All you had to do was pay us enough to live.” The young man’s voice in the video is earnest and clear, forceful but controlled. His face is not visible, but his hand is shaking a little as he holds a lighter. “There goes your inventory.” More than $600 million worth of damages later, a Kimberly-Clark warehouse lay in a smoking mess, and the young man alleged to be in the video — Chamel Abdulkarim, who worked for a distribution company servicing the warehouse — was charged with arson. Mr. Abdulkarim has pleaded not guilty; his possible motivations will soon be litigated in court. But even as they are, the early April torching of the warehouse in Ontario, Calif., seems to capture a political mood.

That same week, someone lobbed a Molotov cocktail at the mansion of the Open AI chief executive Sam Altman. In June, prosecutors revealed that their case against the man charged with setting the blaze that grew into the deadly Palisades fire in California hinged on the argument that he was motivated by class rage. (The jury, which could not reach a verdict, was less convinced.) Hanging over all these attacks was the shooting of the United Healthcare C. E.

O., Brian Thompson, in broad daylight on a Manhattan street in December 2024, a crime that Luigi Mangione admitted to earlier this month. The manhunt for Mr. Mangione, and the ensuing coverage of his arrest and trial, helped cement an image of him as an avenger of all those wronged by private health insurance. But Mr. Mangione’s celebrity has spurred fear: Companies are spending more on security for their top executives.

This year, a law enforcement intelligence hub put out a bulletin, as reported by The Intercept, stating that the rich are facing a “heightened threat environment” as more people blame them for economic duress: “Public discourse increasingly attributes the challenges faced by the middle and lower classes to the actions and influence of wealthy corporate executives.” Class inequality has surged into the view of American politics in recent years, but this isn’t the first bout of class violence this country has seen. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, when 12-hour working days were common and child labor legal and federal minimum wages nonexistent, neither political party offered meaningful relief, pressing the working class to the wall. Violence — sabotage, dynamite, assassinations — ensued.

But there’s a key difference. In that earlier era, the anarchists and trade unionists who committed acts of violence did so, however rashly, in the hopes of affecting change. What is more, there were labor organizations and political movements committed to bringing about better conditions for working-class people.

In time, they achieved at least some of these goals. Today’s class violence lacks logic; it seems only animated by revenge, resentment and despair. There is no conspiracy or political mobilization.

The people committing these acts are acting alone. The very fact of their isolation hints at a society that is beginning to abandon the hope of transformation. While the extreme concentration of wealth today may echo the dawn of industrial capitalism, the conditions of class confrontation then were profoundly different.

Then, the workplace itself was extremely dangerous: Thousands of workers died in industrial accidents annually in the early decades of the 20th century. The police and National Guardsmen came in to break strikes, while companies hired private militias to prevent workers from organizing. Radical workers responded with violence of their own, instilling great fear among the elites of the day.

In the coal fields of Western Pennsylvania, Irish miners killed at least 14 mine officials over the course of the 1860s and 1870s. When the Western Federation of Miners sought to organize in 1899, union supporters used dynamite to destroy company property. The governor of Idaho, Frank Steunenberg, imprisoned about a thousand workers in response.

In 1905, after leaving office...