There’s a particular tone that creeps into Dugin’s writing when he believes too much in his own myths. Not the ranting prophet of multipolar apocalypse. Not the ideologue assembling Eurasia from scraps of ruined empires. But something else: a man watching the spell break. His latest post is less manifesto than mourning. A gospel with the ending torn out.
He begins with blood and betrayal: “Hamas was created by Mossad… The bad guys deserve being killed… Damascus occupied and destroyed.” Not analysis, not even conspiracy, just fragments of a world where every actor is either puppet or executioner, where the only clarity comes from watching things burn.
But what he’s really doing is grieving. “I suffer the current events in US because I feel deep solidarity with MAGA.” He believed. Not just in Trump as candidate or movement, but as form: a vessel through which America could be reborn. Not as democracy, not even as empire, but as Civilisation State. That strange Duginist concept, always half-borrowed from China, half-pulled from some Russian Orthodox dream of sacred territory.
He is not accusing Trump. He is mourning him.
“Trump is acting as if he is an object not a subject.”
That’s the heartbreak. Trump was meant to be a subject. One who acts, who bends history, who defies the structures. But now he drifts. He lies. He signs trade deals. He keeps the Epstein files locked up. He flatters Netanyahu. In Dugin’s eyes, Trump has ceased to be transcendent. The myth has sunk into the swamp it promised to drain.
Dugin isn’t angry. He’s heartbroken.
He writes not as a strategist but as a jilted lover: “I am disappointed and sad about Trump.” And so he turns to fantasy. Kill the Deep State. Punish Israel. Reveal the truth. Rule as King. The usual list of desires, reissued now as liturgy. Politics, for Dugin, is never procedural. It is sacramental. And when the sacrament fails, only heresy remains.
“Politics is not business as usual. The politics is a kind of theology.”
That is the line. Not because it is revealing, but because it is final. The mask of strategy slips. No more Eurasian realpolitik. No more multipolar chessboard. Just a man crying that the gods have failed him.
