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A review by notwellread
The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli
5.0
Any one can see that The Prince’s reputation as a guide for realpolitik statecraft is well deserved. On the other hand, its reputation for evil will probably lead most readers to disappointment — the cold logic of the whole text is founded upon constant examples of successful and unsuccessful leadership, over which Machiavelli has no more power than to observe. There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with his approach, let alone ‘evil’; it’s not Mein Kampf. Any well-meaning intellectual lightweights, then or now, who want to conflate Machiavelli with Satan, are likely seeking more to establish their own reputations as moral authorities in the fray, and, in their self-interest, prove Machiavelli’s point in doing so. As influential as the text is, by calling Machiavelli the Devil they give him too much credit: I highly doubt that, as the English cardinal Reginald Pole argued (Tim Parks’ introduction, p.xxx), The Prince motivated Henry VIII’s break from Rome — Machiavelli was hardly associated with the Church in Rome, and we all know the real reason for the secession.
The frenzy surrounding the book after its publication (and, to an extent, to this day) demonstrates how important it is to see primary sources for oneself — given how much more often people were presented with paraphrases than the actual text, much of the sensationalism was probably self-perpetuated, and the discourse of the day would have been better served by frank confrontation of the work itself. (This possibly stems, as Parks suggests, from a misunderstanding of the Italian virtù, more meant as ‘strength’ than ‘virtue’, and certainly not entertaining moral virtue.) All the scandalising would only serve to motivate those most likely to utilise its more sinister advice. Many of the other accusations (e.g. that Catherine de Medici was a fan) were clearly strawmen as well (not to mention motivated by stereotypes about ‘fiery’ and even vicious Italians, perhaps founded in the violent Italian politics of the period). I can’t help but feel this has mixed up cause and effect somehow — Machiavelli wrote what he did because the realities of politics of the time had become self-evident to him, not to condone or idealise that state of affairs. Sadly, Machiavelli’s points about the importance of one’s reputation are proven here — right or wrong, the opinion formed of him in his time hasn’t changed all that much to present day.
Machiavelli advocated for a government that will last over ideals: in a way, he did want ‘what was best’, and it probably seemed a more reasonable approach than to risk putting Florence through more bloodshed and subjugation than what it had already seen in his lifetime. Someone like Lorenzo de Medici, to whom the book is dedicated, could probably have achieved this quite well if it hadn’t been for the scandal that erupted after its publication. We can still see today that the way most governments behave resemble the approach he details — one would wonder why it’s acceptable for them to do it, but wrong for him to point it out. The bluntness of the text is what people really find objectionable, even if they don’t say so — it would be so much easier to slither around the harsh truths he presents, but he made the (ultimately fatal) decision to express it all in clear, unambiguous language (my 2009 translation by Tim Parks tends towards the colloquial, making it seem even casual, but, if I trust his translator’s note, that reflects the original tone). People just aren’t used to seeing it all spelled out.
Given that Machiavelli had seen his native Florence fail and fall into the wrong hands on multiple occasions in his lifetime, he most likely meant the advice sincerely. On this account, his wishes for Lorenzo’s success may well have been genuine, though his obsequious letter to him, like his prose, is surprisingly blunt (“if, from the high peak of your position, you ever look down on those far below, you will see how very ungenerously and unfairly life continues to treat me”). You would think his later address, and the comment that his family is “favoured by God and Church — actually running the Church, in fact” would be too on-the-nose, even for him — obviously they’ll be favoured by the Church if they are the Church.
Going by historical knowledge, the examples he gives of rulership and military strategy (excepting obviously mythical figures like Moses, Theseus, and Romulus) also seem sound to me, though I would love to do more research in this aspect (and if there are any good commentaries, I would love to find them). In fact, many of the key changes he cites are still applicable to this day: the Roman emperors (quite literally) lived and died by their approval from the Praetorian Guard (and the army in general), hence the failures of Commodus and Caligula, among others, while, from the Renaissance onwards, we see that the people are the guiding force, their influence being more powerful than the army.
We could probably do with a little more realism over idealism today. People still fall for politicians according to a manipulated public image, then as now, but it would help if, in a time when people are supposedly more educated than ever before, more people were aware of it and could step outside the impression. Machiavelli shows us how often effective leadership is divorced from moral questions of right and wrong. Like it or not, we already live in the world Machiavelli describes — the best plan of action is to come prepared for it.
The frenzy surrounding the book after its publication (and, to an extent, to this day) demonstrates how important it is to see primary sources for oneself — given how much more often people were presented with paraphrases than the actual text, much of the sensationalism was probably self-perpetuated, and the discourse of the day would have been better served by frank confrontation of the work itself. (This possibly stems, as Parks suggests, from a misunderstanding of the Italian virtù, more meant as ‘strength’ than ‘virtue’, and certainly not entertaining moral virtue.) All the scandalising would only serve to motivate those most likely to utilise its more sinister advice. Many of the other accusations (e.g. that Catherine de Medici was a fan) were clearly strawmen as well (not to mention motivated by stereotypes about ‘fiery’ and even vicious Italians, perhaps founded in the violent Italian politics of the period). I can’t help but feel this has mixed up cause and effect somehow — Machiavelli wrote what he did because the realities of politics of the time had become self-evident to him, not to condone or idealise that state of affairs. Sadly, Machiavelli’s points about the importance of one’s reputation are proven here — right or wrong, the opinion formed of him in his time hasn’t changed all that much to present day.
Machiavelli advocated for a government that will last over ideals: in a way, he did want ‘what was best’, and it probably seemed a more reasonable approach than to risk putting Florence through more bloodshed and subjugation than what it had already seen in his lifetime. Someone like Lorenzo de Medici, to whom the book is dedicated, could probably have achieved this quite well if it hadn’t been for the scandal that erupted after its publication. We can still see today that the way most governments behave resemble the approach he details — one would wonder why it’s acceptable for them to do it, but wrong for him to point it out. The bluntness of the text is what people really find objectionable, even if they don’t say so — it would be so much easier to slither around the harsh truths he presents, but he made the (ultimately fatal) decision to express it all in clear, unambiguous language (my 2009 translation by Tim Parks tends towards the colloquial, making it seem even casual, but, if I trust his translator’s note, that reflects the original tone). People just aren’t used to seeing it all spelled out.
Given that Machiavelli had seen his native Florence fail and fall into the wrong hands on multiple occasions in his lifetime, he most likely meant the advice sincerely. On this account, his wishes for Lorenzo’s success may well have been genuine, though his obsequious letter to him, like his prose, is surprisingly blunt (“if, from the high peak of your position, you ever look down on those far below, you will see how very ungenerously and unfairly life continues to treat me”). You would think his later address, and the comment that his family is “favoured by God and Church — actually running the Church, in fact” would be too on-the-nose, even for him — obviously they’ll be favoured by the Church if they are the Church.
Going by historical knowledge, the examples he gives of rulership and military strategy (excepting obviously mythical figures like Moses, Theseus, and Romulus) also seem sound to me, though I would love to do more research in this aspect (and if there are any good commentaries, I would love to find them). In fact, many of the key changes he cites are still applicable to this day: the Roman emperors (quite literally) lived and died by their approval from the Praetorian Guard (and the army in general), hence the failures of Commodus and Caligula, among others, while, from the Renaissance onwards, we see that the people are the guiding force, their influence being more powerful than the army.
We could probably do with a little more realism over idealism today. People still fall for politicians according to a manipulated public image, then as now, but it would help if, in a time when people are supposedly more educated than ever before, more people were aware of it and could step outside the impression. Machiavelli shows us how often effective leadership is divorced from moral questions of right and wrong. Like it or not, we already live in the world Machiavelli describes — the best plan of action is to come prepared for it.