Donald Trump is a masterpiece of American melancholy

The ‘pursuit of happiness’—an infinitely debatable formulation to describe a distinctively American activity. As Jefferson wrote the phrase as the climax to his triad of inalienable rights, ‘life’ would presumably have been a fairly non-controversial no-brainer, while the peoples of other nations had begun by 1776 to aspire to forms of quasi-democratic ‘liberty’. And then there it is in black and white quill ink: the ‘pursuit of happiness’—and a uniquely American idea is enshrined. For a large number of people, Donald J. Trump represents perhaps the ultimate incarnation of this idea. And it’s hard to argue that ‘the Donald’ is not, in his way, happy. Supremely content with himself and what he has achieved (one might say ‘over-joyed’) he believes he has earned his entitlement to take—to grab—whatever he desires without needing to ask. As we now know, this includes women’s pussies. (‘When you’re a star, they let you do it!’ he exclaims with evident delight in his now-infamous back-of-the-bus chat).