At the level of high theory, this meant learning about the checks and balances of the Constitution, and the discussions in the Federalist Papers about the intricate machinery of a lasting democracy. In practice it meant respecting the rules of American interaction at least as much as the results, and understanding that those rules included both written strictures and long-established norms. Respecting the process of trial by jury, despite disagreement with a particular verdict. Respecting the followup process of judicial review and appeal. Respecting open elections, even when they go against you. Respecting the obligations of long-term treaties and compacts, even when it would be more convenient to shirk them. Respecting the importance of unfettered debate and criticism, even when you feel—as most politicians do when being criticized—that the people doing the complaining have got it all wrong.

* * *

As we think back over Donald Trump’s years on the public stage—his decades as a mogul-entertainer, his years in politics—it is startling to realize that he almost never says any of this. The “almost” is a fascinating exception illustrating the rule. When I listened to his inaugural address last year, the one that was famed for its “American Carnage” scorched-earth dystopian tone, I noticed that one part rang false to the Trump we had known. That came near the start, when Trump said that “Every four years, we gather on these steps to carry out the orderly and peaceful transfer of power.”

The oddity of that phrase, from this man, was precisely how normal it was. It is the sort of thing that virtually every president says when being sworn in, as a sign that he understands the gravity of the moment and his responsibility as temporary steward of the nation’s ongoing interests. (The first lines of John F. Kennedy’s inaugural address, for instance, were, “We observe today not a victory of party but a celebration of freedom—symbolizing an end as well as a beginning—signifying renewal as well as change. For I have sworn before you and Almighty God the same solemn oath our forebears prescribed nearly a century and three-quarters ago.” Most other speeches begin with less rhetorically polished versions of the same idea.)

But what is normal for other presidents was out of character for Trump. In the rest of his spoken or tweeted expressions, there’s been practically no evidence of what has preoccupied most other leaders: the centrality, and fragility, of the institutional underpinnings of American life. (“A Republic, if you can keep it,” is the phrase usually attributed to Benjamin Franklin about the fragility of the American constitutional order.)

A system for democratic transfer of power requires respect for elections and their results. But as long as the 2016 results looked as if they would go against Trump, he said in every speech, “They’re rigged, folks, all rigged.” The press? Criticism from it is of course “fake.” Judicial review? If it goes against him, it’s crooked, unfair, or “Mexican.” The intelligence establishment? Disloyal. Treaties and alliances? Cheaty and unfair. Civil servants and their institutional knowledge? Dead weight—or the dead hand of the “deep state.” Norms of transparency or propriety? In place of the implications of “Caesar’s wife” (being above reproach), we have those of “Trump’s children,” elbows-deep in conflicted deals.