Donald Trump inspires histrionics and hyperbolic language when you need to talk about him. Most lefty columnists online seem to have fallen into this vein at some point or other. It’s the only way to translate how your boiling blood feels. In an article I had to write I suddenly found the poem “Chicago” in my mouth, with all the “They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for.. etc.” — and then Richard II sprang into my head, but my own version of the “this royal throne of kings, this other Eden — this England” speech: “This royal filth, this seat of the Gorgon, this other Void… this White House.” It felt good to write.

Today, everything’s quite different. Just watching Lady Gaga sing the anthem got me crying, and much more so did the sight of that policeman, who got chased up the stairs, escorting Kamala Harris to the podium.

So…

all my beautiful wickedness, what a world, what a world.