In front of me are three books about Donald Trump, along with a book-shaped object purporting to have issued from the pen of Trump himself. Before we talk about these publications, we might as well acknowledge that discussion of the printed word, in the age of Trump, is a laughably pointless endeavour. Clearly, we’re past the point at which books can alter the course of events. The asteroid is bearing down on us now, fringed by its raging orange mane. Either it will miss us narrowly or it will hit us. Talking about it will do us no more good than staring at it in mute horror. Then again, there is no subject we want to talk about more. As long as we know we’re wasting our breath, there seems to be no harm in proceeding.
If words still mattered, the ones that routinely emerge from Trump’s own mouth would have sunk him long ago. The point is proved by The World According to Trump, a slender but damning selection of his most asinine utterances. The book is billed as a work of humour. Whether you find it funny will depend on how dark you like your comedy. Speaking for myself, I feel it’s a bit early to find Trump funny at this stage, as well as a bit late ... [read more]