In the tumultuous landscape of contemporary American politics, Mitch McConnell has long embodied the cold calculus of power. His sharp intellect and steely resolve have guided him through some of the most turbulent periods of modern governance. McConnell’s capacity for strategic endurance is unmatched, but the latest revelations from Michael Tackett’s forthcoming biography, The Price of Power, peel back the layers of this enigmatic figure. Beneath the disciplined facade lies a scathing, perhaps unprecedented, denunciation of Donald Trump—one that, paradoxically, McConnell himself could never afford to make publicly.
McConnell’s harsh, private words—calling Trump "stupid" and a "despicable human being"—contrast sharply with the often tepid public posturing that has marked his relationship with the former president. These contradictions are revealing, not only of McConnell’s personal disdain for Trump but of the broader dilemma confronting the Republican establishment in the age of populist insurgency. McConnell’s political career has always been defined by his mastery of institutional power; Trump, by contrast, has thrived on its destabilization.
What is most striking about McConnell’s private critique is its sheer brutality. He characterizes Trump as a narcissist whose erratic behavior has eroded public trust and undermined the Republican Party’s electoral fortunes. This private disdain, if voiced earlier, might have served as a moral anchor for Republicans trying to navigate the chaos of Trump’s presidency. Instead, McConnell opted for silence—or, at best, muted disapproval—while quietly calculating how best to preserve his own power.
McConnell’s words came in the context of Trump’s unrelenting campaign to overturn the 2020 election results, a moment of deep national peril. At that critical juncture, McConnell recognized the harm Trump was inflicting on the party and the republic. He reportedly feared Trump’s influence would cost Republicans the Senate majority in the Georgia runoff elections, a prediction that, to his dismay, proved accurate.
Yet, McConnell’s damning remarks about Trump are hardly surprising to those familiar with his political pragmatism. He had long harbored reservations about Trump’s fitness for office. According to Tackett’s account, McConnell expressed doubts about Trump as early as 2016, confiding in then-Vice President Joe Biden that he viewed Trump as a potential source of trouble. Over the years, as Trump lashed out at McConnell in public, McConnell responded with silence or vague criticism, while privately seething.
This duality—public acquiescence, private contempt—exposes McConnell’s own strategic bind. He is a man of the Senate, a creature of its institutional norms and procedures. Trump, on the other hand, thrived on destroying those norms. In 2021, following the January 6th insurrection, McConnell took to the Senate floor and declared Trump "morally responsible" for the violence, a rare moment of public clarity. But, when the time came to vote on Trump’s impeachment, McConnell, ever the institutionalist, refused to convict.
What are we to make of this contradiction? It is tempting to see McConnell’s refusal to convict Trump as an act of cowardice. After all, he had the opportunity to help close the book on Trump’s influence within the GOP. Instead, he chose to preserve party unity, reasoning that impeachment would fracture the Republican base and weaken its electoral prospects. In doing so, McConnell revealed a broader truth about his leadership: for him, political survival has always taken precedence over moral clarity.
Critics will, and should, question the long-term wisdom of McConnell’s approach. By appeasing Trump, McConnell and others in the Republican leadership have ceded considerable ground to a populist movement that has no interest in governance or institutional fidelity. In his quest to maintain control of the Senate, McConnell has had to make a devil’s bargain with a man he clearly despises.
But there is also something characteristically McConnellian in his willingness to tolerate Trump for the sake of power. As the title of Tackett’s book suggests, McConnell’s career has been defined by his willingness to pay the "price of power." Whether it was obstructing Democratic initiatives during the Obama years or engineering the confirmation of Supreme Court justices, McConnell has never hesitated to wield power ruthlessly. For him, Trump was simply another obstacle to be managed, another unpredictable force to be bent, as much as possible, to his will.
Yet this cold calculation may have run its course. As McConnell’s private remarks illustrate, Trump’s erratic behavior and inability to "figure out where his own best interests lie" represent not just a personal failing, but a political liability that threatens to undermine the Republican Party itself. McConnell may have made his peace with Trump in the short term, but the long-term costs of this accommodation are becoming increasingly clear.
The upcoming release of The Price of Power is likely to reignite the debate over McConnell’s role in enabling Trump’s ascendancy. His private contempt for Trump will resonate with many Republicans who have struggled to reconcile their traditional conservatism with Trump’s chaotic populism. Yet, for all his private disapproval, McConnell’s public actions speak to the enduring power of political pragmatism in an era when principle often takes a back seat.
As the 2024 election approaches, McConnell has once again endorsed Trump. This is a grim testament to the state of the modern Republican Party: even its most seasoned and strategic leader has found himself tethered to a man he privately despises. McConnell’s choice is a reminder that in politics, the price of power is often steep—and sometimes, it is paid in moral currency.
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