luciferian hands all that made us human. But the officer has arrived. And the artificial world collapses at once, Trump signature after Trump signature, like a house of cards, and we return to commonsense with the naturalness with which a bicycle chain slips into place. After all, there’s nothing traumatic there, except the hyperbolic adjectives of the usual whining of the news media brothels; you know, now that Elon Musk is a Nazi, I might just be Naomi Campbell.
READ MORE from Itxu Díaz:
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