Watching Kanye hurl himself into the gears of social media this month, I found myself fervently wishing for the death of genius and the birth of something more adult and humane. What is “genius,” after all, if not societally celebrated madness? To be clear: I am not speculating on Kanye’s mental health, which remains his business. The larger cultural insanity of genius twists all of us. To believe in genius is to believe in saviors. It is to lie in wait for cult leaders to arise. Elevating geniuses automatically subjugates the rest of us. At what point do we cease recognizing genius and start diagnosing it?
There will be no Kanye album good enough to wash out the taste of the last two weeks. The circumstances are too ugly, the human stakes too high. When you have worn a MAGA hat and suggested 400 years of slavery represents “a choice,” no matter your intentions, there are no clear paths back to grace. As someone who loves Kanye’s music and loathes what he is making of himself, I would love to see the fever of genius lift. He has chased the myth of his own genius to its logical end—exile. Geniuses tend to die alone and unhappy.
So let’s kill genius, please.
