If Orwell Had Written '1984' (The Two Minute Hate) With Donald Trump In Mind

Introduction:

The left has gone crazy, lashing out in their portends of defeat at their “2 minute hate figure-Donald Trump. Really, it is astounding, dumbfounding actually, that even after the election is over the greater the number of near hysterical anti-Trump tweets from “progressives.” and MSM hate articles/TV continues. It seems the Liberals have gone collectively mad.  diminished figure”. Trump makes a statement or tweet or an appointment and they all explode. 

He controls their minds — in a manner unseen in political life previously. Their rage and despair over  Hillary's electoral defeat, the final end of the “hopey changey” stuff, drenches their Tweets with bitter salt tears and in their hapless hopeless fury they lash out at their hate figure. George Orwell summed up the heart of the “progressive” left in his ‘1984″ satire. Were he alive today he very much could have substituted his ‘Emmanuel Goldstein” hate figure for Donald Trump with total validity-as per this partial rewrite (with utter deference to the master)

Two Minutes Hate

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If Orwell Had Written ‘1984’ With Trump In Mind

It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the center of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate.

The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set one’s teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one’s neck. The Hate had started.

As usual, the face of Donald Trump, the Enemy of the Democratic Party and the Main Stream Media and especially leftist bloggers, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audience. A little red-haired woman journalist gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Trump was the renegade, the leading figure of the Republican Party, almost on a level with the near mythological figure “Reagan”, and had engaged in counter-liberal activities, had been condemned to irrelevancy, but had mysteriously escaped from liberal media attacks and gained a mass following. 

The programmes of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in which Trump was not the principal figure. He was the primal enemy, the defiler of the Party’s plans . All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of his teaching. He was still active and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps under the protection of secret paymasters, perhaps even — so it was occasionally rumoured, the mysterious Koch brothers and Wall Street.

The diaphragms of all liberals in the room, especially Winston’s were constricted. He could never see the face of Trump without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a large face, with a great mass of blond hair — a clever face, and yet somehow, to the now maddened Dem’s somehow despicable. Trump was delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Party enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling. He was abusing Big Obama, he was denouncing the big government policies of the Party, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, He was crying that the principles of the revolution had been betrayed.

Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room. The face on the screen, and the terrifying power of the Tea Party army behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the sight or even the thought of Trump produced fear and anger automatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than either Bush or Cheney. But what was strange was that although Trump was hated and despised by everybody on the left, although every day and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, in spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less.

In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People were leaping up and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the maddening voice that came from the screen. The little red-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed fish.  A dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun crying out ‘Swine! Swine! Swine!’ and suddenly she picked up a heavy Democratic Party talking points memo book and flung it at the screen. It struck Trump’s nose and bounced off; the voice continued inexorably. In a lucid moment Winston found that he was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of his chair.

The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretense was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one’s will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp.

Thus, at one moment Winston’s hatred was not turned against Trump at all, but, on the contrary, against Big Obama, Hillary, the Democratic Party, and the Media spin doctors; and at such moments his heart went out to the derided heretic on the screen, sole guardian of truth and sanity in a world of lies

Then the face of Donald Trump faded away again, and instead the slogan of the liberal elite stood out in bold capitals:

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH