Absolute Déjà Vu
There is nothing like a visit to Paris to feel the power of protest. The revolution’s memory is in the stones and soil, its legacy in the spirit of the people. It manifests itself in myriad ways in everyday life. On my recent visit, for example, I narrowly made it to the Louvre before a staff strike caught crowds by surprise. Just a few days later, an email from a train operator alerted me that my trip to Marseille would avoid its employee strike by mere hours. I was grateful that I didn’t need to change plans last minute, but more than anything, I was impressed by the willingness of the French to stand up and say, “No.” Hordes of tourists may have been discomfited, but a larger principle was at stake.
Meanwhile, back home, Donald Trump was throwing himself a $45 million birthday parade and, more to the point, “No Kings” protests swept the U.S. in response. “LONG LIVE THE KING!” the president had written in a signed social media post about his unilateral action to overturn New York’s congestion pricing plan in February. Accompanying the text was a graphic of the president of the United States smirking in a crown.
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So, when I found myself wandering the gilded halls of Versailles, the lavishly ornate palace of France’s monarchs, there was something uncanny about the juxtaposition of the current events back in the U.S. and the history housed within this palace … and the gold dripping from every surface. Gold has a certain je ne sais quoi for Trump. It adorns the Oval Office, Trump Tower, his former Manhattan penthouse, and his Florida estate, Mar-a-Lago, so much so that Steve Witkoff, Trump’s envoy, told European officials in April that the “gold detailing” of the 300-year-old Élysée Palace in Paris “looks like President Trump’s club in Mar-a-Lago.” Très similaire, Monsieur Witkoff.
President Donald Trump speaks during a meeting with France’s President Emmanuel Macron, center, in the Oval Office of the White House in Washington, Feb. 24, 2025. (Ludovic Marin/Pool via AP)
The characteristics of the Ancien Régime that governed France through the 18th century — feudal, absolute, antiquated — fated France’s monarchy to its downfall at the hands of the revolution of 1789. Versailles is a spectacular warning about the perils of unchecked power and aristocratic self-indulgence.
Why is it then that America’s president seems so keen on crowning himself king?
The Trump administration’s authoritarian rhetoric is matched by an increasing push for control that mirrors the centralization of power during the French monarchy in the 17th and 18th centuries, particularly under the 72-year rule of Louis XIV (1643-1715). Known as the “Sun King,” Louis XIV believed he had a “divine right” to the throne. He considered his rule to be God’s will, and that God’s was the only power greater than his.
If this triggers déjà vu, look no further than Trump’s inaugural address on January 20, 2025, to uncover why: “But I felt then and believe even more so now that my life was saved for a reason. I was saved by God to make America great again.” Whereas Louis XIV considered himself God’s representative on earth, Donald Trump seems to consider God his representative to the masses.
In the case of the Sun King, his staunch belief in this direct connection to God ultimately allowed him to centralize power while simultaneously relieving him of personal accountability for his policies.
Versailles is a case in point. Louis XIV began the transformation of Versailles from a hunting lodge into a place of overblown opulence and relocated the royal court to its grounds, keeping the activities of the nobility in close view. His court held more influence than those of his predecessors, according to the Chateau de Versailles, which “restored a sense of service among the nobility.” Service to the king, that is, as these positions were assigned based on one’s inheritance or purchased at a steep price. Trump’s aristocrats sat courtside, if you will, at his inauguration, with front-row seats going to the likes of Musk, Bezos, and Zuckerburg. You get the sense that Louis would have taken his moniker to sunny California had Silicon Valley been around. The Sun King goes crypto.
Louis never summoned the Estates-General, which for centuries served as an advisory assembly to the king. It was comprised of the three “estates”: Clergy (First Estate), Nobility (Second Estate), and the Common People (Third Estate). The Estates-General wasn’t called again until his grandson, Louis XVI, reeling from the burgeoning economic crisis and social unrest, summoned the estates to Versailles in 1789 to vote on taxes and reform. It was too late to save the king, and his belated action ultimately sparked the French Revolution.
An apocryphal saying often associated with Louis XIV captures the essence of his absolute rule and decision to forego summoning the Estates-General: “L’État, c’est moi,” or, “I am the state.”
Even if he never uttered the phrase, it is one that keeps consistent with absolutism, distilling the belief in one’s complete authority into a few words. And it holds relevance when trying to make sense of Trump, who presents himself not as a leader but as a force.
It is why his decision to bomb Iran without the approval of Congress is shocking, but not as shocking as it should be. Or his order to unilaterally revoke the traditional — and constitutional — right of birthright citizenship, a right that has stood in contrast to the practice of most European countries. The president has made it increasingly evident that he believes himself above the law, in relation to both policy and personal matters. In February 2025, amid a flurry of executive orders that were challenged as unconstitutional, Trump posted on TruthSocial and X, saying: “He who saves his Country does not violate any Law.”
L’État, c’est lui.
Though the French Revolution holds particular cultural and historic weight for its radical goals and methods, it can’t be forgotten that the American Revolution of 1776 — we mark its 250th anniversary next July Fourth — was a catalyst for the French uprising of 1789.
Revolution is in our stones and soil, too.
L’État, c’est nous.
