There are few constants in American political life.
The sun rises in the east.
Congress promises reform.
And every few months, the national press discovers that Donald Trump is still Donald Trump.
This week’s surprise arrived courtesy of reports that the White House was alarmed by the possibility that reporters had obtained highly sensitive information while researching a forthcoming book. Administration officials reportedly responded in a manner that was entirely consistent with their previous behavior. Investigations were discussed. Leaks were denounced. The press was treated as somewhere between a public nuisance and a hostile foreign power.
News organizations reacted with visible concern.
Again.
🎧 Listen to the narrated version of At What Point Does Surprise Cease to Be a Surprise? (6 minutes, 77 seconds).
At this point, one begins to wonder whether surprise remains the appropriate word.
The first time a man touches a hot stove, surprise is understandable.
The second time, it is carelessness.
By the tenth time, it begins to look suspiciously like a hobby.
For nearly a decade, journalists have chronicled Donald Trump’s tendency to attack critics, question institutions, denounce unfavorable reporting, and regard leaks as evidence of betrayal rather than transparency. Thousands of articles have been written on the subject. Entire bookshelves now groan under the weight of analyses explaining this behavior.
Yet each new episode is greeted with the astonishment of Victorian explorers discovering a previously unknown continent.
“Remarkable,” they seem to say.
“He’s doing it again.”
One is tempted to ask what exactly they expected.
A handwritten note?
A fruit basket?
Yet the mystery runs deeper than simple astonishment.
For years, much of the national press assured us that it understood Donald Trump better than anyone else. Reporters chronicled his habits, profiled his advisers, interviewed his allies, analyzed his motives, mapped his grievances, and filled entire libraries explaining what he might do next.
Indeed, one of the defining features of modern political journalism has been its confidence that it possessed a uniquely sophisticated understanding of the man.
Every controversy became an opportunity for explanation.
Every departure from precedent became a lesson in context.
Every attack on an institution became evidence that the institution should be careful not to overreact.
The press observed Trump so closely, for so long, that one might reasonably have expected familiarity to emerge from the exercise.
Instead, it appears to have produced astonishment.
The situation resembles a group of Victorian naturalists who devoted ten years to studying a volcano, published several bestselling books about volcanoes, appeared on television to discuss volcanoes, and then reacted with visible alarm each time the mountain erupted.
At some point, the eruption ceases to be the story.
The surprise becomes the story.
The peculiar feature of modern political journalism is not that it misunderstands Donald Trump. On the contrary, many reporters understand him quite well. The mystery is why they continue to behave as though the next chapter might be radically different from the previous ten.
It is rather like attending the fiftieth performance of Hamlet and expressing shock when someone mentions Denmark.
The administration, meanwhile, is trapped in its own cycle of surprise.
Officials appear perpetually stunned that confidential conversations become public, that disgruntled insiders speak to reporters, and that Washington remains incapable of keeping a secret known to more than three people.
This is perhaps the city’s oldest tradition.
Washington has leaked information for so long that it should qualify as a municipal utility.
One can only imagine the horror with which future archaeologists will discover that government employees occasionally spoke to journalists.
Yet every revelation is treated as though someone has discovered a previously unknown law of physics.
The administration is shocked that information leaks.
The press is shocked that the administration objects.
Political commentators are shocked that both sides continue to behave exactly as they have for years.
The rest of the country watches this recurring drama with the uneasy feeling that everyone involved has already seen the ending.
Indeed, they have.
The script is now so familiar that it hardly requires rehearsal.
A book appears.
A leak emerges.
Officials express outrage.
Journalists express concern.
Experts appear on television to explain that the latest development represents a significant escalation.
Then everyone returns to their assigned positions and waits for the next significant escalation, which arrives promptly on schedule.
Perhaps that is the real lesson.
At some point, surprise ceases to be an emotional response and becomes a professional obligation.
The administration must appear outraged.
The press must appear alarmed.
The experts must appear concerned.
Everyone knows their lines.
Everyone hits their marks.
Everyone waits for the next episode.
The strange thing is not that the cycle continues.
The strange thing is that institutions devoted to observing events remain astonished by events that have become entirely predictable.
After ten years, one begins to suspect that surprise is no longer a reaction.
It is a business model.
Which may explain why Washington’s most durable renewable resource is not sunlight, wind, or political ambition.
It is astonishment.
The city produces it in limitless quantities.
And consumes it just as quickly.
The remarkable thing is not that Donald Trump remains Donald Trump.
The remarkable thing is that so many people continue treating the discovery as breaking news.
— Dunneagin
Keep reading: The Mirror Holds the Flame — on the press's bad faith with itself, and what happens when the observer mistakes their astonishment for coverage.
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