The first chapter of Patrick Radden Keefe’s 2018 best seller, Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Northern Ireland, opens on a December evening in 1972, when masked intruders entered the West Belfast home of Jean McConville, a 38-year-old widowed mother of 10. As they dragged her away into a van, she told one of her sons to watch his siblings until she returned. And then she never did.

Keefe unspools the circumstances surrounding McConville’s disappearance over the course of his nonfiction doorstopper. Her kidnapping—and eventual murder—was just one crime among many that occurred during what’s known as the Troubles: From the late ’60s to the Good Friday Agreement that brokered peace in 1998, Catholic republicans seeking Irish independence clashed with Protestant factions and British soldiers, leaving thousands dead across Northern Ireland. Based on his own interviews and those conducted for a Boston College oral-history project, Keefe paints a panoramic portrait of the era that reads more like a novel than a history lesson. He studies how a common, radical cause can yield intense bonds—and also lead to profound trauma.

FX’s excellent nine-episode adaptation, now streaming on Hulu, matches the book’s ambition. The show, also called Say Nothing, similarly begins with the kidnapping of McConville (played by Judith Roddy) and subsequently delves into an ensemble of key figures involved in the Troubles. (Keefe served as an executive producer, working closely with the writers and the creator, Joshua Zetumer, to ensure an authentic adaptation.) But whereas the book tells much of the story chronologically, the series often collapses time, primarily shifting between the 1970s and the 2000s. Doing so streamlines the conflict and its aftermath into a study of juxtapositions: between youthful passion and adult disillusionment, collective ideology and individual responsibility, the appeal of secrecy and the power of confession. Sometimes, the series argues, history yields no heroes or villains, just people whose convictions curdle into confusion, and whose wounds never fully heal.

[Read: How conflicts end—and who can end them]

Dolours Price learned that firsthand. As a teenager during the early days of the Troubles, she joined the Provisional Irish Republican Army, a paramilitary group that broke away from the original IRA. Its young members, Dolours included, believed in using violent tactics to counter discrimination against Catholics; they were regularly harassed by the British police, prevented from living in some neighborhoods, and denied certain jobs. Like its source material, which uses a photograph of her on its cover, the show is drawn to Dolours and follows her life story the closest, from her childhood to her death, in 2013. Teenage Dolours quickly developed a reputation among her peers as a mouthy, attractive militant who rejected the “woman’s work” of making tea that the Provisional IRA (a.k.a. “Provos”) leaders assigned her. Older Dolours seemed wary of her notoriety, refusing later chances to rejoin the fight. Instead, she became a source for the Belfast Project, Boston College’s oral history of the group’s activities, thereby implicating herself as a participant in some of the Provos’ most brutal crimes, including Jean’s murder.

The show makes clear that despite how much Dolours’s attitude changed over time, she remained the same person at her core. The younger and older versions of Dolours—played respectively by Lola Petticrew and Maxine Peake, both magnetic and well cast—overlap throughout the adaptation, an elegant choice that helps hold the sprawling narrative together. The older Dolours’s reflections soundtrack scenes of her younger self at work; the younger Dolours’s eagerness runs counter to her older self’s evident pain. Dolours’s foundational goals take center stage as the story hopscotches across time: Although she was raised to believe in the cause of Irish independence, her biggest motivation was her love for her little sister, Marian (Hazel Doupe). In her youth, she stayed at home and joined the Provos in part because going to university instead would have meant their separation. In old age, she never gave up Marian’s activities as another, more trigger-happy Provo. The focus on Dolours is pivotal to the show’s success: She embodies the struggle to separate your life and identity from the larger conflict, even after it ends.

Dolours is also an effective point of contrast for Jean, allowing the show to explore the different ways these two women moved through the world. An early scene of Dolours’s induction into the IRA, after she’s argued successfully that she can do more than serve her male peers, is spliced together with shots of Jean and her 10 children moving into their own apartment for the first time. Both women are bucking expectations; both seek to protect their families. Yet Jean’s identity as a widowed single mother is, to the IRA, a sign of weakness, a possible reason for her to become an informant for the British; her neighbors also ostracize her for comforting a wounded British soldier who collapsed outside her home. Dolours weaponizes her femininity, flirting with a border-patrol officer to gain entry into Ireland during a mission, and her Provos superiors reward her for adopting the organization’s ruthlessness. Once she’s “promoted” to be the group’s Charon, ferrying the IRA’s perceived enemies to their executions, she must also shepherd some of her own friends to their death—a responsibility that weighs on her conscience. Neither woman can disentangle her quest for independence from the unrest around her.

[Read: Great sex in the time of war]

Say Nothing is not absent of possible antagonists—it treats Gerry Adams (Josh Finan in early scenes, Michael Colgan later on), the alleged former IRA member who later helped negotiate the peace accord in 1998 in part by turning his back on the organization, with both skepticism and sympathy. (A disclaimer at the end of every episode notes his ongoing denials of involvement in the IRA.) But the show is more interested in pointing out that the thoroughly human impulse to belong can also be shortsighted, even naive. The Provos’ extreme views allowed for a deep-seated sense of community, and these idealistic teens and 20-somethings approached their terrorist activities with starry-eyed enthusiasm: Dolours and Marian don costumes to rob a bank, giggling together after they accomplish the heist. The Provos grab beers and gossip about their crushes in between rigging car bombs. Even the older Dolours reflects upon some moments with a wistful nostalgia, underscoring the continued allure of a movement that had seemed so righteous and revolutionary.

The consequences of belonging to such communities endure too. In the pilot, one of Jean’s sons clings to her leg before the masked Provos take her away; later in the episode, Dolours does the same to a Royal Ulster Constabulary officer, grasping his leg tightly after he fends off a Protestant man who beats her with a baton at a civil-rights march. Taken together, these shots illustrate how cyclical violence and despair can be: Dolours’s failed attempt at peaceful protest leads to her devotion to the Provos, and that leads only to more pain—for her and others. Say Nothing presents Jean’s and Dolours’s fates as intertwined from the start, even before it reveals Dolours’s role in Jean’s murder—an indication of just how intimate the Troubles really were.

In focusing so much on Dolours and the Provos, Say Nothing doesn’t adapt some of the most intriguing turns in Keefe’s account—the mass prison hunger strike in the 1980s, the Belfast Project’s struggle to preserve the anonymity of its interviewees—and fast-forwards through years of political upheaval. In their stead, the series offers a thoughtfully constructed study of the conflict’s moral complexity. Say Nothing demonstrates that war can easily bring groups of people together. Ending the fighting—reckoning with atrocities, confessing to misdeeds, and assigning blame—is the hard part.

Just after college, I went to teach English as a Peace Corps volunteer in a small village school in West Africa. To help relieve the loneliness, I packed a shortwave radio, a Sony Walkman, and, among other books, a paperback copy of Thomas Mann’s very long novel The Magic Mountain. As soon as I set foot in Togo, something began to change. My pulse kept racing; my mouth went dry and prickly; dizzy spells came on. I developed a dread of the hot silence of the midday hours, and an awareness of each moment of time as a vehicle for mental pain. It might have helped if I’d known that my weekly antimalarial medicine could have disturbing effects, especially on dreams (mine were frighteningly vivid), or if someone had mentioned the words anxiety and depression to me. At 22, I was a psychological innocent. Without the comfort of a diagnosis, I experienced these changes as a terrifying void of meaning in the universe. I had never noticed the void before, because I had never been moved to ask the questions Who am I? What is life for? Now I couldn’t seem to escape them, and I received no answers from an empty sky.

I might have lost my mind if not for The Magic Mountain. By luck or fate, the novel—which was published 100 years ago, in November 1924—seemed to tell a story a little like mine, set not in the West African rainforest but in the Swiss Alps. Hans Castorp, a 23-year-old German engineer, leaves the “flatlands” for a three-week visit to his cousin Joachim, a tuberculosis patient who is taking the cure in one of the high-altitude sanatoriums that flourished in Europe before the First World War. Hans Castorp (Mann’s detached and amused, yet sympathetic, narrator always refers to the protagonist by his full name) is “a perfectly ordinary, if engaging young man,” a slightly comical young bourgeois.

Arriving on the mountain, he immediately loses his bearings. In the thin air, his face goes hot and his body cold; his heart pounds, and his favorite cigar tastes like cardboard. His sense of time becomes warped. Many of the patients spend years “up here.” No one speaks or thinks in terms of days. “ ‘Home in three weeks,’ that’s a notion from down below,” his ailing cousin warns. Hans Castorp’s companions at the sanatorium’s five lavish daily meals are a cosmopolitan and macabre gallery of mostly young people who fill the endless hours gossiping, flirting, quarreling, philosophizing, and waiting to recover or die. The proximity of death is unsettling; it’s also funny (when the roads are blocked by snow, corpses are sent flying down the mountain on bobsleds) and strangely alluring.

[From the January 1953 issue: Thomas Mann on the Making of The Magic Mountain]

When Hans Castorp catches a cold, the sanatorium’s director examines him and finds a “moist spot” on one of his lungs. That and a slight fever suggest tuberculosis, requiring him to remain for an indeterminate time. Both diagnosis and treatment are dubious, but they thrill Hans Castorp: This hermetic world has begun to cast a spell on him and provoke questions “about the meaning and purpose of life” that he’d never asked down in the flatlands. Answered at first with “hollow silence,” they demand extended contemplation that’s possible only on the magic mountain.

The director’s assistant, trained in psychoanalysis, explains in one of his biweekly lectures that sickness is “merely transformed love,” the body’s response to repressed desire. Fever is the mark of eros; the decay of a diseased body signifies life itself. Mann had ventured onto this terrain before. In his novella Death in Venice (1912), the famous writer Gustav von Aschenbach, infatuated with a Polish boy at his hotel, stays in the plague-ridden city while other visitors flee. Hans Castorp stays too, obsessed with his own temperature chart, and with the entrancing Clavdia Chauchat, a young tubercular Russian with “Kirghiz eyes,” bad posture, and a habit of letting the dining-room door slam behind her. Almost half the novel goes by before Hans Castorp—who has by now been on the mountain for seven months—talks with Clavdia, just as she’s about to depart. On the night before she leaves, he makes one of the most bizarre declarations of love in literature: “Let me take in the exhalation of your pores and brush the down—oh, my human image made of water and protein, destined for the contours of the grave, let me perish, my lips against yours!” Clavdia leaves Hans Castorp with a framed X-ray of her tubercular lung.

I fell under the spell of Hans Castorp’s quest story, as the Everyman hero is transformed by his explorations of time, illness, sciences and séances, politics and religion and music. The climactic chapter, “Snow,” felt as though it were addressed to me. Hans Castorp, lost in a snowstorm, falls asleep and then awakens from a mesmerizing and monstrous dream with an insight toward which the entire story has led him: “For the sake of goodness and love, man shall grant death no dominion over his thoughts.”

Hans Castorp remains on the mountain for seven years—a mystical number. The Magic Mountain is an odyssey confined to one place, a novel of ideas like no other, and a masterpiece of literary modernism. Mann analyzes the nature of time philosophically and also conveys the feeling of its passage, slowing down his narrative in some spots to take in “the entire world of ideas”—a day can fill 100 pages—and elsewhere omitting years. Reading this dense yet miraculously seductive book becomes an experience like Hans Castorp’s interlude on the mountain. As I made my way through the novel by kerosene lamplight, I took Mann’s bildungsroman as a guide to my own education among the farmers, teachers, children, and market women who became my closest companions, hoping to find myself on a journey toward enlightenment as rich and meaningful as its hero’s. That was asking too much of even great literature; afraid of my own suicidal thoughts, I went home before the end of my two years. But on a few particularly dark nights, The Magic Mountain probably saved my life.

I recently returned to The Magic Mountain, without the intense identification of the first time (you have to be young for a book to inspire that), but with a larger sense that, a century later, Mann has something important to tell us as a civilization. The Mann who began writing the novel was an aristocrat of art, hostile to democracy—a reactionary aesthete. Working on The Magic Mountain was a transformative experience, turning him—as it turned his protagonist—into a humanist. What Hans Castorp arrives at, lost and asleep in the snow, “is the idea of the human being,” Mann later wrote, “the conception of a future humanity that has passed through and survived the profoundest knowledge of disease and death.” In our age of brutal wars, authoritarian politics, cultures of contempt, and technology that promises to replace us with machines, what is left of the idea of the human being? What can it mean to be a humanist?

Mann conceived of The Magic Mountain in 1912, when he was 37, after a three-week visit to a sanatorium in Davos where his wife, Katia, was a patient. “It was meant as a humorous companion-piece to Death in Venice and was to be about the same length: a sort of satire on the tragedy just finished,” he later wrote. He soon discovered that his story resisted the confines of a comic novella. But before he could realize its possibilities, World War I broke out, in August 1914. With Hans Castorp still in his first week at the sanatorium, Mann abandoned the manuscript as Europe plunged into unprecedented destruction. In a letter to a friend in the summer of 1915, he left a clue as to where things stood with his unfinished novel: “On the whole the story inclines towards sympathy with death.” And he now saw an ending—the war itself.

Mann published no fiction for the duration of the war. Instead, he became a very public defender of imperial Germany against its adversaries. For Mann, the Great War was more than a contest among rival European powers or a patriotic cause. It was a struggle between “civilization” and “culture”—between the rational, politicized civilization of the West and Germany’s deeper culture of art, soul, and “genius,” which Mann associated with the irrational in human nature: sex, aggression, mythical belief. The kaiser’s Germany—strong in arms, rich in music and philosophy, politically authoritarian—embodied Mann’s ideal. The Western powers “want to make us happy,” he wrote in the fall of 1914—that is, to turn Germany into a liberal democracy. Mann was more drawn to death’s mystery and profundity than to reason and progress, which he considered facile values. This sympathy wasn’t simply a fascination with human evil—with a death instinct—but an attraction to a deeper freedom, a more intense form of life than parliaments and pamphleteering offered.

Mann scorned the notion of the writer as political activist. The artist should remain apart from politics and society, he believed, free to represent the deep and contradictory truths of reality rather than using art as a means to advance a particular view. In his wartime nonfiction writing, he mocked “civilization’s literary man,” a self-important poseur who takes sides on public issues and signs petitions. Mann was aiming at his brother Heinrich, a novelist and an essayist of nearly equal renown, whose liberal politics led him to support Germany’s enemies, France and Britain. The brothers exchanged indirect but caustic volleys in print, and their fraternal dispute became so bitter that they didn’t speak for seven years.

Before setting aside The Magic Mountain, Mann had created a version of this writer figure in a character named Lodovico Settembrini, another patient at the sanatorium, who is an irascible and hyper-articulate advocate for all things progressive: reason, liberty, virtue, health, the active life, social improvement. He declares music, the most emotionally overpowering of the arts, “politically suspect.” Mann at his most satiric has Settembrini contributing an essay to a multivolume project whose purpose is to end suffering. In short, Settembrini, like Heinrich, is a “humanist”—but in Mann’s usage, the term has an ironic sound. As he wrote elsewhere, it implies “a repugnant shallowness and castration of the concept of humanity,” pushed by “the politician, the humanitarian revolutionary and radical literary man, who is a demagogue in the grand style, namely a flatterer of mankind.”

Settembrini becomes a philosophical tutor to Hans Castorp, who listens with respectful interest but resists the liberal catechism. He responds more powerfully to the erotic allure of Clavdia Chauchat, the careless door slammer, who believes in “abandoning oneself to danger, to whatever can harm us, destroy us.” Yet Settembrini also has the wisdom to warn our hero against the seductions of the sanatorium, which separates young people from the society “down there,” infecting them with lassitude and rendering them incapable of ordinary life. As an artist above politics, Mann didn’t want simply to criticize “civilization’s literary man,” but to show him as “equally right and wrong.” He intended to create an intellectual opponent to Settembrini in a conservative Protestant character named Pastor Bunge—but the war intruded.

Mann spent the war years making his case for the German soul, steeped in the “passion” of Wagner and “manliness” of Nietzsche, amid a global catastrophe that remained bloodlessly abstract to him at his desk in Munich. He published his wartime writings in the genre-defying Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man in October 1918, one month before the armistice. Katia Mann later wrote, “In the course of writing the book, Thomas Mann gradually freed himself from the ideas which had held sway over him … He wrote Reflections in all sincerity and, in doing so, ended by getting over what he had advocated in the book.”

When Mann unpacked the four-year-old manuscript of The Magic Mountain in the spring of 1919, the novel and its creator were poised to undergo a metamorphosis. The war that had just ended enlarged the novel’s theme into “a worldwide festival of death”; the devastation, he would go on to write in the book’s last pages, was “the thunderbolt that bursts open the magic mountain and rudely sets its entranced sleeper outside the gates,” soon to become a German soldier. It also confronted Mann himself with a new world to which he had to respond.

[From the January 1953 issue: Thomas Mann on the making of The Magic Mountain]

Defeated Germany was in a state of revolution. In Munich, demobilized soldiers, right-wing paramilitaries, and Communist militants fought in the streets, while leaders of the new Weimar Republic were routinely assassinated. A local war veteran named Adolf Hitler began to electrify crowds in cramped halls with speeches denouncing the “traitors”—republican politicians, leftists, Jews—who had stabbed Germany in the back. The National Socialist German Workers’ Party was born in Munich; Hitler’s attempted coup in November 1923, known as the Beer Hall Putsch, took place less than two miles from the Mann house.

Some German conservatives, in their hatred of the Weimar Republic and the Treaty of Versailles, embraced right-wing mass politics. Mann, nearing 50, vacillated, hoping to salvage the old conservatism from the new extremism. In early 1922, he and Heinrich reconciled, and, as Mann later wrote, he began “to accept the European-democratic religion of humanity within my moral horizon, which so far had been bounded solely by late German romanticism, by Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Wagner.” In April of that year, in a review of a German translation of Walt Whitman’s selected poetry and prose, he associated the American poet’s mystical notion of democracy with “the same thing that we in our old-fashioned way call ‘humanity’ … I am convinced there is no more urgent task for Germany today than to fill out this word, which has been debased into a hollow shell.”

The key event of Mann’s conversion came in June, when ultranationalists in Berlin murdered his friend Walther Rathenau, the Weimar Republic’s Jewish foreign minister. Shocked into taking a political stand, Mann turned a birthday speech in honor of the Nobel Prize–winning author Gerhart Hauptmann into a stirring call for democracy. To the amazement of his audience and the German press, Mann ended with the cry “Long live the republic!”

Mann the novelist had meanwhile returned to The Magic Mountain, and his work on it took a swerve in the same crucial year of 1922. His hero would have to struggle with the political battle that had beset Mann during the war. Abandoning Pastor Bunge as outmoded, he created a new counterpart to Settembrini who casts a sinister shadow over the second half of the novel: an ugly, charismatic, and (of course) tubercular Jesuit of Jewish origin named Leo Naphta. The intellectual combat between him and Settembrini—which ends physically, in a duel—provides some of the most dazzling passages in The Magic Mountain.

Just when you want to give up on their high-level dialectics, one of them, usually Naphta, says something that shocks you into a new way of thinking. Naphta is neither conservative nor liberal. Against capitalist modernity, whose godless greed and moral vacuity he hates with a sulfurous rage, Naphta offers a synthesis of medieval Catholicism and the new ideology of communism. Both place “anonymous and communal” authority over the individual, and both are intent on saving humanity from Settembrini’s soft, rational humanism. Hans Castorp calls Naphta “a revolutionary of reaction.” At times sounding like a fanatical parody of the Mann of Reflections, Naphta argues that love of freedom and pleasure is weaker than the desire to obey. “The mystery and precept of our age is not liberation and development of the ego,” he says. “What our age needs, what it demands, what it will create for itself, is—terror.” Mann understood the appeal of totalitarianism early on.

It’s Naphta, a truly demonic figure—not Settembrini, the voice of reason—who precipitates the end of the hero’s romance with death. His jarring arrival allows Hans Castorp to loosen himself from its grip and begin a journey toward—what? Not toward Settembrini’s international republic of letters, and not back toward his simple bourgeois life down in the flatlands. The answer comes 300 pages before the novel’s end, when Hans Castorp puts on a new pair of skis and sets out for a few hours of exercise that lead him into the fateful blizzard and “a very enchanting, very dreadful dream.”

In it, he encounters a landscape of human beings in all their kindness and beauty, and all their hideous evil. “I know everything about humankind,” he thinks, still dreaming, and he resolves to reject both Settembrini and Naphta—or rather, to reject the stark choice between life and death, illness and health, recognizing that “man is the master of contradictions, they occur through him, and so he is more noble than they.” During his years on the mountain, he’s become one of death’s intimates, and his initiation into its mysteries has immeasurably deepened his understanding of life—but he won’t let death rule his thoughts. He won’t let reason either, which seems weak and paltry before the power of destruction. “Love stands opposed to death,” he dreams; “it alone, and not reason, is stronger than death.”

The Magic Mountain makes no clear political statement. The novel remains true to Mann’s belief that art must include everything, allowing life its complexity and ambiguity. But the vision of “love” that Hans Castorp embraces just before waking up is “brotherly love”—the bond that unites all human beings. The creation of this novel, which won Mann international fame, is “a tale of two Thomas Manns,” in the words of Morten Høi Jensen, a Danish critic whose The Master of Contradictions: Thomas Mann and the Making of “The Magic Mountain” is due to be published next year. The Mann of wartime could not have written the sentence that awakens Hans Castorp from his dream.

[From the October 1944 issue: Thomas Mann’s “In My Defense”]

Mann now recognized political freedom as necessary to ensure the freedom of art, and he became a sworn enemy of the Nazis. A Nobel Prize winner in exile, he emerged as the preeminent German spokesman against Hitler who, in lectures across the United States in 1938, warned Americans of the rising threat to democracy, which for him was inseparable from humanism: “We must define democracy as that form of government and of society which is inspired above every other with the feeling and consciousness of the dignity of man.”

He was speaking at a moment when the dignity of man was locked up in Nazi concentration camps, liquidated in Soviet show trials, buried under piles of corpses. Yet Mann urged his audiences to resist the temptation to deride humanity. “Despite so much ridiculous depravity, we cannot forget the great and the honorable in man,” he said, “which manifest themselves as art and science, as passion for truth, creation of beauty, and the idea of justice.”

Could anyone utter these lofty words today without courting a chorus of snickers, a social-media immolation? We live in an age of human self-contempt. We’re hardly surprised when our leaders debase themselves with vile behavior and lies, when combatants desecrate the bodies of their enemies, when free people humiliate themselves under the spell of a megalomaniacal fraud. It takes a constant effort not to accept this as normal. We might even feel, without acknowledging it to ourselves, that we deserve it: After all, we’re human, the lowest of the low.

In driving our democracy into hatred, chaos, and violence we, too, grant death dominion over our thoughts. We succumb to the impulse to escape our humanness. That urge, ubiquitous today, thrives in the utopian schemes of technologists who want to upload our minds into computers; in the pessimism of radical environmentalists who want us to disappear from the Earth in order to save it; in the longing of apocalyptic believers for godly retribution and cleansing; in the daily sense of inadequacy, of shame and sin, that makes us disappear into our devices.

The need for political reconstruction, in this country and around the world, is as obvious as it was in Thomas Mann’s time. But Mann also knew that, to withstand our attraction to death, a decent society has to be built on a foundation deeper than politics: the belief that, somewhere between matter and divinity, we human beings, made of water, protein, and love, share a common destiny.

This article appears in the December 2024 print edition with the headline “The Magic Mountain Saved My Life.”

At a rally just outside Atlanta in late October, thousands of Donald Trump supporters lined up in the punishing southern sun to see their hero; some had driven hours from out of state. Vendors hawked T-shirts with slogans such as Say no to the ho, and Roses are red, Hunter smokes crack, Joe Biden has dementia and Kamala isn’t Black, sometimes chanting the phrases out loud to amused onlookers.

Hundreds of people still standing in the winding queue shuffled off into a disappointed crowd when told that the venue was now full. Many hung around outside, browsing the vendors’ wares or grabbing a bite at one of the nearby food trucks. They were there to see Trump, but also to enjoy the sense of belonging that comes from being surrounded by the like-minded. They were there to see and be seen, dressed in MAGA hats, MAGA shirts, MAGA tights. Service dogs decked out in stars and stripes, men in silk shirts printed with an image of a bloodied Trump raising his fist. As “Y.M.C.A.” blared from inside the venue, Trump supporters stopped their conversations to sing along and shape their arms with the chorus.

The first time Trump ran for president as a Republican, when I spoke with his followers I encountered a superficial denial of Trump’s prejudice that suggested a quiet approval of it. They would deny that Trump made bigoted remarks or proposed discriminatory policies while also defending those remarks and policies as necessary. What I found this time around were people who were far more deeply embedded in an unreality carefully molded by the Trump campaign and right-wing media to foment a sense of crisis—and a belief that they were being exploited by a shadowy conspiracy that Trump alone could vanquish. Whereas many supporters I spoke with at rallies in 2016 rationalized or dismissed Trump’s yarns as exaggerations or bombast, in 2024 they would repeat them solemnly and earnestly, as gospel.

The conspiracy theories, particularly surrounding immigration, are significant because they justify extreme measures—Trump’s promises to stripcritical news outlets of their broadcast licenses, prosecute political rivals, and purge the federal government of “the enemy within.” Yet some supporters I spoke with also seemed either unaware or disbelieving of the plans that Trump and his allies have for a second administration. There is a disconnect between what Trump and his allies intend to do in power and what many of the people who would vote him in believe he would do.

This disconnect was apparent earlier in the 2024 campaign, when Democrats began attacking Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation “blueprint” for a second Trump administration. The agenda contemplates not only a political purge of the federal government, and a president who can order the Justice Department to prosecute his enemies, but drastic limits on abortion; drastic cuts to education, the social safety net, and efforts to fight climate change; and using federal powers to discriminate against LGBTQ people. Although Project 2025 was not affiliated with the campaign, it was largely a Trumpworld project, conceived by former Trump aides. Trump surmised that his own followers would not support what was in Project 2025 and distanced himself from it, posting late one night in July that he knew “nothing about Project 2025. I have not seen it, have no idea who is in charge of it, and unlike our very well received Republican Platform, had nothing to do with it.” (CNN reported that at least 140 people who worked for Trump were involved in the project, including six of his former Cabinet members.) Its architects were left to quietly reassure their fellow travelers that he was saying this for political reasons. “He’s running against the brand,” Russell Vought, a Project 2025 contributor and potential future Trump chief of staff, told an undercover reporter. “He’s very supportive of what we do.”

I noticed a particular disconnect on immigration; people I spoke with emphasized their support for legal immigration and, unlike Trump, did not single out particular ethnicities or nationalities for scorn. They said they would welcome anyone as long as they came legally. It’s possible that this was merely something they were telling themselves they believed so as not to interrogate their own motives further. They were ultimately also in thrall to Trump’s narrative about how Joe Biden and Kamala Harris were conspiring to repopulate the country with undocumented immigrants living on the dole at their expense. That fiction was not just a source of rage but a predicate for whatever radical action might be needed to rectify it.

One Trump voter I met among the cheerful crowd of supporters milling around outside a packed rally outside Atlanta, who identified himself only as Steve and said he worked in telecommunications, managed to touch on virtually every immigration conspiracy theory put forth by the Trump campaign in about 30 seconds. Yet even Steve told me the issue was people coming in illegally, not that they were coming in at all. “You’re not coming in legally; you’re not pledging to the country; you’re not saying you’re going to support that country,” Steve said.

[Adam Serwer: The cruelty is the point]

Another Trump supporter named Rebecca Cruz told me, “We need immigration in this country, but we need safe, safe immigration.” Referring to the Biden administration, she explained that “they take them from other countries, bringing them. They’re going into certain countries, and they fly them in here … because they want to destroy America. They hate what America stands for.”

A few days earlier, at another Trump rally, in Greenville, North Carolina, the crowd cheered when Trump demanded that news outlets be taken off the air for criticizing him or for giving positive coverage to Harris. They laughed when Trump played a bizarre video mocking trans people in the military. They cheered for the death penalty. They booed when Senator Ted Budd warned that Harris would let “the illegals who are here … use your taxpayer dollars for transgender surgeries.” Trump insisted that “Kamala Harris has imported an army of illegal-alien gang members and migrant criminals from prisons and jails, from insane asylums and mental institutions all around the world, from Venezuela to the Congo, not just South America.” Trump repeated “the Congo” three times, in case the audience didn’t understand that the immigrants he was attacking were Black. He would occasionally pay lip service to legal immigration, or vow to defend Americans of “any color and creed,” but this was only after invoking a litany of stereotypes designed to justify state violence against whichever marginalized group he had just finished demonizing.

When I spoke with people one-on-one, they reflected back to me Trump’s rhetoric, occasionally with a somewhat more human touch. A retired English teacher who did not want to give her name emphasized that “I believe in immigration, but do it legally. Don’t make your first act of coming to America be coming illegally … We’re taking away from servicing children who don’t even get to eat because you’re giving housing to the people coming in.” Another retiree in North Carolina, named Theresa Paul, gave me a hard look and said she was supporting Trump because “when you take illegals over our citizens, that’s treason … We’re being worked to death, taxed to death, and for what? So we can put up people that’s coming in illegally, and putting them up way superior to us.” I asked her why she thought the Biden administration would want to do that. She grasped my arm lightly and said, “To replace us, right?”

I began to realize that these Trump fans—diehards though they may be—represent a distinct space in the MAGA landscape. They enjoy his cruelty, seeing it as righteous vengeance for the constellation of wrongs they have been told they are the victims of, but they aren’t the architects of these conspiracy theories, and neither do they stand to profit from them. Their conspiracism serves to distract them from Trump’s actual policy agenda and his authoritarian ambitions.

There are, I’ve come to see, three circles of MAGA that make up the Trump coalition. The innermost circle comprises the most loyal Trump allies, who wish to combine a traditional conservative agenda of gutting the welfare state and redistributing income upward while executing by force a radical social reengineering of America to resemble right-wing nostalgia of the 1950s. Trump’s advisers and other conservative-movement figures understand Trump’s populism as a smoke screen designed to conceal their agenda of cutting taxes for the wealthy, banning abortion, eviscerating the social safety net, and slashing funding for education, health care, and other support for low-income people. All of this is consistent with how Trump governed when he was in the White House, although many people seem to have forgotten what he was actually like. This faction wants a government that works to preserve traditional hierarchies of race, gender, and religion, or at least one that does not seek to interfere with what it sees as the natural order of things.

This innermost circle includes legislative allies such as House Speaker Mike Johnson, who has vowed to repeal the Affordable Care Act; policy aides such as Vought, who has spoken of mass deportation as a means to “end multiculturalism”; and elite backers such as Elon Musk, who hopes to use his influence to inflict hardship on Americans by dramatically cutting the welfare state so that he can reduce his own tax burden. It is no coincidence that Musk has transformed the social network formerly known as Twitter into a haven for racist pseudoscience that he himself consciously amplifies.

This faction also includes those far-right figures who are not official members of Trumpworld but who see the reality-show star as a champion of a resurgent white-nationalist identity. These people understand what Trumpism’s goals are, and most of them also understand that, absent the particular devotion Trump inspires, their plans would not be politically viable.

There is a second, slightly larger circle around this first one, comprising devoted Trump fans. These fans are the primary target for a sanitized version of the “Great Replacement” theory, which holds that American elites have conspired to dispossess them of what they have in order to give it to unauthorized immigrants who do not belong. They are not ideologically hostile to the welfare state—indeed, many of them value it—but they believe it is being wasted on those who have no claim to it. People in this circle are acting rationally in response to conspiracy theories they have chosen to believe, and are bewildered by those who refuse to acknowledge what they are certain is true. This bewilderment serves only to further cement their feeling that they are the victims of an elite plot to take from them that which they deserve. This is the group you might refer to as true believers.

In a different political and informational environment, many of these true believers would be unlikely to support the Project 2025 agenda—or at least not much of it—but here they are so isolated from mainstream news sources that they believe Trump’s claims that he has no ties to it, and that he has their best interests in mind because “he cannot be bought” by the same elites they believe are responsible for their hardships.

Then there is the outer circle: Americans with conservative beliefs who may be uneasy about Trump but whose identification with conservative principles and the Republican Party mean they wish to persuade themselves to vote for the Republican candidate. They may be ardently anti-abortion, or small-business owners, or deeply religious. They do not believe everything Trump says; in fact, their approach to the man is dismissiveness. These are voters who fall into what my colleague David Graham calls the “believability gap.” They don’t like Trump’s authoritarian rhetoric but also don’t think he will follow through with it. This is the “What’s the downside for humoring him?” faction.

This group of Trump voters treat his authoritarianism as mere bombast or as exaggerations from the media, seeing this election as an ordinary one in which a party with a bad economic record should be replaced by a party with a better one, not an election in which a man who tried to destroy American democracy is running for a chance to finish the job.

Denial is the mortar that holds the three MAGA circles together. The innermost circle denies the radicalism of its agenda to the middle ring of fervent Trump supporters, presenting any criticism as the lies of the same liberal elites responsible for dispossessing real Americans of what is owed them. The outer circle treats Trump’s authoritarianism and racism as regrettable and perhaps too colorful, but equivalent or similar to other common character defects possessed by all politicians. To acknowledge the liberal critique of Trump as correct would amount to a painful step away from a settled political identity that these outer-circle members are not willing to take—they would have to join the Never Trumpers in exile.

As different as some of the people I spoke with at these Trump rallies could be, when they went into the crowd, they experienced the ecstasy of the cruelties they would perhaps not allow themselves to indulge in alone. The rationalizations and explanations and denial melted away. They understood that they were there to mock and condemn those they hate and fear, and to listen to all of Trump’s vows to punish them.

A person, alone in conversation, can be rational. People, in a crowd, become something else.

Conspiracism is not an inherently right-wing indulgence. After September 11, many in liberal circles fell for nonsense alleging that the Bush administration was secretly behind the attacks. After George W. Bush’s reelection in 2004, some liberals indulged absurd theories about voting machines in Ohio switching votes and thus delivering the state to Bush. More recently, conspiracy theories about the assassination attempt on Trump being staged spread in certain liberal circles online.

Political leaders, intellectuals, and public figures can play a crucial role in containing such conspiracism. Democratic leaders shamed 9/11 truthers out of the party. John Kerry conceded the election rather than champion baseless allegations about voter fraud. Unlike Trump, who gleefully promoted conspiracy theories around the violent assault on Nancy Pelosi’s husband, no prominent Democrats embraced any of the conspiracy theories that emerged about the attempt on Trump’s life. But when elites cultivate and indulge conspiracism—when they exploit it—they can create the conditions for authoritarianism and political violence.

“In social movements … conspiracy theories that may be absurd and specious on their face nevertheless contain valid information about the motivations, grievances, insecurities, and even panics among their promoters, so they cannot be simply dismissed,” the historian Linda Gordon wrote in The Second Coming of the KKK. “Among Klan leaders, conspiracy theories also did a great deal of organizing work: they provided identifiable and unifying targets, supplying a bonding function that explanations based on historical analyses do not deliver.” Political and national identities of any ideology can be forged by the sense that some part of your identity is under assault. When that assault does not truly exist, conspiracism can provide it.

Trumpist conspiracy theories perform a similar function. In his stump speeches, the former president calls the United States an “occupied country” that will be “liberated” from criminal migrants when he retakes power. He tells his audience that crime by undocumented immigrants is not simply a social problem that might be solved with more restrictive immigration policy but a deliberate plan by those in office. “Kamala is importing millions of illegals across our borders and giving them taxpayer benefits at your expense,” Trump declared in Greenville.

Humiliation is an essential part of the Trumpist style. Trump appeals to his audiences’ pride by telling them they have been hoodwinked by their adversaries, but that he has the power to avenge this injustice. Invoking that sense of humiliation is part of how he primes his audiences to be manipulated, knowing that their sense of shame will make them both angry and eager to reassert that pride. It is one of the most obvious con-man tricks in history—you got scammed, you paid too much, but if you give me your money, I’ll get you a better deal—and it has worked on tens of millions of Americans for a decade.

[Read: The malignant cruelty of Donald Trump]

These conspiracy theories create communities that are hostile to dissenters, and they legitimize radical, even violent actions. This is how thousands of Trump supporters ended up ransacking the Capital on January 6, 2021, hoping to overturn an election on the basis of a conspiracy theory about voting machines, spread by elite figures who knew it to be false. The Dominion lawsuit against Fox News and the congressional inquiry into January 6 revealed that although much of the right-wing leadership class understand they have created a monster they cannot control, they lack the courage to confront it. Trump and his closest aides, by contrast, are well aware of the hold they have on their audience and see it as useful for their own purposes.

“Before they seize power and establish a world according to their doctrines,” Hannah Arendt wrote, “totalitarian movements conjure up a lying world of consistency which is more adequate to the needs of the human mind than reality itself; in which, through sheer imagination, uprooted masses can feel at home and are spared the never-ending shocks which real life and real experiences deal to human beings and their expectations.” Trumpism is neither Nazism nor Stalinism, but Arendt’s observation about people living in a universe of complete unreality still applies.

All of us navigate the world on the basis of information sources we trust, and millions of people trust Donald Trump. Understanding his longevity is perhaps impossible absent an information environment in which people come to passionately believe things that are not true. This is not a false-consciousness argument. If banning abortion matters more to you than raising the minimum wage, and you make your choice with that in mind, that is your right as a voter. But that decision should be based on values, not on a universe of unreality.

The former president and his surrogates have woven a totalizing conspiracy theory in which virtually every problem facing the nation can be laid at the feet of immigration. Violent crime is rising because of immigrants (it isn’t). Democrats are chartering planes from other countries to bring in illegal immigrants (they aren’t), whom they are paying to come (it’s not happening) and who are smuggling in fentanyl (it’s overwhelmingly citizens who are doing the smuggling, actually), in the hopes that these illegal immigrants will vote for them (they can’t vote, and they wouldn’t necessarily vote for Democrats if they could). Immigrants are the main reason for the housing crisis (they aren’t—it’s a lack of supply); they’re getting FEMA money meant for citizens affected by the hurricanes in the South (wrong); and none of this would have happened if Biden and Harris hadn’t opened the border (the Biden administration is on pace to match Trump’s border deportations) to undocumented immigrants who don’t pay taxes (false). There really was a rise in illegal border crossings after the pandemic, but the response of the Democratic Party was to move closer to Trump’s positions on immigration.

Nor will mass deportation, framed as a means to fight crime, resolve any of these issues. Mass deportation will not raise wages. It will not make housing less expensive. It will not create jobs. It will not make the welfare state more generous to those who need its assistance. And indeed, during Trump’s term as president, his administration shirked prosecuting undocumented criminals in favor of destroying families and removing as many people as possible, regardless of what roots they might have established. Trump aides are planning an attack on the kind of legal immigration that supporters at his rallies repeatedly told me they wanted—an attack that, if prior experience holds, will take precedence over enforcing the law against criminals.

But for some today, just as in the past, the presence of immigrants threatens a “dominance” that, as Gordon wrote of the 1920s, “many white native-born Protestants considered a form of social property.” It is an odd but insufficient sign of progress that such status anxiety is no longer confined to white, Protestant, or native-born people—the irony is that America is such a powerful machine of assimilation that the ascendant reactionary coalition includes millions of people descended from those once deemed unassimilable aliens by their predecessors movements. Unfortunately, lies and conspiracy theories directed at those we see as unlike us are far more likely to be believed.

Like Trump’s lies about voter fraud in 2020, the conspiracy theories about immigration are important not because there is truth to them but because they forge a political identity that is not amenable to fact-checking or correction. It does not matter if the “voter fraud” in 2020 did not happen; believing that it did expresses the symbolic view that the opposing coalition should not be considered truly American. To point out that very little of what Trump and his allies say about immigration is factual cannot dispel the worldview that causes one to embrace it: that the America you know has been stolen by people who have no claim to it.

The workings of American immigration policy are complicated, though, and any sufficiently complicated process can appear to someone who doesn’t understand it as a conspiracy—if you don’t understand the weather, for example, you might think the U.S. government has a hurricane gun it can aim with pinpoint accuracy at Republican-majority districts. If you don’t understand something—and if understanding it might leave your conception of your own identity teetering, Jenga-like—it is much easier to believe what the people you love and trust are telling you, even if that thing is untrue.

Perhaps most important, the breadth of the conspiracy and the power of the conspirators place any solutions beyond the reach of ordinary politics. At the rally prior to the storming of the Capitol, Trump warned the audience that “if you don’t fight like hell, you’re not going to have a country anymore.” Then he retreated to the safety of the White House and watched the mob attack Congress, hoping that by some miracle his supporters would succeed in keeping him in power by force. In such dire circumstances, only a messianic figure will rescue the virtuous from the corrupt. The logic of grand conspiracy thus elevates the strongman.

In the conspiracist mind, Trump is not simply the only logical solution but the only hope, the only man not compromised by the grand cabal that opposes him and its puppet politicians. Trump’s followers are convinced that Trump’s wealth means he cannot be bought. Few politicians have ever been more clearly for sale.  

Doubtlessly, many liberals would deny a distinction between the devotion of Trump supporters who flock to his rallies and the ideological vanguard that aims to use him as a vehicle to remake the country. While I was out reporting this story, The Atlantic published an account of how, according to Trump’s former chief of staff General John Kelly, Trump spoke admiringly of Adolf Hitler and his generals. Typically, when I go out to rallies, I do not argue with voters or offer my own views, because I am there to find out what they believe and why. But because of my affiliation with The Atlantic, several people I spoke with asked me to explain my views—occasionally referring to the story as “fake news” or “Democrats calling Trump Hitler,” having heard the story wrongly characterized this way.

In one exchange, I mentioned that as a man married to a woman born to a West African immigrant father, I did not appreciate Trump’s remarks about Black immigrants, and recounted the story of Trump complaining about not wanting immigrants from “shithole countries.” The Trump supporter had not heard of the 2018 incident and refused to believe that it had occurred as I relayed it.

In two other conversations, when asked about my views, I explained that, as a Texan, if I choose to have another child, I have to worry that if something goes wrong, doctors may refuse to treat my wife because of the state’s abortion ban. Doctors in Texas are afraid to provide lifesaving medical care to mothers with pregnancy complications because the Republican-controlled state government has passed laws that punish abortion providers with steep fines, loss of their medical license, and jail time. The Texas courts have repeatedly refused to clarify or expand the exceptions to the ban—these exceptions are simply meant to ensure sufficient political support for those bans. Because of this, Texas parents have to roll the dice with a pregnancy, knowing that their existing children may end up without a mother.

Not only did the people I spoke with react in disbelief that an abortion ban would be so strict; they did not believe that a doctor would refuse to treat a woman until she was at death’s door. Last week, ProPublica reported that a Texas mother, Josseli Barnica, died after doctors thought it would be a “crime” to treat her while she was having a miscarriage. ProPublica also reported that in 2023, a pregnant teenager from Vidor, Nevaeh Crain, died after three emergency rooms refused to treat her. Texas has fought the Biden administration’s attempt to set federal rules allowing emergency abortions. Last month, the Supreme Court let a ruling siding with Texas remain in place.

[Read: Gullible Mr. Trump]

There is a distance between the views of many of the most ardent Trump fans and the policy goals of the people they would put in power. The innermost MAGA circle understands this, even if many of the people whose votes they rely on don’t. This is why the role played by Fox News and other conservative media outlets is so crucial—not only in maintaining a sense of conspiracism and emotional siege but in ensuring that stories about women like Barnica and Crain never reach the eyes and ears of their audience.

This is an observation, not an excuse. In a democracy, citizens are responsible for knowing the consequences of their votes. They are responsible for not being enthralled by a jumped-up con man who tells them flattering lies. They are responsible for knowing the difference between fact and fiction. And yet few of us would find it easy to extract ourselves from a social universe in which belief in those fictions is a requirement for good standing.

Trump rallies are where the mask usually comes off. At the rallies, the different circles of MAGA lose their distinctiveness; in the anonymity and unity of the crowd, they can indulge the feelings of anger and hatred without the oversensitive, judgmental liberals of the outside world making them feel ashamed. Here, they can be themselves.

This is why the insult comedian Tony Hinchcliffe thought he was in the right place to call Puerto Rico a “floating island of garbage” at Trump’s rally at Madison Square Garden in late October. “These are the kind of jokes that normal people tell,” the conservative media figure Matt Walsh declared. Hinchcliffe was hardly an outlier. Other speakers that night called Harris a prostitute, “the anti-Christ,” “the devil.” The disgraced former Fox News host Tucker Carlson mocked Harris as “the first Samoan Malaysian, low-IQ former California prosecutor ever to be elected president.”

The big mistake made by Hinchcliffe was that, in wrestling parlance, he broke kayfabe. The Trump campaign has fine-tuned its line-stepping over the years, invoking racist stereotypes with just the thinnest veneer of deniability, the better to cast liberal criticism as hypersensitive hysteria. In 2016, Trump campaigned on banning Muslims writ large, not just jihadist terrorists. In 2020, he publicly vowed to meet the nationwide Black-rights protests with violence. In 2024, Trumpism remains a politics of bullying marginalized groups and framing those unwilling to do so as possessing a lack of virtue. Do you want to coddle murderous illegal aliens? Do you want men in women’s sports? Why are you okay with gangs taking over our cities?

Trump’s agenda of using state power to maintain traditional American hierarchies of race, religion, and gender has not changed. But for much of his 2024 run, the sweeping generalizations of previous outings resembled more traditional dog whistling with superficially plausible connections to actual policy concerns. The shift can be imperceptible to people who have paid close attention to politics—Trump’s personality and ideology have not really changed—but to those who have not, his racial animus and misogyny are less obvious. About two-thirds of Hispanic voters in one recent poll said that Trump’s attacks on immigration were not directed at them.

The rightward shift of some Hispanic and Black voters seems to have persuaded the Trump campaign to tone down the explicit racial stereotyping of his previous campaigns, though not the promises to use state power to crush his political enemies. But when you put a guy in front of a Trump campaign sign to warm up the crowd with hacky jokes about Black people liking watermelon, it gets harder to suspend disbelief.

Amid the comedian’s insult to Puerto Rico and the barrage of racist stereotypes—not only about Black people and Puerto Ricans, but about Jews being cheap and Palestinians being terrorists—the word routine takes on another meaning: dull, tedious, boring. Yet the line about Puerto Rico broke through, and a growing list of Puerto Rican celebrities are now endorsing Harris, and perhaps moving crucial Hispanic votes in key swing states to her column.

The crisis caused by Hinchcliffe’s routine and remarks by other speakers that night is that they troubled voters in that outer MAGA circle by briefly revealing what Trump’s entourage actually believes—that when Stephen Miller says “America is for Americans and Americans only,” he is referring to a very limited number of people. The event pierced the veil of denial for those who are otherwise inclined to dismiss such criticisms as the tedious whining of an oversensitive age.

The Puerto Rican Reggaeton singer Nicky Jam renounced his support for Trump after the rally, saying, “Never in my life did I think that a month [after I appeared at a rally to support Trump] a comedian was going to come to criticize my country and speak badly of my country and therefore, I renounce any support for Donald Trump, and I sidestep any political situation.” Those people who renounced their support for Trump after realizing that the contempt he has expressed for others also applies to people like them must understand: He was always talking about people like you, even when you didn’t want to believe it.

At Trump rallies, the denial and the dismissal cease, and the nature of Trumpism is revealed. This is why, despite the fact that the Puerto Rico “joke” bombed at a comedy club the night before, Hinchcliffe thought everyone at the rally would love it. His set was not a divergence from Trumpism. It was … Well, it was routine.