Donald Trump will not concede defeat tomorrow, or in a month, or even on his deathbed. It is the dogma of papal infallibility applied to a provincial clown who cannot admit the possibility of defeat. To explain such an aberration, we must never lose sight of the fact that the current tenant of the White House considers himself a genuine genius, one of those pure spirits who by a well-established principle cannot be wrong or even be wrong.
We will never know if Trump suffers from a proven mental disorder. We can still say that the gap that exists between his supposed genius and his translation into the real world is such that to have recourse to a basic treatment would not be superfluous. Such a megalomania which relies so much on emptiness necessarily maintains close connivance with madness, a kind of inverted mirror in which psychotic personalities often mirrored themselves incapable of accepting the world as it presents itself - failed artists, aborted cooks, complexed gardeners, mortified presidents ...
This is why Trump, even though the election would have taken place in a normal way, without massive recourse to postal votes, in case of defeat, would have reacted similarly by inventing a thousand plots intended to destroy him. When in his heart of hearts one imagines oneself the greatest of monarchs, admitting the possibility of losing is in some way denying the exceptional character of his personality and becoming aware in the most brutal way possible of the lie on which his life was built.
Unless it turns this defeat into a gargantuan thirst for revenge that can channel the tide of his bitterness, Trump will continue to claim to be the winner of the ballot. No court decision, no clarification from any federal authority, no denial, even from his own party, will undermine his certainty of having been robbed of his victory. Until the end of his life, whenever the question is debated, with the candor of a fool and the bad faith of a barker, in the madness that is his, he will continue to deny the obvious.
It would be laughable if it did not involve in its delirium a whole fringe of the American population which will never resolve to the defeat of its foal. Once you give up on the truth, you cling to your lies with the stubbornness of the madman. This is the madness of modern times: thanks to the emergence of social networks, everyone in their corner can find material to feed the source of their fantasies, from the most innocuous to the most extravagant, in a headlong rush that would be that of a Don Quixote on acid, no longer a valiant knight with the best intentions, but an evil being ready to adhere to any conspiracy theory.
This is to say to what point of ignorance we have fallen. Formerly God filled the void of existence and made sure that souls go through life without worrying too much about its vagaries. The gods of today are Sunday conspirators who always manage to find an explanation for what unfortunately displeases them.
Yes, even on his deathbed, when the first gasps of agony begin to overwhelm his body, the priest came to his bedside to collect his last confessions, in a barely audible whisper, Donald Trump, in a livid voice, will tell him: "My father, I can win heaven quietly, I won this election."