COLUMN: The eulogy in which Trump put himself before the deceased he was mourning

Neither Nicklaus nor Tiger

Next comes the strangest part—almost comical if it weren’t spoken about a dead man. Trump recalls Graham as a golfer: “He played golf with people, and we liked him. It wasn’t that he hit the ball beautifully—no, he wasn’t exactly perfect—he wasn’t Jack Nicklaus, he wasn’t Tiger. ” Let’s pause here. A man is paying tribute to a departed friend, and he feels the need to point out that said friend was a poor golfer. The comparison to Nicklaus and Woods—two of the sport’s absolute greats—is not a backhanded compliment: it’s a way of placing Graham at the bottom of a hierarchy in which Trump implicitly casts himself as the judge. Gabbat points out this detail as “revealing.” It is. No one expects a deceased person to have been an elite athlete. Except, apparently, the man for whom everything is ranked, compared, and hierarchized—including the memory of a friend who “loved being outdoors.”

We don’t ask a departed friend to have been a champion. We ask that he have mattered. Trump, on the other hand, first checked the rankings, as if he knew no other language than that of the leaderboard.

This obsession with rankings deserves to be named precisely, without overinterpreting it. Gabbat compares Trump’s tone to that of “someone recalling a pet Labrador”—the senator described as someone who “liked to be outdoors.” The image is cruel, and it is an editorial interpretation by the analyst, not a fact about Trump’s intentions. But it captures a reality that can be verified in the words themselves: Graham is evoked through his secondary, almost domestic traits, never through a major political achievement that would have elevated the president by citing him. That’s where the mechanism becomes apparent. To fully praise an ally would be to share the spotlight. Trump prefers condescending affection—the kind that keeps the power in the speaker’s hands. The mediocre golfer, the dog that loves the outdoors, the friend who called too often: all diminished figures. None of them threaten the narrator’s position. All of them reinforce it.

A Friend Reduced to a Nuisance

Asked for an anecdote about the deceased, Trump offered this: “He was a great guy, and he was a friend. He used to call me all the time. All he did was… I’d say, ‘Stop calling me, Lindsey.’” Then: “He was incredible. You know, he never stopped, and he was—he was a workhorse. A politician who was completely addicted to work. Some people don’t call that work. Some people call it a lot of chatter. But everyone loved him.” Let’s break this down. The first anecdote that spontaneously comes to Trump’s mind to honor the deceased is that he called him too much and that he asked him to stop. This is followed by a compliment—“hard worker”—that’s immediately taken back: what Graham considered work, “some people” see as just talk. Trump doesn’t even own up to the dig himself; he puts it in the mouth of an anonymous “some people.” The compliment is offered with one hand and taken back with the other.

To say of a dead man that he worked, then suggest that it was nothing but idle chatter, is like offering a flower while making sure it’s wilted. The compliment exists, but it’s always conditional, always qualified.

This technique has a name in Gabbat’s analysis: “double-edged compliments.” The pattern repeats too often to be a rhetorical coincidence. Praise, comma, reservation. Nice guy, but he called too much. A hard worker, but maybe just a chatterbox. Loved by everyone, but given a 99. This consistency is an observable fact in the transcript, not a guess about what Trump was really thinking. And that is precisely what makes Gabbat’s analysis credible: it doesn’t attribute hidden intentions; it describes a pattern of language. Whenever a compliment might place Graham on the same level as the president, a qualification reestablishes the distance. You could call this a tic. You could see it, as Gabbat does, as a sign of “fragility” that demands the top spot. In either case, the documented result is the same: a tribute in which the deceased can never quite shine on his own.

January 6: Summoned in a Coffin

We must revisit the most weighty choice in this eulogy: including January 6, 2021. On that day, Graham publicly broke with Trump. His words, spoken in a speech at the time and quoted by Gabbat, are on record: “Trump and I have been on quite a journey—I hate that it’s ending this way. My God, I hate it. From my perspective, he’s been a consistent president, but today… All I can say is: don’t count on me anymore. Enough is enough.” A real, brief break, followed by a swift return to the Trump camp. Gabbat even notes that Graham, “last month,” was still praising the president as “not far behind God.” His journey has been one of complete alignment. And yet, in his tribute, Trump dredges up the rift from 2021 rather than the recent flattery. He chooses the transgression over the renewed loyalty.

A man dies after years of renewed loyalty, and the choice is made to recall his single day of rebellion. This choice is not a matter of memory: it is a verdict handed down one last time, when the accused can no longer defend himself.

This editorial choice by Trump—for in a sense it is one—deserves to be weighed without exaggeration. One could argue for candor: recalling a real rift rather than glossing over history. The possibility exists, and I point it out honestly. But it does not hold up well given the form employed. Trump does not recount the rift to do justice to Graham’s complexity; he recounts it only to immediately bring it to a close with a score of 99—that is, with a punishment. He does not honor a disagreement; he settles a debt. The contrast with the recent praise of Graham—“not far behind God,” according to Gabbat—makes the gesture even clearer. The ally offered devotion; the president gives him a reckoning. Therein lies the logic of domination that Gabbat describes: no matter the extent of the final submission, the initial rift remains on record. Not even death wipes the slate clean.

“Jacka—” and “a bigot stoking racial hatred”

To grasp the depth of this connection, we must remember where Graham came from, and Gabbat does so with documented quotes. In 2016, as a presidential candidate, Graham called Trump a “jacka—” and a “bigot stoking racial hatred.” These were his own words, spoken publicly during the campaign. Then, after Trump’s victory, a complete about-face: Graham became, as Gabbat writes, “like most of his Republican colleagues, a Trump sycophant.” The term is harsh; it is the analyst’s editorial choice, and I am reporting it as such. But the factual trajectory is indisputable: from outright insults to devotion, with a single interruption on January 6. This history sheds light on the praise. Trump never forgets who insulted him before serving him. The 99 rating, the jabs, the mediocrity on the golf course: all of this is part of a relationship that began with Graham’s contempt and continued with his surrender.

There is something dizzying about a man who calls another a bigot, then places him “not far behind God.” But the real issue here is the one who accepts this devotion while still holding onto the memory of the original insult.

Let’s not miss the mark, though. Graham’s trajectory—from insult to allegiance—raises a question that goes beyond Trump: that of an entire party’s surrender to a single man. Gabbat puts it bluntly, placing Graham among “most of his Republican colleagues.” This is a critique of the party as a whole, not just its leader. And it would be dishonest—even from a Trump-critical standpoint—to portray Graham as merely a victim. He was the architect of his own about-face, capable of labeling Trump a racist and then a near-divine figure within the span of a few years. The respect I owe the deceased does not erase this fact. But the purpose of this column remains a eulogy, and that eulogy belongs to Trump. He is the one who chose his words. He is the one who, having received so much devotion, was unable to offer a simple farewell without slipping in a hierarchy.

A hypothesis, not a diagnosis

The term comes up again in Gabbat’s work: “notoriously fragile ego,” “fragility.” It must be handled with care, as it is a psychological inference, not a medical fact, and I will never present it as anything else. No one here is making a clinical diagnosis of Donald Trump, and it would be dishonest to do so. What Gabbat refers to as “fragility” is a behavioral interpretation: the observable need, in this specific case, to reestablish his superiority even in a context—the funeral tribute—where custom would dictate that one take a back seat. The inference holds because it is based on words, not on assumptions. The score of 99, the golf comparison, the backhanded compliment: these are linguistic facts. Gabbat draws a coherent hypothesis from them. One can challenge it or propose an alternative interpretation—brutal candor, a habit of ranking, or a simple lack of tact. But none of these alternatives makes the tribute any more generous.

To say that a man has a fragile ego is an interpretation, never proof. What is proven are his words. And his words, in a eulogy, all sought the same thing: to remain at the top.

So let’s test the hypothesis against itself, as any honest analysis demands. A possible alternative interpretation: Trump is simply incapable of conventional speech, averse to a solemn tone, and his “failed” eulogy is merely a formal flaw without any ulterior motive. That’s plausible. Gabbat himself quips about his “questionable talent.” But this alternative interpretation explains the awkwardness, not the consistent direction of that awkwardness. A simply clumsy speaker stumbles in all directions. Trump, on the other hand, always stumbles in the same direction: the one where he comes across as superior. Never does a dig diminish him to the benefit of the deceased. Never does a reservation work in Graham’s favor. The consistency of this bias is what distinguishes a stylistic flaw from what Gabbat calls fragility. Clumsiness is random. Domination is purposeful. And here, the compass invariably points to the same north: first place, held even in the presence of a coffin.

When Politics Can No Longer Show Deference

Let’s broaden the perspective, without straying from the facts. A eulogy is one of the rare moments when public life agrees to set aside rivalry. We pay our respects, we share, we make way for the deceased. It is a ritual of restraint. What the Trump-Graham episode reveals is a political culture that no longer knows how to bow out, where even the death of an ally becomes an opportunity to remind everyone who’s in charge. Gabbat sums it up in his final sentence: “Trump’s fragility means he must always be number one, always dominant—even if the person he dominates is now dead.” ” This is the harshest echo of his analysis, and it is worth pondering beyond this specific case. For Graham is not an isolated case: he embodies a generation of elected officials who have traded their judgment for a place in the inner circle. Their reward, in the end, amounts to a score out of a hundred.

A democracy is also judged by the way it buries its figures. When a farewell becomes a ranking and mourning an opportunity to dominate, it is not just a man who is diminished: it is our collective restraint that fades away.

There remains the question that haunts this column, and I pose it without answering it—leaving it to the reader. What remains of total loyalty when the one to whom it was offered cannot even, at the moment of farewell, fully let go of criticism? Graham spent years rallying behind Trump, going so far as to place him “not far behind God.” And the tribute he receives lists his golfing flaws and deducts a point for a single day of courage in 2021. Therein lies a sobering lesson about the price of submission in politics: it does not buy respect; at best, it buys a passing grade. This is not a judgment on Graham as a person, to whom I owe the dignity due to any deceased individual. It is an observation about the system of allegiance he served. In it, you give everything. You earn a 99. And the missing point—you carry it with you to the grave.

The Missing Point

Upon completion of this examination, Gabbat’s analysis holds up—not because it is harsh, but because it is based on words Trump actually spoke. A eulogy is a test. It reveals who knows how to step back and who cannot. The president, called upon to honor a departed ally, was unable to set aside his ranking system even for a moment. He noted, compared, corrected, and settled an old score. Graham’s death did not put the rivalry on hold; it provided the final pretext for it. I’m stating this as a deliberate inference, not as a diagnosis: when a man cannot bid farewell without placing himself at the top, it is because he knows no other position than that one. Gabbat’s maxim will endure: to dominate, “even if the person one dominates is now dead.” It is a terrible sentence. It is also, upon reading the transcript, difficult to refute.

One day, someone will deliver a eulogy for Donald Trump. One might wonder, without cynicism, whether there will be a single person in the room free enough to finally give him a true 100 out of 100.

There is one thing to guard against as we close this text: believing that the matter is settled by a man’s death. It is not. Graham now rests beyond the reach of jabs and barbs, and that is just as well. But the mechanism itself survives. It continues to apply to all those who, even today, calculate their allegiance in the hope of one day seeing it rewarded. To them, this episode issues a silent warning, drawn not from my opinion but from the president’s own words: the most complete devotion never buys complete forgiveness. There will always be a point held against you, a flaw brought up, a demeaning comparison. That is the pebble this column leaves in your shoe. Not “Trump spoke ill of a dead man”—which would be trivial—but: what must one give to such a man to elicit from him, just once, an unreserved farewell? The transcript, for its part, does not know the answer.

Signed, Jacques PJ Provost, columnist