If there is a sociological explanation for Miller’s politics, Guerrero implies, perhaps it lies in this period. In the aftermath of the 2008 housing crisis, many of Miller’s peers found themselves downwardly mobile, locked out of the housing market and denied opportunities that prior generations had taken for granted—experiences that have inclined many millennials toward a more socialistic politics than previous cohorts. But Miller’s brush with downward mobility came much earlier, with his affluent boomer parents experiencing the shock of material insecurity during the 1990s, a decade that is more typically remembered as a period of unprecedented economic prosperity. Though Miller was never anywhere close to working-class, and his family’s finances rebounded in time for him to enjoy the benefits of an elite university education and a parentally subsidized down payment on a DC condo (though recently his parents had another bit of bad luck, as their home was destroyed in the Los Angeles wildfires in January), he did pass through a period of acute economic and status anxiety during a very impressionable age.

But sociology can only explain so much; it is hard to escape the sense that there was something fundamentally malevolent about Miller from the start. Another person in his shoes might have grasped that this anxiety was the product of his parents’ business difficulties and sheer geological misfortune, but the adolescent Miller sought out other culprits. With his economic privilege in seeming jeopardy, he leaned much harder into his privilege as a white, native-born American.

Guerrero spoke with Jason Islas, a working-class Mexican American who was Miller’s friend in middle school and attended his lavish bar mitzvah. Though the two initially bonded over Star Trek, Miller abruptly ditched Islas as a friend the summer after middle school, citing his Latino heritage as a justification. “The conversation was remarkably calm,” Islas told Guerrero. “He expressed hatred for me in a calm, cool, matter-of-fact way.”

In middle school, Miller was already drawn to right-wing subcultures that distinguished him from his peers, purchasing a subscription to Guns & Ammo magazine and finding himself inspired by the writings of Charlton Heston and Wayne LaPierre on the Second Amendment. His father was also moving right, alienated by bad relationships and burned bridges with his liberal Santa Monica cohort, and Stephen seems to have inherited his father’s contrarian streak. By the time he enrolled in the public Santa Monica High School, which Guerrero portrays as neatly internally segregated between professional-class, college-bound whites and working-class Hispanics, he was a full-fledged conservative provocateur.

For Miller, a key entry point to the right was The Larry Elder Show, whose Black host had built a following among right-wing Angelenos for his verbal assaults on political correctness and liberal shibboleths. Miller called in to the show and invited Elder to speak at his high school, and he subsequently became a frequent guest, a precocious teen reactionary holding forth on his high school’s alleged anti-Americanness in the wake of the 9/11 attacks before an audience that spanned Southern California.

Miller’s provocations became more outlandish as he advanced through his teens. He cultivated a mid-century gangster affect: He listened to Frank Sinatra, enjoyed gambling, and styled himself after Ace Rothstein, the Robert De Niro character in Casino. He was known for arguing with teachers, hijacking school events, and winning attention with his outrageous antics. In both high school and college, he would be repeatedly observed throwing trash on the floor and then insisting that the custodial staff pick it up. (“Am I the only one here who is sick and tired of being told to pick up my trash when we have plenty of janitors who are paid to do it for us?” he is quoted as saying at one point.) A number of students and faculty found this behavior appalling, but Miller’s shameless transgressiveness at least got him a lot of attention.

His willingness to upset liberals and thrive on their outrage put Miller on the radar of David Horowitz, the nationally notorious firebrand whose red diaper upbringing and early career involvement with the Black Panthers were followed by an abrupt rightward turn beginning in the 1970s. By the early 2000s, Horowitz had become a leading conservative ideologue who specialized in identifying and recruiting young talent. After discovering Miller on The Larry Elder Show, Horowitz went on to serve as something of a career guru to him. He helped Miller craft an image as an outspoken champion of free speech at a hostile liberal high school, which Miller exploited to secure a photo spread in the Los Angeles Times. This publicity, Guerrero speculates, might also have helped Miller gain admission to Duke University despite an antagonistic relationship with his high school administration.

In 2003, Miller entered Duke, where he continued the shtick he’d developed at Santa Monica High: the performative littering, the trolling classroom monologues, the Larry Elder Show appearances lambasting the university administration for its supposed leftism, and the fruitful relationship with Horowitz. He quickly established a Duke chapter of Horowitz’s Students for Academic Freedom, which he used to assail the Palestine Solidarity Movement, to attack feminism and multiculturalism, and to champion the white members of the Duke lacrosse team who were accused (falsely, it turned out) of raping a Black stripper in 2006. This last incident, which drew sustained national attention, gave Miller the opportunity to appear on The O’Reilly Factor and Nancy Grace while he was still an undergrad.

Miller’s TV appearances proved to be the perfect launchpad for a career in Republican politics after graduation. Horowitz helped, too, introducing Miller to Representative Michelle Bachmann, from whose office Miller quickly rose to serve as press secretary for Alabama Senator Jeff Sessions. It was in this job that Miller met Steve Bannon, then affiliated with the emerging right-wing tabloid site Breitbart; Bannon, a longtime Los Angeles resident, recognized Miller from his Larry Elder spots. Breitbart and an increasingly extensive network of alternative right-wing media outlets enabled Miller, working with Sessions, to play a central role in the successful effort to kill the Obama administration’s effort at bipartisan immigration reform in 2014.

By this point, Miller had become much more deeply immersed in the literature and online forums of the extreme right and was taking direct inspiration from Jean Raspail’s novel The Camp of the Saints, with its dystopian vision of a horde of nonwhite migrants invading the West. Soon he also began to develop ties with leading right-wing media figures like Ann Coulter, Laura Ingraham, Tucker Carlson, and the anti-immigration think tanker Mark Krikorian.

Perhaps the most vocal advocate against immigration in that media space was one Donald Trump, who had leveraged his celebrity to become the leading exponent of the “birther” conspiracy theory during the Obama years, impressing Miller greatly in the process. “Our whole country is rotting, like a third world country,” Trump told Breitbart in the wake of the Obama immigration bill’s defeat, prompting Miller to e-mail his friends that “Trump gets it…. I wish he’d run for president.” When Trump began his long-shot campaign the following year, Miller, barely 30, joined up, and the two quickly hit it off. Where more traditional young Republicans might have spent their early careers preparing to work for a more conventional Republican candidate like Jeb Bush or Chris Christie, Miller had presciently spent his preparing for a candidate like Trump. And with Trump’s victory came opportunities to do the kinds of things that his more seasoned peers might never have proposed.

Literally from Day 1, Miller set the tone for Trump’s first presidency: “This American carnage stops right here and stops right now,” the most memorable line in Trump’s 2017 inaugural address, came from Miller’s pen. A wave of executive orders empowering Immigration and Customs Enforcement, targeting sanctuary cities, ordering the construction of a border wall, and suspending immigration from seven Muslim-majority countries soon followed, all of them pushed and heavily shaped by Miller. It was Miller who made the once-obscure Salvadoran gang MS-13 
an obsession of the Trump administration, and Miller who emerged as one of the top internal advocates for the family separation policy that became a national scandal in 2018.

In addition to the president himself, Miller built a close relationship with Jared Kushner and Ivanka Trump, ensuring a level of family trust that protected him from the turnover for which the Trump administration became infamous. If xenophobia was the policy through line for most of Miller’s efforts, competent bureaucratic maneuvering and absolute loyalty to Trump were what empowered him to execute his agenda. Miller’s fingerprints are likewise all over the early initiatives of Trump’s second term, including turning legal refugees away from the United States, suspending foreign aid, launching ICE raids on major cities, and leaning on the major tech companies to ban diversity initiatives.

The world according to Stephen Miller is a cruel and callous one, in which America is strictly for unhyphenated Americans and those here “illegally” must be forcibly returned to the “failed states” where they were born. To Miller, the crumbling American heartland is being preyed on not by rapacious capital but by an invading army of gangsters, thugs, and terrorists waved in by coastal liberal elites—in other words, by exactly the kind of people he has always lived among.

Part of why Guerrero was able to speak with so many of Miller’s acquaintances—including his estranged uncle David Glosser, who has compared his nephew to the Nazis—is that Miller is so unrepresentative of the world he grew up in. Interviewees throughout Hatemonger regularly express shame and horror rather than pride at Miller’s steady climb to the heights of political power; one gets the sense that speaking to the media is a form of penance for some of them.

At the same time, Miller’s rise wasn’t exactly a fluke. It was facilitated not only by his family’s baseline wealth and privilege and the social capital they afforded, but by Miller’s demonstrated talent for hacking the weaknesses of liberal elite culture itself. Miller is an extreme case, yet anyone who grew up in similar communities or attended similar schools can recognize him as a very particular type of guy. His hateful tirades weren’t popular at Santa Monica High or at Duke, but they consistently drew attention; students and faculty often pushed back hard against his constant trolling, but in doing so they played right into his hands. Teachers who wanted to encourage open debate and free speech gave him a platform regardless of whether he was arguing in good faith; mainstream and liberal media outlets continued to promote him in the name of provocation and ideological diversity. Like Trump himself, Miller intuitively grasped that being hated in elite liberal environments was better than being ignored, and that embracing the language and tactics of conservative media offered a means for a strange and argumentative kid to stand out from a crowd of generic achievers and to fast-track his way to influence.

This isn’t to say that Miller’s act is entirely cynical. It’s clear that beneath all the performative cruelty and amoral careerism, there’s an authentic core of seething, visceral, unquenchable hatred that defies any easy explanation. It’s true, as Guerrero documents, that such bigotry circulated widely in Southern California and elsewhere in the 1990s, and it’s true that far-right voices on talk radio and later on the Internet continually grew in influence as Miller came of age, but none of that by itself explains why Miller is the way he is.

Despite his obvious intelligence and his elite pedigree, Miller didn’t arrive at his views via serious reading—his is not the classical conservatism of Edmund Burke, the libertarianism of Friedrich Hayek, the neoconservatism of Irving Kristol, or the paleoconservatism of Samuel Francis—and he’s never presented himself as an intellectual in his own right in the manner of, say, his White House colleague Michael Anton. His ideas are not just monstrous and reactionary but banal and simplistic; he lacks the imagination that is a prerequisite for empathy. But in a way, this makes him the ideal conservative for the Trump era: His ideology is not refined, abstracted, or euphemized away from its real object. He’s told us exactly what he intends to do.