The problem with being Donald Trump isn’t just being Donald Trump. It’s all the other, lesser Trumps around you. It’s the versions of yourself that you create, the echoes of yourself that you inspire. They’ll devour you in the end.

I don’t mean his biological offspring, though they’re no picnic. I mean his spiritual spawn. I mean the knaves, nuts, schemers and dreamers who have taken their cues from him or turned his lessons against him. This is their moment. This is their month.

Omarosa Manigault Newman has a Trump-savaging book, “Unhinged,” out this week, and while she’s a compromised messenger, she’s also a mesmerizing one. From the master she learned how to draw and hold the spotlight: Mete out revelations. Hurl accusations. Contradict yourself. Leave everyone gasping, gawking and coming back for more.

“Trump and Omarosa Are Kindred Spirits” reads the headline on a new Bloomberg column by Tim O’Brien, the author of the 2005 book “TrumpNation.” The president, he notes, was “fascinated by her self-absorption and nastiness.” Trump stares into every mirror he passes.