First the ideal; then the rabble; finally Thermidor. We are stuck in the rabble, and they are eating their own. They are narcissists, every one of them. Spoiled brats in desperate need of a spanking. Some of them are dangerous; most are simply sophomoric. One can’t help but think of Napolean and a “whiff of grapeshot.” The rabble would quiet to remind of you monks who’ve taken a vow of silence.