The problem with Trumpian mercantilism
First go read this: Condition-of-England question. You do not need to read this: Carlyle.
Let me begin this little foray into intellectual sparring by stating, with a confidence born of calloused hands and fingertips, that the author of this piece likely wouldn’t know a day’s honest labor if it slapped him across his perpetually screen-lit face. His world, I suspect, exists solely within the abstract glow of computer code. It’s an assumption, yes, but one I feel as solid based on the detached, theoretical nature of his pronouncements.
This lack of real-world grounding, this existence in a self-constructed digital domain, explains so much about Mr. Yarvin’s peculiar brand of thinking. His arguments are intricate tapestries woven from abstract threads, beautiful perhaps in their complexity, but utterly devoid of practical application. He inhabits a fantastical operating system of his own design, where inputs neatly yield predictable outputs, and the messy, unpredictable chaos of reality is neatly contained. Thankfully for the rest of us, the world outside his monitor bears little resemblance to this controlled environment. And this, mind you, is the supposed leading light of this so-called “broligarchy” – a movement that seems to yearn for a return to a hierarchical past, conveniently placing its theorists at the top, far removed from the grime and grit of actual work.
“BURN EVERYTHING DOWN AND HAVE A MONARCHY AGAIN,” they cry, these digital revolutionaries. And of course, in their envisioned feudal future, Mr. Yarvin would undoubtedly find himself among the elite, pontificating on the “Condition-of-England” – a 19th-century term referring to societal division and widespread poverty – while his own contribution to the present seems limited to a severe case of carpal tunnel syndrome. It’s almost comical how blind he is to his own place within the very “intelligentsia” he seems to disdain. He, like those thinkers of the 1830s, offers no practical solutions, no tangible efforts to mend the systems he critiques. Instead, we are treated to abstract pronouncements from a man whose hands have likely never known the weight of a tool heavier than a mouse.
His essay meanders through a labyrinth of fanciful notions, touching on everything from supply chains to rebuilding American infrastructure, even offering his detached perspective on navigating periods of “pollution debt.” It takes him the better part of four paragraphs to finally pose his grand question: “Do you really believe ours is the bestest 2025?” – a loaded comparison to a romanticized 1955 America. This “thought experiment,” as he calls it, is so heavily skewed by his own biases that it’s practically useless. He urges us to “check the actual statistics,” but I can’t help but suspect he’d only present the numbers that conveniently align with his predetermined conclusions.
“The idea that you would believe a number over your own eyes is an insult,” he proclaims. Well, Mr. Yarvin, perhaps that’s because your “own eyes” seem incapable of seeing beyond the curated reality of your screen. A statistic, unlike your subjective pronouncements, is simply a data point, devoid of inherent narrative or emotional baggage. It’s a cold, hard fact, much like the sterile prose you employ.
Then comes this gem: “A reflex without a plan is not action, but the illusion of action. Action is defined by its purpose. The only purpose of a reflex is to do the right thing.” What in the name of common sense is this convoluted word salad?
For the record, a reflex is an involuntary, automatic, and rapid response to a stimulus. Involuntary. How much of what you do involuntarily is meticulously planned, Mr. Yarvin? I understand this is a simplified counterpoint, but your tendency to twist the very definitions of words to sound profound is a disservice to clear thinking. The purpose of a reflex is survival, a quick, unthinking response to immediate danger, not some grand moral imperative.
This bizarre definition, however, allows Mr. Yarvin to establish a false sense of moral superiority. Only his chosen actions, guided by his abstract “plans,” are the “right thing” to do. The smugness practically drips from his sentences, a testament to his inflated sense of intellectual cleverness.
He then invokes libertarianism and “the beauty and power of spontaneous order” before culminating in this baffling statement: “The purpose of the reflex is not to accomplish these things—but to show Providence that we are worthy of her favor. The fundamental hurdle of any project is spiritual.” Ah, yes, the familiar leap from pseudo-intellectualism to thinly veiled religious justification. This allows him to not only claim moral high ground but to align his vaguely defined “project” with some divinely ordained path, echoing a romanticized vision of America’s forefathers.
“In case none of you zoomers is 50 yet, here is what happens. Things don’t just heal,” he declares, before launching into a personal anecdote about a lingering ankle sprain. Perhaps, Mr. Yarvin, if you spent less time hunched over your keyboard and more time engaging with the physical world, your body might retain some of its natural resilience. I’m older than you, by your own admission, and my body has weathered far more than a sprained ankle, healing with a speed that suggests a life lived beyond the confines of a digital realm. Your anecdote speaks volumes, not about the inevitable decline of age, but about the likely state of your own physical well-being.
But fear not, Yarvin enthusiasts, the digital prophet eventually gets to his point, albeit in his characteristically circuitous manner.
He argues that expecting a new national production infrastructure to arise without deliberate planning is “providential thinking.” He correctly states that such an infrastructure needs to be designed and built. However, his subsequent musings on centralization versus decentralized growth reveal a mind that operates best in controlled, top-down systems – much like his idealized operating system.
His analogy of a supply chain to a human body, requiring a “big, complicated central printer” to be rebuilt, perfectly encapsulates his technocratic worldview. He envisions a centrally planned re-industrialization, akin to a World War II-style project orchestrated by a “General Groves” figure, a Stalinist approach to building a new economy. He even suggests creating “vertically integrated manufacturers” or Japanese-style “keiretsu,” force-fed by finance – a vision that seems to contradict his earlier libertarian leanings.
His discussion of tariffs as mere “ambient corporate nutrition” and his call for an immediate, complete cessation of manufacturing imports within four years reveal a fundamental misunderstanding of the complexities of global trade and the delicate balance of economic forces. His analogy of pouring fertilizer into water and expecting a tree to grow highlights his disdain for organic development and his preference for engineered solutions.
Ultimately, Mr. Yarvin’s vision, as articulated in this essay, is one of a centrally planned, technologically driven societal overhaul, guided by an intellectual elite who, ironically, seem to have little practical understanding of the very world they seek to reshape. It’s a vision crafted from the abstract realm of computer code, far removed from the messy, unpredictable, and ultimately human reality of actually building a better future.