The New York Review of Books is running a series on living in Trumpworld. Katha Pollitt wrote a blisterer.

I sometimes feel like I’m a different person now. I’m fidgety and irritable and have trouble concentrating. For months after the election, I could hardly read, except for books about Roman history, which turns out to be full of Trumps: fantastically rich sociopaths obsessed with crushing their enemies.

Snap. I was thinking Nero-Caligula all day after the Man of the Year tweet.

My work seems trivial: Given what we are facing, what difference does one more Nation column make? I might as well be an ancient Egyptian scribe logging production figures for cat mummies. In the old days, the