077355050X

NOT EVEN A GOD C A N SAVE US NOW
M c Gill-Queens Studies in the History of Ideas

Series Editor: Philip J. Cercone
1 Problems of Cartesianism 10 Consent, Coercion, and Limit:

Edited by Thomas M. Lennon, The Medieval Origins of
John M. Nicholas, and John Parliamentary Democracy
W. Davis Arthur P. Monahan
2 The Development of the 11 Scottish Common Sense
Idea of History in Antiquity in Germany, 17681800:
Gerald A. Press A Contribution to the
3 Claude Buffier and History of Critical Philosophy
ThomasReid: Manfred Kuehn
Two Common-Sense 12 Paine and Cobbett:
Philosophers The Transatlantic Connection
Louise Marcil-Lacoste David A. Wilson
4 Schiller, Hegel, and Marx: 13 Descartes and the
State, Society, and the Aesthetic Enlightenment
Ideal of Ancient Greece Peter A. Schouls
Philip J. Kain 14 Greek Scepticism:
5 John Case and Aristotelianism Anti-Realist Trends
in Renaissance England in Ancient Thought
Charles B. Schmitt Leo Groarke
6 Beyond Liberty and Property: 15 The Irony of Theology and the
The Process of Self- Nature of Religious Thought
Recognition in Eighteenth- Donald Wiebe
Century Political Thought 16 Form and Transformation:
J.A.W. Gunn A Study in the Philosophy
7 John Toland: His Methods, of Plotinus
Manners, and Mind Frederic M. Schroeder
Stephen H. Daniel 17 From Personal Duties
8 Coleridge and the Inspired towards Personal Rights:
Word Late Medieval and Early
Anthony John Harding Modern Political Thought,
9 The Jena System, 18045: c. 1300c. 1650
Logic and Metaphysics Arthur P. Monahan
G.W.F. Hegel 18 The Main Philosophical
Translation edited by Writings and the Novel Allwill
John W. Burbidge and Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi
George di Giovanni Translated and edited by
Introduction and notes by George di Giovanni
H.S. Harris
19 Kierkegaard as Humanist: 28 Enlightenment and
Discovering My Self Community:
Arnold B. Come Lessing, Abbt, Herder, and the
20 Durkheim, Morals, Quest for a German Public
and Modernity Benjamin W. Redekop
W. Watts Miller 29 Jacob Burckhardt and
21 The Career of Toleration: the Crisis of Modernity
John Locke, Jonas Proast, John R. Hinde
and After 30 The Distant Relation:
Richard Vernon Time and Identity in Spanish-
22 Dialectic of Love: American Fiction
Platonism in Schillers Eoin S. Thomson
Aesthetics 31 Mr Simsons Knotty Case:
David Pugh Divinity, Politics, and Due
23 History and Memory Process in Early Eighteenth-
in Ancient Greece Century Scotland
Gordon Shrimpton Anne Skoczylas
24 Kierkegaard as Theologian: 32 Orthodoxy and

Recovering My Self Enlightenment:
Arnold B. Come George Campbell in
the Eighteenth Century
25 Enlightenment and Jeffrey M. Suderman
Conservatism in Victorian
Scotland: 33 Contemplation
The Career of and Incarnation:
Sir Archibald Alison The Theology of Marie-
Michael Michie Dominique Chenu
Christophe F. Potworowski
26 The Road to Egdon
Heath: The Aesthetics 34 Democratic Legitimacy:
of the Great in Nature Plural Values
Richard Bevis and Political Power
F.M. Barnard
27 Jena Romanticism and Its
Appropriation of Jakob Bhme: 35 Herder on Nationality,
Theosophy Hagiography Humanity, and History
Literature F.M. Barnard
Paolo Mayer 36 Labeling People:
French Scholars on Society,
Race, and Empire, 18151849
Martin S. Staum
37 The Subaltern Appeal to 46 When the French Tried to
Experience: Self-Identity, BeBritish:
Late Modernity, and the Party, Opposition, and the
Politics of Immediacy Quest for Civil Disagreement,
Craig Ireland 18141848
J.A.W. Gunn
38 The Invention of Journalism
Ethics: The Path to Objectivity 47 Under Conrads Eyes:
and Beyond, Second Edition The Novel as Criticism
Stephen J.A. Ward Michael John DiSanto
39 The Recovery of Wonder: 48 Media, Memory, and the First

The New Freedom and World War
theAsceticism of Power David Williams
Kenneth L. Schmitz
49 An Aristotelian Account
40 Reason and Self-Enactment ofInduction:
inHistory and Politics: Creating Something
Themes and Voices of fromNothing
Modernity Louis Groarke
F.M. Barnard
50 Social and Political Bonds:
41 The More Moderate Side of A Mosaic of Contrast
Joseph de Maistre: andConvergence
Views on Political Liberty and F.M. Barnard
Political Economy
51 Archives and the Event of God:
Cara Camcastle
The Impact of Michel Foucault
42 Democratic Society and on Philosophical Theology
Human Needs David Galston
Jeff Noonan
52 Between the Queen and
43 The Circle of Rights Expands: theCabby:
Modern Political Thought after Olympe de Gougess Rights
the Reformation, 1521 ofWomen
(Luther) to 1762 (Rousseau) John R. Cole
Arthur P. Monahan
53 Nature and Nurture in French
44 The Canadian Founding: Social Sciences, 18591914
John Locke and Parliament andBeyond
Janet Ajzenstat Martin S. Staum
45 Finding Freedom: 54 Public Passion:

Hegels Philosophy and the Rethinking the Grounds for
Emancipation of Women Political Justice
Sara MacDonald Rebecca Kingston
55 Rethinking the Political: 64 The Crisis of Modernity
The Sacred, Aesthetic Politics, Augusto Del Noce
and the Collge de Sociologie Edited and translated by
Simonetta Falasca-Zamponi CarloLancellotti
56 Materialist Ethics and 65 Imprinting Britain:

Life-Value Newspapers, Sociability,
Jeff Noonan andthe Shaping of British
North America
57 Hegels Phenomenology:
Michael Eamon
The Dialectical Justification of
Philosophys First Principles 66 The Form of Politics:
Ardis B. Collins Aristotle and Plato
onFriendship
58 The Social History of Ideas
John von Heyking
inQuebec, 17601896
Yvan Lamonde 67 War as Paradox:
Translated by Phyllis Aronoff and Clausewitz and Hegel on
Howard Scott Fighting Doctrines and Ethics
Youri Cormier
59 Ideas, Concepts, and Reality
John W. Burbidge 68 Network Democracy:
Conservative Politics and the
60 The Enigma of Perception
Violence of the Liberal Age
D.L.C. Maclachlan
Jared Giesbrecht
61 Nietzsches Justice:
69 A Singular Case:
Naturalism in Search of
Debating Chinas Political
anEthics
Economy in the European
Peter R. Sedgwick
Enlightenment
62 The Idea of Liberty in Canada Ashley Eva Millar
during the Age of Atlantic
70 Not Even a God Can Save
Revolutions, 17761838
UsNow:
Michel Ducharme
Reading Machiavelli after
Translated by Peter Feldstein
Heidegger
63 From White to Yellow: Brian Harding
The Japanese in European
Racial Thought, 13001735
Rotem Kowner
NOT EVEN A GOD
CANSAVEUSNOW
Reading Machiavelli after Heidegger
Brian Harding
McGill-Queens University Press

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Not even a god can save us now: reading Machiavelli after Heidegger/
Brian Harding.
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1. Machiavelli, Niccol, 14691527 Criticism and interpretation.

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Contents
Prefacexi
1 Reading Machiavelli with Post-Heideggerian Philosophy 3

2 Sacrifice and the Eternity of the World 19
3 Truth and Sacrifice in Machiavelli 51
4 Sacrifice and the City 87
5 New Princes, New Philosophies, and Old Gods 108
6 The End of the World 146
Bibliography195
Index203
Preface
In the opening chapter of his Some Lessons on Metaphysics, the Spanish

philosopher Jos Ortega y Gasset writes that there is an element of
dishonesty in teaching and studying philosophy. According to Ortega,
the doctrines and theories taught in a philosophy course were devel-
oped not impartially or cold-bloodedly but in the heat and sweat of a
kind of intellectual desperation: if they found these truths, it is because
they sought them, and if they sought them, it is because they have need
of them, because for one reason or another they could not do without
them.1 For Ortega, the philosophers on his syllabus needed to develop
these theories, and they would have considered their lives a failure if
they had failed. The teacher and the student, on the other hand, do not
always have that same intensity. The student may be satisfying a prereq-
uisite; the teacher is satisfying the terms of her contract. Both will talk
about philosophy in the class but are quite capable of doing it without
really caring, of going through the motions. Unlike the writers studied,
they can philosophize coolly and impartially. There is a similar phe-
nomenon in writing and publishing. When we write and publish as
academic philosophers in the early twenty-first century, we tend to
take the stance of the impartial scholar as normative. We present our-
selves as going through the motions of analysis and scholarship coolly
and objectively with little personally at stake. We hide and dont admit
that we wrote what we wrote because we felt the need or desire to do so.
Instead, works are justified by appeals to gaps in the literature, a reply
to an objection, the importance of publicizing new archival discoveries,
and so forth. Rarely do academic philosophers admit that the gap ap-
peared to them (and not others) because for some reason they (and not
others) needed it to be filled, or that they formulated a reply to that
1 Ortega y Gasset, Some Lessons in Metaphysics, 14.

xii Preface
objection because they needed that reply. I know this is the case because
this is what I have done many times in the past.
The aim of this work is, for better or for worse, to put Machiavelli into
dialogue with a number of philosophers with whom he is not often as-
sociated: in general, what is still called continental philosophy. In this
sense, this work is undoubtedly eccentric. I hope, however, that by creat-
ing this admittedly odd conversation, certain issues and questions will
come to light that would not have done so otherwise. In a recent study of
Peter Abelard by the eminent medievalist John Marenbon, the latter ar-
gues that one can distinguish between four ways of approaching a figure
in the history of philosophy: one can approach in terms of (1) the phi-
losophers past, the tradition in which he saw himself working, the pre-
decessors he recognized; (2) the philosophers present, his interlocutors
and colleagues during his life; (3) the philosophers future (i.e., how his
work was received and interpreted by subsequent generations); and fi-
nally (4) the philosopher in our present (i.e., how the philosophers
work can be understood in the context of contemporary debates and
concerns).2 When it comes to Machiavelli, works addressing (1) to (3)
are fairly common, and, while one can sometimes find works that relate
Machiavellis insights to contemporary concerns (nationalism, foreign
relations, business ethics), there are none that I know of that address
Machiavelli and continental philosophy. This book is largely a contribu-
tion to (4); Ive long suspected that continental thought would benefit
from a splash in the face with cold Machiavellian waters. The major
themes of Machiavellis work the constellation of civil foundations,
violence, religion, and so on are also major themes running across
twentieth-century, and now twenty-first-century, continental thought. If
this isnt always apparent to casual readers, we can thank the almost sur-
realist prose many continental philosophers prefer to employ. In any
case, I argue in this book that Machiavellis chief themes are also present
in certain continental philosophers. I do not provide any kind of ency-
clopaedic treatment of Machiavelli and Continental Philosophy but,
rather, focus on the resonances of a few key thinkers and key arguments
with Machiavellis work. The three main continental thinkers upon
whom I focus (Heidegger, Derrida, and Girard) are not chosen at ran-
dom or arbitrarily. As will become clear in the text to follow, there is an
ongoing confrontation with the works of Heidegger in Derrida and
Girard; the debated points in Heidegger without intending it or know-
ing it echo many Machiavellian themes. Since the proof of the pudding
is in the eating, I leave the rest for the body of the text. Nevertheless, if
2 Marenbon, Abelard in Four Dimensions.

Preface xiii
the reader thinks that other philosophers would make better interlocu-
tors for Machiavelli, he or she ought to rely on his/her own insight and
write another book rather than complain that fortune did not give her/
him the book she/he wanted.
***
A word about the structure and organization of this book is in order.

While it is broken up into chapters, the chapters themselves are broken
up into sections. It may appear to the reader that the transitions between
numbered sections are sometimes quite abrupt, especially in the first
chapter. For that, I beg the readers patience and forbearance. My hope
is that, even if the transitions seem somewhat abrupt, the overall devel-
opment of the argument will be clear. If I may venture a self-serving
comparison, the reader should take the numbered sections as so many
dots in a pointillist painting.
Pieces of the argument in this book have been presented at confer-
ences in Belfast, Houston, Mexico City, New Orleans, and San Antonio.
Needless to say, I benefited by the comments and questions from partici-
pants at these conferences. J. Aaron Simmons and an anonymous re-
viewer read the entire manuscript for the press and provided helpful
comments and criticisms. While I am confident that there is still mate-
rial in the book with which they will not agree, I am sure that it is stron-
ger thanks to their efforts. My editor at McGill-Queens University Press,
Mark Abley, was both encouraging and helpful; Joanne Richardson did
a wonderful job editing the book. While I am thinking of past debts, it
occurs to me that McDwyers Pub in the Norwood section of the Bronx
has closed after over fifty years of service. While I generally resist nostal-
gia, I make an exception for Washington Heights, Inwood, and the
Bronx. When I was a graduate student, McDwyers Pub (and the other
bars on Bainbridge Avenue) became my refuge from both the lonely
stress of studies and the expensive silliness of Brooklyn and Manhattan.
I would not want to let the passing go unnoticed. Much of my time at
McDwyers was spent with Jeff Hanson and Mike Kelly, and they remain
my two principle interlocutors in matters philosophical. I also owe
thanks to my colleagues at twu, my friends (Matt, Kim, and the entire
Edgar clan; the Pilkington, Lee, and Chapman families; Rob Guzman,
Chris Bartek, Jack OConnor, Joe Trabbic, the Flannerys of County
Mayo, and many others), my brother, sister, parents, in-laws, nieces and
nephews, and my children. But I am especially grateful to mywife Felicia,
to whom this book is dedicated, for having patiently listened to me ram-
ble on about murder, human sacrifice, and other cheerful topics.
NOT EVEN A GOD C A N SAVE US NOW
1
Reading Machiavelli with

Post-HeideggerianPhilosophy
With a few notable exceptions, Machiavelli is rarely discussed in

depth by philosophers working in what is commonly called continen-
tal philosophy, but which, with more accuracy, might be called post-
Heideggerian philosophy. While one can find occasional references to
him here or there, these remarks are usually superficial gestures towards
a generic Machiavellianism rather than a careful engagement with the
themes of his thought. Likewise, few scholars working on Machiavelli at-
tempt to engage post-Heideggerian philosophy. Both tendencies, I think,
are lamentable since many of the problems that engage major figures
in the continental tradition also engaged Machiavelli. I have in mind
themes including the relationship among violence, religion, and poli-
tics; the origin or foundations of authority; the relationship between
philosophy and politics; the critique or overcoming of Platonism. This
list is not meant to be exhaustive, but it is meant to be suggestive of the
fertile yields this cross-pollination of Machiavelli and post-Heideggerian
philosophy could produce. In fact, I believe that a careful reading of
Machiavelli in dialogue with at least some post-Heideggerian philoso-
phers (Heidegger himself, Jacques Derrida, and Ren Girard) will
shed more light on these themes than either Machiavelli or those post-
Heideggerian philosophers could in isolation.
S a c r i f i c i a l T h e m e s i n M a c h i av e l l i a n d O t h e r s
Post-Heideggerian is an ugly word; in fact, the hyphen is probably the

least objectionable part of it. But I use it, despite the infelicitous style,
because it does double duty, both designating a time period (commenc-
ing in the twentieth century) and indicating a tradition or conversation
that takes it inspiration from, or responds to, the work of Heidegger.
It might be better to replace it with another phrase, such as new
4 Not Even a God Can Save Us Now
phenomenology. Simmons and Benson use this term to designate

those French philosophers in the latter half of the twentieth century
who all think in the wake of Edmund Husserl and Martin Heidegger.1
Ithink we can all agree that new phenomenology is more euphoni-
ous than post-Heideggerian. However, I cannot avail myself of the term
because it would be a bit misleading in the context of this book since one
of the thinkers with whom I concern myself Ren Girard can hardly
be considered a phenomenologist, although he does engage Heideggers
work at length, and even occasionally refers to Husserl.2 So, I am stuck
with post-Heideggerian. Obviously, the philosophers I discuss are not
the only post-Heideggerian philosophers in the world. Moreover, it
should be obvious from the list of themes in the earlier paragraph that I
am not addressing every important theme or argument in Heideggers
thought. Instead, I am only addressing those post-Heideggerian themes
that are illuminated by reference to themes in Machiavelli, and only ad-
dressing those post-Heideggerian philosophers who I believe address
them in an interesting or important way. Whence, while, for example,
Jean-Luc Marion is certainly a post-Heideggerian thinker, because his
work focuses more on (a) replacing Heideggers concern with being
with a concern with givenness and (b) rethinking subjectivity on the ba-
sis of givenness rather than, say, the more Machiavellian theme of the
relationship between philosophy and politics, I do not discuss Marion.3
So far, I have referred to Machiavellian themes and post-
Heideggerian themes and suggested that there are interesting overlaps
between the two. The reader would be right to wonder if there is any
deeper unity. That is to say, even if the themes overlap, is there anything
that unites all of them, any overarching horizon that enables us to treat
them as related to each other? I think that there is such an overarching
horizon, and that it is, in a word, sacrifice. While I have more to say about
that later, for now lets invoke Ren Girards understanding of sacrifice
as a kind of communal violence involving a distinction between (a) good
sacrificial violence that preserves or founds the community and (b) bad
non-sacrificial violence that undermines or threatens the community.
For Girard, the essential moment in the life of a community is the mur-
der or expulsion of the scapegoat. Due to what Girard calls the mimetic
1 Simmons and Benson, New Phenomenology, 1.

2 The engagement with Heidegger is discussed later in the book, with appropriate
references given at that point; for the brief reference to Husserl, see R. Girard, vs, 200.
The reference to Husserl is fairly trivial anyway.
3 For a more inclusive discussion of post-Heideggerian thinkers under the rubric of
new phenomenology, see Simmons and Benson, New Phenomenology.
Reading Machiavelli with Post-HeideggerianPhilosophy 5
nature of desire that is, that one wants or desires primarily what other
people desire conflict is inevitable among those who live close together.
Over time, the various tensions, problems, and rivalries in community
build up towards an explosion of violence. If an outlet for this violence
isnot found, the community will tear itself to pieces. In these paroxysms
of mimetic violence, communities spontaneously turn on one person or
group of persons as the source of all ills. It is not important, in the final
analysis, whether or not this unfortunate person really is guilty in most
cases, he or she is probably not guilty. What is important is that he or she
is perceived as such and punished accordingly. This person or persons
functions as the scapegoat; he or she is expelled from the community,
becoming subject to punishment, exile, and death. Turning against this
victim restores the unanimity once shattered by mimetic rivalry. The death
of the victim restores calm, at least temporarily (vs 789). But because the
cure is only temporary, mimetic rivalry will eventually rear its ugly head
again. In this case, the community may return to what worked in the past,
repeating the murder of the scapegoat in the hopes of forestalling the
crisis. This time the killing is a premeditated sacrifice rather than a spon-
taneous one. This is, according to Girard, the beginning of ritual: Rite is
the re-enactment of mimetic crises in a spirit of voluntary religious and
social collaboration, a re-enactment in order to reactivate the scapegoat
mechanism for the benefit of society rather than for the detriment of the
victim who is perpetually sacrificed (sg 140). In the sacrificial rite, we
find the distinction between good and bad violence (the good violence of
sacrifice and the bad violence of communal strife), the selection of a vic-
tim, and the direction of good violence towards this victim. Good sacrifi-
cial violence functions as a kind of catharsis that relieves some of the
pressure and enables the community to (re)constitute itself.
Machiavellis philosophy arguably orbits around the question of sacri-
fice; and Heidegger, Derrida, and (of course) Girard all make their own
attempts at understanding, interpreting, explaining, and critiquing sac-
rifice. I am not claiming that Machiavelli self-consciously set sacrifice at
the centre of his project. That is to say, while he distinguishes between
good and bad violence (as, for example, in his distinction between cru-
elty well used and badly used), I do not think that he saw that distinction
as the core of his thought. But this is, in fact, what I think happens irre-
spective of his intentions, and I believe that a sacrificial reading of
Machiavelli can clarify many obscurities in his thought. At the same time,
this way of reading Machiavelli offers a number of insights that are useful
when engaging with post-Heideggerian philosophy. I will not try to prove
either point right now, but hopefully, over the course of the book, the
reader will be convinced.
There is a certain amount of decontextualizing at play: rather than

reading Machiavelli in terms of his immediate historical context, I am
looking centuries ahead of him. If I translate Machiavelli into a new con-
text, it is inevitable that someone will say traduttore, traditore. This is the
risk one takes whenever one attempts to bring a historical figure to bear
on contemporary philosophical debates. One who does so is, essentially,
betting that the benefits of translation outweigh the risks; whether or not
this is a good bet cannot be determined clearly at the outset. The juxta-
position, for whatever purposes, of Machiavelli with post-Heideggerian
philosophy is admittedly weird. Some of the weirdness can be alleviated
by drawing a distinction between (a) doing philosophy historically and
(b) doing the history of philosophy. This distinction has been explored
by Robert Piercey at some length.
According to Piercey, the historical philosopher differs from the histo-
rian of philosophy in two ways. First, the historical philosopher is inter-
ested not so much in historical questions of sources, biography, and
cultural context as she is in how philosophers have responded to an idea
or problem. Second, the idea the historical philosopher is interested in
is not so much a theory as it is the picture of the world that the theory
attempts to articulate. Piercey explains this distinction by quoting the
words of Gary Gutting: it is very important to distinguish between the
theory that provides a specific detailed formulation of a philosophical
position such as Platonic realism or Berkeleyean idealism and the gen-
eral picture of reality that such formulations are trying to articulate.4
AsPiercey points out, many philosophers who would reject the details
of, for example, Cartesian philosophy are characterized as Cartesians
because they accept the general picture that Descartes was trying to ar-
ticulate. These pictures are not so much principles or fundamental theo-
retical commitments as they are dispositions to approach philosophical
problems in certain characteristic ways They are not explanations of
phenomena, but injunctions to seek explanations of a certain kind.5
One could say that the pictures in question are tendencies or predi-
lections towards certain kinds of questions and, inevitably, certain kinds
of answers. Often the picture functions as the (almost entirely) unno-
ticed horizon on which the thinker operates. Doing philosophy histori-
cally involves tracing the history, or track record, of these pictures.
Understanding the history, or wirkungsgeschichte, of these pictures of-
fers a different kind of understanding than does that of the inquiry into
4 Gutting, Pragmatic Liberalism, 191; quoted in Piercey, Uses of the Past, 21 (emphasis
inoriginal).
5 Piercey, Uses of the Past, 26.
theory: by seeing how these pictures are formulated, developed, chal-

lenged, and revised, one can gain insight into their overall strengths and
weaknesses. As Piercey continues, he remarks that one who attempts to
do philosophy historically will have four tasks: (a) to select the historical
figures, (b) to argue for a certain way of viewing these figures, (c) to
persuade the audience they are related in some way, and (d) to engage
critically with these thinkers.6 Finally, on the basis of (a) through (d),
one should make some kind of general point about the picture in ques-
tion. The goal, finally, is to bring about a certain kind of seeing as
the experience of seeing a number of philosophers not just as individu-
als, but as embodiments of a certain picture.7 When the historical phi-
losopher is successful, the reader sees his or her subjects in a new way, as
part of a new story or narrative. As far as this work goes, I am interested
in pictures of the sacrificial distinction between bad and good violence.
I find these themes clearly articulated in Machiavelli but more obscurely
at work in other more recent thinkers; after recognizing the picture in
Machiavelli, it is easier to see it in them. While none of the recent figures
I address (e.g., Heidegger, Derrida) would normally be characterized as
followers of Machiavelli to continue with Pierceys terms this book
suggests that they should be seen as sharing the same basic picture.
R e a d i n g M a c h i av e l l i b y H i m s e l f
Since the bulk of this text is about Machiavelli, it makes sense to say some
things about the man himself. Machiavellis identity is not very much in
question: he is the former secretary of the Florentine Republic and the
author of some very important and influential books most notably, The
Prince in 1513 and Discourses on Livy around 1517.8 Admittedly, this ac-
count of his life is only slightly more detailed than Heideggers famous
biography of Aristotle he was born, he worked, he died but it serves
the purposes of this paragraph well enough, and more details are avail-
able to anyone who wants them in the many excellent biographies of
6 Ibid., 34.
7 Ibid., 40.
8 These dates are approximate, and more details about the precise dates of
Machiavellis composition can be found in Black, Machiavelli, 8996 (on The Prince); 1308
(on the Discourses). Black does not accept the theory that the writing of the two texts over-
lapped, but he does argue that they are closely related (132).
Machiavelli.9 Let us focus on those important and influential books:

what kind of books are these books, and what kind of writer is Machiavelli?
To provide an answer that may seem straightforward: he is a political
philosopher and his major works are books on political philosophy. It is
fairly common to describe Machiavelli as a founder of modern political
theory. However, when the issue is pressed and one asks about the pre-
cise nature of Machiavellis work one finds much less agreement. The
various conflicting interpretations of Machiavellis work ranging from
Cardinal Poles claim that The Prince destroys civilization to Rousseaus
claim that it is a highly moral text10 stem, I think, from the multilay-
ered structure of his books. Machiavellis texts proceed on (at least!)
three distinct levels. To take The Prince as an example, although I believe
similar considerations apply to all his major texts, one can discern (a) a
sort of mirror for princes (specula principum), albeit an unconventional
one; but also (b) the development and application of a political theory,
broadly construed; and finally (c) the broader philosophical horizon
upon which (a) and (b) stand. The tripartite structure of Machiavellis
texts already makes interpreting him difficult; this is compounded by his
habit of saying one thing, only to take it back or qualify it later. He is a
slippery fish. Take as an example Machiavellis discussion of Agathocles
in The Prince: after describing his cruel and murderous rise to power,
Machiavelli says that one cannot call this virtuous behaviour (P VIII).
However, by the end of that same chapter, he has argued that Agathocless
cruelty, executed quickly and decisively, is well used and in fact a virtue.
He goes so far as to imply that both God and man will forgive cruelty well
used. Not surprisingly, a wide variety of hooks and nets have been con-
structed to try to catch this fish.
For the sake of convenience, I divide the readings into two groups.
This division is arbitrary and, in the long run, misleading. But, for the
next few pages, it is a useful heuristic device, and I use it here, although
I abandon it as soon as it has served its purpose. The first group ap-
proaches Machiavelli in terms of larger philosophical questions. Here,
the interpretation of Machiavelli is guided by extra-Machiavellian con-
cerns; one might say that the ultimate concern is not to get Machiavelli
right but, rather, to use Machiavelli as a way of gaining access to some-
thing else, or as a way of framing a question or group of questions. The
9 See, for example, Black, Machiavelli; de Grazia, Machiavelli in Hell; R. Ridolfi, Life of
Niccol Machiavelli; Viroli, Niccols Smile. This list is hardly exhaustive.
10 Both these judgments and others are discussed in Benner, Machiavellis Prince, xix
xii; Soll, Reception of The Prince, 3160, offers a more detailed account of the early recep-
tion of Machiavelli.
second group approaches Machiavelli largely in terms of Machiavelli

himself and his historical context: here the goal is to get Machiavelli
right, to discover what he really meant. In this approach, the question of
Machiavellis sources is much more pressing than in the first approach:
we want to know what he read, when he read it, and so forth. While each
approach can complement the other, there is inevitably a tension be-
tween them. Group one tends to complain that group two misses the
philosophical significance of Machiavelli, that it can explain his sources
and context in detail, but not why anybody should be interested in
them; group two tends to complain that group one plays fast and loose
with the texts, pulling them out of their historical context and either
misunderstanding or wilfully misinterpreting them to make philosophi-
cal points.11 This is not to say that group two does not think we can learn
anything from Machiavelli but, rather, that if we are to learn anything
from him, we must first carefully attend to the cultural, historical, and
literary context.
Turning now to group one, I discuss two representatives: Leo Strauss
and Louis Althusser. Both treat Machiavelli as a philosopher of the first
order. For those who follow Strauss, Machiavellis importance consists in
a rejection of classical political philosophy and the endorsement of an
alternate morality based on that rejection; Machiavellis break with clas-
sical political and moral thought is a philosophical and moral revolution
on par with that of Socrates. For Althusser, Machiavellis devotion to
thinking through one concrete political problem an Italian revolution
marks him as the greatest materialist philosopher in history.12 In
Althussers reading, Machiavelli offers objective knowledge of politics
rather than ideology. The ideology in question is that same great tradi-
tion that Strauss saw Machiavelli as breaking with, and, interestingly
enough, Althusser like Strauss on occasion argues as much from what
Machiavelli says as from what he does not say:
Through his silences even more than his words, we may infer which discourses
Machiavelli condemns definitively: not only edifying religious, moral or aesthetic
discourse of the court humanists, and even radical humanists; not only the
11 For a dated but still representative statement of group ones criticisms of group
two, see Tarcov, Quentin Skinners Method and Machiavellis Prince; Tarcovs paper has
the advantage of offering good summaries if only to argue against later of group twos
criticisms of group one. More recently, pages 4 to 11 and the endnotes running from pages
188 to 199 in William Parsons, Machiavellis Gospel, offer a thorough discussion of the
debate. Parsons allegiance is squarely with what I call group one.
12 Althusser, Machiavelli and Us, 103.
revolutionary sermons of Savonarola; but also the entire tradition of Christian

theology and all the political theories of Antiquity. How can we fail to notice that
with the exception of Aristotle, cited once in passing, Machiavelli never invokes
the great political texts of Plato, Aristotle, the Epicureans, the Stoics and Cicero?
He who admired antiquity so much, he whose thoughts were nurtured on ex-
amples drawn from the history of Athens, Sparta and Rome, never explained
himself on this score except by silence. But at a time when no one discussed poli-
tics except in the language of Aristotle, Cicero and Christianity, this silence stood
for a declaration of rupture.13
While numerous objections have been raised to the Straussian or

Althusserian reading of Machiavelli, both remain compelling insofar
asthey take Machiavelli as a philosopher of the highest order, worthy
of comparison with Plato, Aristotle, Marx, and Heidegger. For both
Strauss and Althusser, and group one readers of Machiavelli in general,
one approaches Machiavelli primarily in terms of philosophical prob-
lems or themes rather than his historical context. In both cases, one
could plausibly argue that neither Strausss Thoughts on Machiavelli nor
Althussers Machiavelli and Us are, in the final analysis, really about
Machiavelli. One might claim, for example, that Strausss book is really
about the nature of modern thought and how it differs from the classi-
cal tradition or that Althussers is really about developing a historical
pedigree for his version of Marxism. In short, both Strauss and Althusser
could be described as doing philosophy historically rather than as do-
ing the history of philosophy.
In contrast to these readings of Machiavelli, group two is less willing
toendorse a radically original Machiavelli but, instead, reads him in the
context of a Renaissance republicanism that had been percolating for
some time a movement different from, but no doubt inspired by, the
traditions of ancient Rome. Quentin Skinner, Sebastian de Grazia, and
Maurizio Viroli (among others) have argued for this position in differ-
ent, but more or less complimentary, ways. This Machiavelli is typically
less radical, less revolutionary, and less subversive than the Machiavelli
on offer by group one. Here he emerges as a high-water mark of a long-
standing tradition of republican political theory, a figure of immense
historical importance, but not as a great philosopher on the order of
group ones vision.
13 Ibid., 78 (emphasis in original).

Furious with orlando furioso
Another interpretive wrinkle, especially for the more philosophical read-

ings of Machiavelli preferred by group one, is that Machiavelli never
identities himself as a philosopher. His favourite job descriptions were
those connected to his diplomatic work for Florence, and, in his literary
capacity, he refers to himself as a poet, playwright, and historian. Indeed,
in 1517 he complained to Lodovico Alamanni that Ariosto did not in-
clude him in the list of major Italian poets in Orlando Furioso (L #166).
But, it can be objected, the mere fact that he didnt identify himself as a
philosopher does not mean that he was right to eschew that label and
that we should not read him as such. Perhaps, perhaps not. In any case,
there has been a great deal of work done on Machiavelli that approaches
him as a philosopher. Against this, Maurizio Viroli argues extensively
against a philosophical reading of Machiavellis political writings, con-
tending that they are better understood in terms of rhetoric than of phi-
losophy. He writes: [Machiavelli] did not intend to found a new science
of politics, but to retrieve and refine the conception of political theory as
an essentially rhetorical practice.14 As such, for Viroli, one problem that
has long vexed Machiavelli scholars (and that partially motivates Strausss
esoteric reading of Machiavelli), the relationship between The Prince and
the Discourses, simply dissolves. For Viroli, there is no systematic relation-
ship between the two texts: they are just two different works addressed
todifferent audiences. If this is accepted, the problem of explaining or
interpreting the various inconsistencies, tensions, and contradictions
between his various texts disappears. To readers trained in philosophy
(who hear Socratess debate with Gorgias ringing in their ears whenever
rhetoric is invoked), such an approach to Machiavelli can be a bitter
pill to swallow. Isnt philosophy predicated on the rejection of rhetoric?
If Machiavelli merely offers us rhetoric, why should philosophers read his
works? But the case is not so simple: through the good offices of Cicero,
philosophy and rhetoric were reconciled although not identified with
each other. And in fact, the rhetoric that Viroli attributes to Machiavelli
is that of the Ciceronian, or more generally Roman, scientia civilis. This
scientia civilis is a rhetoric devoted to the common good of the city, not
the individualistic self-aggrandizement of Gorgias or Callicles.
But reading Machiavelli as a rhetorician runs into one of the same
problems as does the philosophical reading: he never refers to himself as
a rhetorician. This does not, however, mean that he isnt one: it may just
14 Viroli, Machiavelli, i.
mean that he did not consider himself a professional rhetorician (i.e.,

one who makes his living by rhetoric). This would not prevent us from
considering that his writings are informed by rhetoric. And Viroli pro-
vides ample evidence for such a claim. However, a similar argument can
be made for the philosophical reading: he does not refer to himself as
a philosopher because he is not professionally engaged in philosophy
inthe way that he was for his paid work (e.g., historian of Florence). This
would not prevent us from considering that at least some of his writings
are informed by philosophy. Moreover, the fact that he uses rhetorical
devices and structures his writing according to the rules of rhetoric does
not exclude the possibility that his rhetoric may be a vehicle for his phi-
losophy. Cicero, after all, wrote according to the rules of Roman rheto-
ric, but he did not think that this precluded writing philosophy.
E x a m p l e s to I m i tat e a n d A vo i d
Let us return to that wrinkle I mentioned earlier: while Machiavelli did

not refer to himself as a philosopher or as a rhetorician, he did identify
himself as both a poet and a historian. Certainly, the identification of
himself as a poet refers to his poems and his plays, and we can assume
ata minimum that the biography of Castruccio Castracani (1518) and
the Florentine Histories (presented to Pope Clement VII in 1525) provide
good grounds for his self-identification as a historian. Did he forget
about his works of a few years earlier, The Prince and Discourses on Livy,
when he chose these labels for himself? Or maybe they fit here some-
how? A case could be made for including the Discourses under the rubric
of history since it is (nominally at least) a commentary on the works of
Titus Livy. The Prince fits less well, but could be shoe-horned into histo-
ry because of the vast number of historical examples. Presumably, when
Machiavelli encourages young princes to exclusively study history in
PXIV, he does not mean to exclude The Prince itself. In fact, in his epistle
dedicatory he presents The Prince as a digest of what he has learned from
his study of ancient history as well as from his own experiences. Let us
allow this hypothesis that Machiavelli counted the Discourses and The
Prince among his historical works to stand for a bit, so that it can be
explored. If they are histories, what kind of histories are they?
In the nineteenth century, Leopold Von Ranke declared that the task
of the historian is to describe the past wie es eigentlich gewesen ist. The task
of the historian is to describe the past as accurately as possible, making
use of as much empirical data both archaeological and archival as is
necessary. On this standard, even Machiavellis more obviously historical
works are not very good. This is not, however, a standard that Machiavelli
would have recognized. Renaissance historians had a rather different

understanding of the historians role; like all other aspects of learning,
history, humanists argued, should have a moral or didactic component.15
This humanist imperative is anticipated in the ancient Roman historian
whom Machiavelli loved above all others, Titus Livy. In the opening pag-
es of his history of Rome, Titus Livy writes that the reader should pay
close attention to what life and morals were like; through what men and
by what policies, in peace and in war, empire was established and en-
larged; then let him note how, with the gradual relaxation of discipline,
morals first gave way, as it were, then sank lower and lower, and finally
began the downward plunge which has brought us to the present time,
when we can neither endure our vices nor their cures.16 The point of
history, then, is not the disinterested attempt to see how things really
were, but to acquire moral and political knowledge. This is made clearer
by Livy a few lines later, when he challenges his readers to choose for
yourself and your own state (rei publicae) what to imitate and to mark
for avoidance what is shameful.17 History, on Livys presentation, is di-
dactic and moralizing. Indeed, Livy like Machiavelli has been known
to distort the facts when such a distortion is more conducive to the moral
he wishes to impart to his readers.18 Likewise, in the beginning of part
two of his Discourses, Machiavelli writes that he wants to inspire the spir-
its of the youths to prepare themselves to imitate the ancients when they
have the opportunity to do so (D II.pr).
So, if The Prince and the Discourses are histories, it would mean that they
are interested in presenting the reader with noble examples to imitate
and base ones to avoid. This would complement the rhetorical reading
of Machiavelli to the extent that the use of examples is particularly im-
portant in rhetorical arguments.19 If Machiavellis major works are his-
tories in this Livian sense, then he is not so much interested in recitations
of facts about the past as he is in inspiring certain actions by motivating
certain ways of looking at persons and events. And we have good reason
for thinking of (at least) the major works in these terms: Machiavelli
15 For a discussion of Machiavellis own practice as a historian that points to this ele-
ment, see Bondanella, Castruccio Castracani, 30214.
16 Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, I.p9.
17 Ibid., I.p1011.
18 See the classic discussion in Walsh Livys Preface and the Distortion of History.
For an interesting case study of Machiavellis distortion of the historical record, see Viroli,
Machiavellis God, 10944, on his account of Catarina Sforza.
19 The locus classicus for the importance of examples in rhetoric is Aristotle, Rhetoric,
1393a251394a20; but the same point is also made in numerous places by Cicero (e.g., De
Oratore II.9.36); there is a good discussion of this point in Viroli, Machiavellis God, 1247.
states repeatedly his hope that his Discourses on Livy will show men of his
times that imitation of the ancients is possible, and in The Prince he urges
the study of history and imitation of great princes of the past (D, I.pr and
P XIV). At the same time, Machiavelli, as much as Titus Livy before him,
has to offer reasons why such-and-such an action is noble and another
action is base, or why this prince is great and that one is not, if he wishes
to be persuasive. This rhetorical history will have to be able to give rea-
sons why this or that is to be imitated. A moralizing history cannot be a
mere chronology: it must at least flirt with philosophy.
Occasions for Writing
While the precise nature of his writings philosophy, history, or rheto-

ric is debatable, his approach to writing is less so. Machiavelli is an
occasionalist in that he mainly writes when he has occasion to: a hope
for a job, a request from friends, a commission, and so forth. The
occasional character of Machiavellis writings is reminiscent of St
Augustine, whose major works were largely interventions in controver-

sies of his day. And another comparison with Augustine is helpful for
understanding Machiavelli on this point. While he held strong views on
ethics, politics, metaphysics, and epistemology, Augustine never at-
tempted to develop a systematic exposition that existed apart from an
opponent: if he wasnt arguing, he wasnt writing. Augustines individ-
ual pieces are coloured as much by the view he is opposing as by his
own. This means that students of the Bishop of Hippo have to weigh
each of Augustines claims against his others; the varying weights as-
signed to various texts have yielded a robust harvest of different kinds
of Augustinianisms. At the same time, there are certain themes that are
recognizably Augustinian, and there is a kind of family resemblance
between the variety of Augustinianism known to the history of philoso-
phy and theology. Likewise, Machiavellis occasionalism suggests that
there will be both a variety of differing Machiavellianism, depending
on what texts are emphasized, but also a family resemblance between
all these differing takes on his work.
Augustines disinclination to develop a theological or philosophical
system was not the result of a lack of intelligence; rather, it was symptom-
atic of the intellectual culture of the day. Philosophy and theology were
primarily ways of life, not the theoretical discourse of professors, so the
important thing is not the articulation (or the clever concealment) of a
system or theory, but the cultivation of the good life. Pierre Hadot de-
scribes the phenomenon as follows:
Philosophical discourse takes the form of an appeal, as not only an exercise de-
signed to develop the intelligence of the disciple, but also that of an exercise
designed to transform his life. It is in this way that they are no longer constrained
only to pedagogy, but the need for psychagogy and for the direction of souls
arises, which keeps ancient philosophical discourse from being perfectly system-
atic. The propositions that they compose do not always express adequately the
theoretical thoughts of philosophy, but they are to be understood in the perspec-
tive of the effect that they aim to produce in the soul of the auditor.20
By systematic I do not think Hadot has in mind solely the Hegelianism

criticized under that term by Kierkegaard, but any developed theoretical
position regarding some issue(s) in philosophy that attempts to be co-
hesive, comprehensive, and argumentative. By developed theoretical
position I mean something going beyond a mere preference or even
presupposition, I mean a position that both defends itself and attempts to
either accommodate or to refute competing positions and whose primary
concern is theoretical the correct and complete understanding of an
issue rather than practical. This does not exclude practical concerns
but, rather, subordinates them to theoretical elegance and consistency.
By cohesive I mean that an attempt is made to ensure that contradic-
tions and tensions between different parts of the overall project are
avoided or eliminated. By comprehensive I mean that the answer of-
fered attempts to answer the question completely, leaving as little out as
possible, including here responses to possible objections. By argumenta-
tive I mean that this answer is not a matter of unwarranted assertion or
narration but is argued for in a philosophical manner recognizable to his
or her peers. I take this understanding of system to be quite broad, and
the use of the term does not imply success at achieving a cohesive, com-
prehensive, and argumentative answer to a philosophical question only
a good-faith attempt. A philosopher may by systematic but still unsuccess-
ful. Likewise, nothing in my definition of systematic requires that this be
done explicitly or otherwise: in short, it is agnostic regarding whether or
not a system is esoteric or exoteric. Moreover, I take it that cohesiveness,
comprehensiveness, and argumentativeness are equally necessary for a
philosophy to be termed systematic. Lacking any one of the three would
be enough to keep a thinker from being properly systematic. Likewise,
neither cohesiveness, nor comprehensiveness, nor argumentativeness
alone is sufficient for a philosophy to be termed systematic.
20 Hadot, La philosophie antique, 21112.

According to Hadot, ancient philosophers were not systematic be-

cause their goals were primarily practical rather than theoretical: to
obtain the good and to live a happy life.21 This understanding of phi-
losophy mirrors Livys presentation of history. In both cases, the theore-
ticians concern with getting it right is subordinated to the practical
concern of making people good. While Machiavelli admittedly wants his
prince to learn how not to be good (P XV), the general point regarding
the primarily practical or moral aims of his work, as opposed to theo-
retical elegance, I believe can stand. Viroli agrees, pointing out that all
his greatest works were designed to shape souls.22 To summarize our
discussion thus far: beginning with a consideration of Machiavelli as
rhetorician, a lack of systematic philosophical pretensions was noted.
Turning to his self-identification as a historian, a brief discussion of the
practical goals of the Roman historian Livy followed. These practical
goals, we should note, are shared by both the ancient philosopher and
the Renaissance rhetorician. Thus, the rhetorical, philosophical, and his-
torical readings of Machiavelli can be synthesized: he is a historian in the
mode of Titus Livy who uses historical events to comment on his time
and to inspire virtue.
The didactic concerns of ancient philosophy did not, however, render
them indifferent to truth. Most, if not all, ancient philosophers argued
that their school would make one happy and good because their doc-
trines were true. So the lack of systematic theoretical interests did not
yield an indifference to the truth or falsity of doctrines, or render high-
level theoretical debate superfluous, but only subordinated this to the
more practical concern of living a good life. Likewise, I do not mean to
suggest that Machiavelli doesnt care whether or not his account is true,
but only that he is more concerned with inspiring his readers to imitate
what he finds to be worthy of imitation than he is with developing a sys-
tematic theory of nobility or goodness. Moreover, the lack of both self-
identification as a philosopher and a systematic philosophy in Machiavelli
does not mean that he had no opinions about philosophy, nor even that
he has little relevance to philosophy. Certainly, the history of philoso-
phy, especially political philosophy, attests to the relevance of Machiavelli
for philosophers even if he didnt label himself one. More importantly,
the deeper background to his practical advice and political theory, al-
though relegated to the horizon of this thought and not systematically
21 For a more detailed discussion, with references, of Hadot on this point, see
Harding, Augustine and Roman Virtue, 236.
22 Viroli, Machiavellis God, 106.
developed, is nevertheless (in my view) profound and worthy of consid-

eration. In the same way that scholars have pointed to stoicism as the
philosophical horizon upon which Livys historical narrative plays out,
one may ask about the deeper philosophical horizon of Machiavellis
work as a historian.23 The above discussion of the unsystematic nature of
his thought only serves to suggest how we should consider them.
But if this is the case, if (a) The Prince and the Discourses (and so on) are
histories in the Livian sense, and (b) there is more psychagogy than sys-
tematicity to Machiavellis writings, what does this mean for students of
Machiavelli? How should we consider him? The above reflections sug-
gest a few strategies for reading Machiavelli. First, we have to be aware of
the occasional and unsystematic nature of his writings, and we will have
to admit that, due to the nature of his writings, there will probably never
be a definitive interpretation of Machiavelli. As noted earlier, there is a
great deal of disagreement even regarding simple expository questions,
such as What is The Prince about a problem that is generally not
found in more systematic thinkers. While there may be debates regard-
ing details of interpretation, there is no widespread disagreement as
tothe overall point of Russells On Denoting. Second, we should take
seriously the moral and didactic aims of his histories. Machiavelli rarely
makes explicit his standards for nobility or baseness; Im not sure if this
is because he prefers to let them emerge through the historical narrative
or if it is because he has not thought through the deepest implications of
his works.24 In either case, it is my contention that Machiavellis recom-
mendations rest on a structure that could be described (for reasons that
I describe in more detail later) as sacrificial. By sacrifice I have in mind
the (a) production of a distinction between legitimate and illegitimate
violence, and (b) the deployment of this distinction for the benefit of
the community by (c) producing a class of victims against whom the
good or legitimate violence can be directed.25 I do not mean anything
theological per se: as Ren Girard points out, nothing in the account
of sacrifice just adumbrated requires that the victim be offered up to
some individual of a particularly bloodthirsty temperament (vs 8).
23 On Livys stoicism, see P.G. Walshs classic paper, Livy and Stoicism.
24 Rarely is not the same as never: arguably, P 1518 offers a criticism of traditional
standards of nobility and baseness that is fairly explicit. However, if my reading of
Machiavelli is correct, then the deepest basis of these criticisms is not explicitly stated in
those passages.
25 This understanding of sacrifice is borrowed more or less wholesale from the work
of R. Girard. I discuss it in more detail with appropriate references later in the text.
Sacrifice is not essentially propitiatory, but it is prophylactic: it protects

the community from violence by directing violence outward away from
the community. Sacrificial violence founds and preserves communities
in the face of threats and crisis. In this sense, we find sacrificial themes
in not only Machiavelli but also in Heidegger (most clearly, but not ex-
clusively) in his Introduction to Metaphysics and in Derrida (again, most
clearly, but not exclusively) in his essays The Force of Law and Faith
and Knowledge.
2
Sacrifice and the Eternity of the World
It is not readily apparent that the sacrificial distinction between

good and bad violence is at the centre of Machiavellis thought. He as-
sumes something like this distinction in a variety of places but never ex-
plicitly or directly argues for it, and he certainly never discusses opposing
views, either that all forms of violence are bad or that all forms of vio-
lence are good. Machiavellis sacrificial distinction remains implicit and
unstated, and almost never argued for. I say almost never because,
while he doesnt take up the issue directly, he often beats around the
bush, coming frustratingly close to (a) explicitly stating and endorsing it
and (b) rejecting one or more alternatives to it. We can see this dynamic
at work in his discussion of the eternity of the world in book II of
Machiavellis Discourses on Livy. The endorsement of this thesis functions
as I argue shortly as a substitute for (b), and the discussion of ancient
religion that nearly immediately precedes it comes as close to (a) as we
get in Machiavelli. To see how, let us turn to the Discourses.
A n c i e n t E d u c at i o n a n d t h e E t e r n i t y
of the World
The discussion of the eternity of the world occurs in chapter 5 of book II

of Machiavellis Discourses on Livy. In that chapter, Machiavelli alludes to
the fact that some people (philosophers) believe that the world is eter-
nal: To those philosophers who would have it that the world is eternal, I
believe that one could reply that if so much antiquity were true it would
be reasonable that there be memory of more than five thousand years
if it were not seen how the memories of time are eliminated by diverse
causes, of which part come from men, part from heaven (D II.5).
Nathan Tarcov astutely points out that Machiavelli is arguing from the
claim that the world is eternal rather than to the claim.1 It is worthwhile
presenting Machiavellis argument more formally since it is fairly convo-
luted. In the first clause, we find that some philosophers think the world
is eternal. Let us call the position that the world is eternal E. In the
second clause, Machiavelli suggests a kind of conditional: If the world is
eternal, then there should be a memory of more than five thousand
years. Using M to mean memory of more than five thousand years,
we could render the statement as if E then M. His tone suggests that he
is planning a kind of modus tollens there is not a memory of more than
five thousand years, therefore the world is not eternal. But he immedi-
ately changes course, explaining why the initial conditional should be
rejected: there are explanations of the shortness of historical memory
compatible with the eternity of the world. This claim could be interpret-
ed as ~ (if E then M). So, the upshot of Machiavellis argument in the
quoted passage is to (a) introduce the claim that the world is eternal and
(b) an objection to that claim so that he can (c) remove the force of the
objection. It is less an argument for the eternity of the world than it is a
response to those who deny it.
Obviously, there is more to say about the argument and the chapter
than this brief sketch can provide, and I will say more later. Prior to
launching into that discussion, however, it is worthwhile to pause and set
the stage a bit by recounting the development of book II up to that point.
In the preface to book II, Machiavelli begins by criticizing the tendency
of men to praise ancient times. This tendency, he argues, has various
causes. First, he notes that the victors write history, such that one should
assume that it has been whitewashed and sanitized to suit their purposes.
He argues that the victors exaggerate that which will bring glory and
downplay that which will bring infamy. Machiavelli had already alluded
to this problem at D I.10, when he noted that it was forbidden to criticize
Caesar under the empire. But he also notes, at the same place, that writ-
ers got around this prohibition by praising Brutus or criticizing Catalina.2
1 Tarcov, Machiavellis Critique of Religion, 199. Tarcovs discussion of the argu-

ment is, as his title indicates, couched within a broader treatment of Machiavellis
philosophy of religion. In what follows, I push the religious question to the side. I think
that Tarcovs position that the discussion of the eternity of the world bears on religious
questions is correct, but I want to postpone my treatment of Machiavelli and religion
until later.
2 It was pointed out to me by a reviewer that one could wonder if Machiavelli is using
ancient Rome as a kind of Brutus, such that his praise of ancient Rome allows him to offer
backhanded criticisms of his contemporaries. I think this is probably correct, but to
develop the point now would take us too far afield from our present concerns. We will
come to the matter of Machiavellis critique of his contemporaries later.
Sacrifice and the Eternity of the World 21
The sanitizing of history by the victors is never complete and the prob-
lem it presents can be overcome with a careful use of the sources. The
second cause of misunderstanding of ancient times is psychological. The
ancients are long dead and not a threat, arousing neither fear nor envy.
This stands in contrast to ones contemporaries. They can do both. If
one feared or envied the ancients, those emotional states might inocu-
late one against the exaggerations of historians; but lacking them, one is
easy prey to the error of believing in the superiority of ancient customs.
Machiavelli wishes to disabuse his readers of that error.
In the second paragraph of the preface, he attempts just that. Since
he cannot make us fear or hate the ancients, he asserts a constant rising
and falling of mores. The argument here has a somewhat abstract tone,
consisting as it does of a number of universally quantified statements.
Human things are always in motion, either they ascend or descend
(DII. P). Because of this up-and-down movement, it is sometimes true
that ancient times were better, but it is also sometimes not true. It all
depends on the current movement of human things. Despite this move-
ment, however, there is also stability: I judge the world always to have
been in the same mode and there to be as much good as wickedness in
it (D II.P). If we take Machiavelli literally, he seems to be suggesting
that, while the sum total of human misery and excellence remains fairly
constant, the distribution of that total varies, with some provinces at dif-
ferent times being more or less good. He then offers a historical example
to support this abstract account: the journey of virtue from the Assyrians,
through Media, to Persia, then Rome. Following the fall of Rome, how-
ever, virtue was scattered across the world, no longer residing in one
central place but turning up, at various times, in the kingdom of the
Franks, the Turks, Germany, and other places.
In the third paragraph Machiavelli returns to his first theme, our in-
ability to correctly judge ancient times. Here the emphasis still falls on
the second cause, the emotions; he expands on the causes of fear and
envy: human appetites are insatiable (D II.pr). Unlimited appetites
combined with a limited ability to satisfy them causes us to blame the
present time, praise the past and desire the future. Apparently, one
blames the present because one is discontent with what one has and
one desires the future in the hopes that later one will have more of what
one desires. But can desires cause one to praise the past? Why not just be
indifferent to it as something that is out of reach? Machiavelli doesnt
provide a clear answer here, but within the general atmosphere of his
preface, an answer emerges: the past can provide models of what should
be desired and how to get it. Because the figures of the past are long
dead, and do not cause either fear or envy, they can be taken as models.
Machiavellis closing remarks in the preface allude to precisely this point

when he says that his goal is to inspire the youth to imitate the examples
discussed in his text.
So, the preface to book II, in sum, proposes two main points: our dif-
ficulty in understanding the past and the importance of imitating the
past once it is properly understood. In chapter 1, he addresses another
obstacle to imitating the past: the belief that Romes success is due to
fortune, not virtue, and that therefore it cannot be imitated. Machiavelli
will not hear of it: Romes orders made her victories possible, and if her
victories have not been replicated that is because her orders have not
been imitated (D II.1).3 Of course, things are never completely straight-
forward with Machiavelli, and by the end of the chapter he has admitted
that the Romans had some help from fortune, or, more precisely, very
great virtue and prudence mixed with fortune (D II.1). This fortune, it
turns out, is the result of Romes virtue. She never had the misfortune of
having to fight two wars at once because she managed her affairs in such
a way that she was never forced to do so. Chapter 1 of book II, in sum,
serves to remove one obstacle to imitating the ancients. Chapter 2 turns
to the next obstacle: the love of freedom is less strong than it was in an-
cient days. According to Machiavelli, this difference is rooted in the
difference between our education and the ancient, founded on the dif-
ference between our religion and the ancient. For our religion, having
shown the truth and the true way, makes us esteem less the honor of the
world, whereas the Gentiles, esteeming it very much and having placed
the highest good in it, were more ferocious in their actions (D II.2). I
will have more to say about this passage shortly, for now it suffices to ad-
duce our education as one of the obstacles to the imitation of the an-
cients encouraged in the preface to book II. Commenting on this and
related passages, John Najemy points to the importance of Machiavellis
term educazione:
Educazione is of course much more than education in our sense of the term; it
encompasses both education and upbringing, but also a broader process of ac-
culturation by which customs, values, and modes of behavior are instilled in a
people. Machiavellis educazione is, I think, close to what we mean by culture. The
assertion that the difference between modern and ancient educazione is founded,
or based, on the difference between modern and ancient religione must mean
that religione is the core of educazione.4
3 Following Machiavelli, and Italian grammar, I treat Rome as a feminine noun and
use the corresponding feminine pronoun.
4 Najemy, Papirius and the Chicken-Men, 667.
Chapters 3 and 4 seem like digressions: they focus on how Rome became
great (chapter 3) and how republics in general can expand (chapter 4).
Rome became great, Machiavelli argues, through force and love. By love,
she allowed foreigners to come and go, and settle, thereby increasing the
population of the city; by force, she destroyed her neighbours and forced
them to migrate to Rome. Rome forced people to love her. In chapter 4,
Machiavelli lists three ways of expanding: first, the Tuscan way of form-
ing leagues; second, the Roman method of developing what could be
called junior partners; and third, the Athenian way of subjugating oth-
ers. The third way is the worst, while Machiavelli believes the Tuscan way
is the best. Machiavellis considerations of the relative advantages and
disadvantages of the Tuscan and Roman ways lead him to muse on the
fate of the Etruscans. The turn towards the eternity of the world is moti-
vated by these considerations:
And if the imitation of the Romans seems difficult, that of the ancient Tuscans
should not seem so, especially to the present Tuscans. For if they could not, for
the causes said, make an empire like that of Rome, they could acquire the
power in Italy that their mode of proceeding conceded to them. This was se-
cure for a great time, with the highest glory of empire and of arms and special
praise for customs and religion. This power and glory were first diminished by
the French, then eliminated by the Romans; and were eliminated so much that
although two thousand years ago the power of the Tuscans was great, at pres-
ent there is almost no memory of it. This thing has made me think whence
arises this oblivion of things, which will be discoursed of in the following chap-
ter. (D II.4)
The exhortation to imitate Tuscan glory leads Machiavelli to wonder why

it was forgotten. This comment on the oblivion of things leads to the
discussion of the eternity of the world in the next chapter. I began this
section by quoting the first few sentences; I will now quote the passage at
greater length:
To those philosophers who would have it that the world is eternal, I believe that
one could reply that if so much antiquity were true it would be reasonable that
there be memory of more than five thousand years if it were not seen how the
memories of time are eliminated by diverse causes, of which part come from
men, part from heaven. Those that come from men are the variations of sects
and languages. For when a new sect that is a new religion emerges, its first
concern is to extinguish the old one to give itself reputation; and when it occurs
that the orderers of the new sect are of a different language, they easily elimi-
nate it. (D II.5)
Given the development from the preface through this chapter, the over-
all context of the discussion of the eternity of the world is the various
obstacles to imitating the ancients: the denial of the eternity of the world
appears as one of the obstacles Machiavelli wants to overcome. If this is
the context of Machiavellis discussion, what are his sources?
Medieval Latin philosophy was rocked, in the thirteenth and four-
teenth centuries especially, by the debate between Averroists (otherwise
known to historians as heterodox or radical Aristotelians), Augustinians,
and moderate Aristotelians over the purported eternity of the world.
The Averroists, generally speaking, argued that philosophers must en-
dorse the eternity of the world; their opponents demurred. Given the
relative historical proximity between Machiavelli and Averroism, one
might suspect that Machiavellis discussion of the eternity of the world
was informed by the discussions of scholastic authors. Indeed, the claim
that Machiavellis discussion of the eternity of the world is Averroistic is
made most notably in Leo Strausss influential, perceptive, and contro-
versial Thoughts on Machiavelli; it is seconded in Harvey Mansfields com-
mentary on the Discourse on Livy.5 Strauss notes that educated men of
Machiavellis day were widely familiar with the doctrines of Averros,
whence we must turn to the books of the Averroists in order to com-
plete Machiavellis intimations.6 In other words, Latin Averroism will
provide the interpretive key for ferreting out the way Machiavelli under-
stands the eternity of the world. For Strauss this means, among other
things, the attempt to displace the Christian revelation with a new secu-
lar understanding of life and philosophy. However, Strauss doesnt de-
velop his discussion of the doctrine of the eternity of the world, turning
instead to Machiavellis account of the origin of religion.7 While there
ismuch to learn from Strausss account, we should note that there are
a number of reasons for resisting the association of Machiavelli with
Averroism. First, despite the fact that Averroism was not unknown in
Italy around the time of Machiavelli, it doesnt seem to have been par-
ticularly prominent in Florence. Florences university mainly focused
on humanistic studies (Greek and Latin classics, law and rhetoric) rath-
er than on natural sciences and theology, where Averroism was more
often found in Renaissance Italy. Indeed, the Renaissance humanism
Machiavelli is more typically associated with had little patience for the
5 Strauss, Thoughts on Machiavelli, 2023; Mansfield, Machiavellis New Modes and Orders,
2023.
6 Strauss, Thoughts on Machiavelli, 203.
7 Ibid., 2035; Tarcov does something similar in Machiavellis Critique of Religion,
199200.
turgid Latin of scholastic Averroism.8 But beyond these historical con-

cerns, there are more crucial systematic differences. Latin Averroistic
arguments for the eternity of the world were typically based on detailed
and, at times, convoluted studies of Aristotles Physics and Metaphysics;
they do not trade in the kind of arguments Machiavelli uses. Two more
plausible sources for Machiavellis kind of arguments are unlikely bed-
fellows: Augustine of Hippo and Lucretius. The objection and reply of-
fered by Machiavelli echoes (a) St Augustine of Hippos debate with the
Neo-Platonist Apuleius in book XII of The City of God and (b) Lucretiuss
argument against the eternity of the world in On the Nature of Things. Let
us look at both possible sources in more detail, beginning with Lucretius.
L u c r e t i a n I n f l u e n c e o n M a c h i av e l l i
Alison Brown, whose work in this regard is invaluable, argues that the
Lucretian influence on Machiavelli has been highly underestimated.
According to Brown, Lucretius comes to Machiavelli through two sourc-
es. First, there is the text of De rerum natura itself, which Machiavelli tran-
scribed with his own hand. Second, there are the lectures given in the
mid-1490s by his senior colleague at the Florentine Chancery, Marcello
Adriani.9 Moreover, when Machiavelli was writing his Discourses, scholars
at the University of Pisa and elsewhere were debating the eternity of
the world. We have good reason to believe that Machiavelli was aware of
these debates since the provost (Francesco del Nero) was his relation by
marriage and his brothers employer. At least one of the participants in
that debate was known as a follower of Lucretius.10 Brown points out that
the opening sentence of D II.5 (To those philosophers who would have
it that the world is eternal, I believe that one could reply that if so much
antiquity were true it would be reasonable that there be memory of more
than five thousand years) echoes Lucretiuss reply to philosophers who
believed the world was eternal. They also echo the words of Marcello
8 Black, Machiavelli, offers a helpful reconstruction of Machiavellis education

derived from his fathers diary and other contemporary sources. Black admits that there is
little direct evidence that Machiavelli attended Florences university (18), but he points out
that it is unlikely that he would be elected to high office in Florence without the appropri-
ate humanist education (1420). On Averroism in the Renaissance, see the discussion in
Hasse, Arabic Philosophy and Averroism, 12930.
9 Brown, Return of Lucretius, 6872. For a broader consideration of the influence of
Epicurean philosophy on Machiavelli, see Rahe, Shadow of Lucretius and Against Throne
and Altar, 3355.
10 Brown, Return of Lucretius, 76.
Adriani, a well-known Lucretian in Florence.11 Nevertheless, despite

this obvious echo of Lucretius, it is a view that Machiavelli goes on, in
the remainder of the chapter, to reject, offering a variety of reasons why
shortness of historical memory is compatible with an eternal world.
Even if the chapter begins with an echo of Lucretius, its argument
could be taken as anti-Lucretian. But things are not as straightforward
as they seem.
We should begin by identifying Lucretiuss teaching on the eternity of
the world and placing it in the context of his larger philosophical theory.
There is more than one way to deny the eternity of the world. One might
do so by endorsing a creationist account, wherein at some point God
created the world and at some point it will end. Let this be called the
theistic denial of the eternity of the world. Lucretiuss denial of the eter-
nity of the world is not a theistic denial. Lucretiuss poem argues for a
kind of philosophical naturalism wherein all phenomena are to be ac-
counted for in terms of the commingling and separation of atoms as they
fall through the void. Normally, the atoms should fall through the void
in a straight line, never touching one another; but for some mysterious
reason that Lucretius never adequately explains (some of his critics refer
to it as arbitrary) the atoms occasionally swerve. This swerve interrupts
the orderly cascade of atoms, causing countless collisions whereby atoms
are joined to each other, forming, over time, larger and larger structures
(drn II. 70140). Eventually, in something anticipating Darwinian evo-
lution, these random crashes give rise to the world as we know it; indeed,
it may even have given rise to a plurality of worlds. In the fifth book,
Lucretius turns his attention to cosmogony, arguing that the world (a)
had a beginning (drn V.6570) and (b) that the world both heaven
and earth will one day be destroyed (drn V. 95100). So, for Lucretius,
the world is not eternal in the durational sense. That he holds this posi-
tion should not be surprising since it is an obvious consequence of his
atomic theory: what the swerve brings together it also breaks apart.
Nevertheless, while there is manuscript evidence for Machiavellis inter-
est in Lucretiuss infamous swerve, he seems to be mainly concerned
with the swerves implications for freedom of the will rather than with
speculative issues of cosmogony.12 Even his famous marginal comment
that the gods dont care about the affairs of mortals can be taken in an
anthropological sense as indicating the freedom of human beings from
divine interference.13
11 Ibid., 71.
12 Ibid., 74.
13 Ibid., 75
So, while chapter II.5 begins with an echo of Lucretius, Machiavelli

does not endorse the echo. Instead, he attempts to show the compatibil-
ity of (a) the shortness of historical memory with (b) the eternity of the
world. The compatibility turns on two points: the destruction of civiliza-
tions by natural disasters and the destruction of civilizations by the
change of sects. I discuss the details of these changes in more detail later;
for now it will suffice to note that the bulk of the chapter is devoted to
defending the eternity of the world against a Lucretian-sounding objec-
tion. However, while the letter of D II.5 runs counter to Lucretiuss posi-
tion, one could argue that the spirit of the chapter is fairly Lucretian.
Certainly, natural disasters destroying great civilizations is compatible
with Lucretiuss atomism, and so, too, is the dim view of sects as conspir-
ing to keep people ignorant of the past so as to solidify their power.
Brown suggests this point, arguing that, in D II.5, Machiavelli isnt really
interested in the eternity of the world. She writes that the main point of
the chapter [seems to be] an attack on the role of all sects, including
Christianity, in destroying evidence of the past.14 While there are good
reasons for taking this to be the main point, I think the point is slightly
larger: it is not merely that Christianity destroys evidence of the past, but
that Christian education makes imitation of the past more difficult (and
undesirable). And a principle part of this education is its appeal to a
world beyond this one, and it is to eliminate this appeal that Machiavelli
endorses the eternity of the world. Christian education is an obstacle to
the imitation of the ancients insofar as it undermines the sacrificial dis-
tinction between good and bad violence. Recall that Machiavelli claims
(in D. II.2) that the ancient education made men more ferocious in
the defence of the patria. It justified and encouraged the good vio-
lence that preserves the community. This is not to deny the influence of
Lucretius on Machiavelli indeed, the spirit of the endorsement of the
eternity of the world, if not the letter, is profoundly Lucretian, and there
are a great many passages in his writings that can be clarified with refer-
ence to Lucretius. And in any case, while Lucretius is clear that the world
is not eternal, he is equally clear that the cascade of atoms through the
void is eternal, and, more important, he emphasizes that there is not
another world, a heaven, beyond this one. In short, Lucretius endorses
the eternity of the world in a more profound sense: everything is con-
tained within the system of nature; there is no supernatural. To the
extent that there are gods in Lucretiuss universe, they, too, are prod-
ucts of the cascading atoms. For those on the lookout for such things,
14 Ibid., 77.
Machiavellis discussion of the eternity of the world can be read as exhib-

iting a great deal of sympathy for Lucretiuss view, without, however, fol-
lowing Lucretius consistently or systematically.15
However, even if Machiavelli doesnt follow Lucretiuss teaching on
the eternity of the world, he does follow him, or at least takes inspiration
from him, as far as the sacrificial distinction is concerned. In Ada
Palmers discussion of Machiavellis marginal notes on his manuscript of
Lucretiuss poem, it is pointed out that he made a large mark on the pas-
sages containing Lucretiuss famous wormwood simile in book I. There
Lucretius remarks that he is presenting his work as a poem to make his
doctrines, which are sometimes thought rather dour, more appealing
(drn I.93248). Wormwood (Artemisia absinthium) is a toxic herb that
in large doses can lead to seizures or death but that in small doses was
used as a medicine. Commenting on this passage, Palmer notes that the
wormwood simile suggests that, by carefully calibrating poison, one can
do well; or, more generally, that one can do well through the careful
administration of constructive harm.16 Taken this way, the wormwood
simile suggests a kind of sacrificial distinction between a good (construc-
tive and controlled) violence and a bad (destructive and uncontrolled)
violence. While in the case of the wormwood simile, the difference is
largely one of quantity, it is not hard to generalize the distinction into
something more than that. After all, the lesson seems to be that poison,
used properly, can cure; why not generalize this to claim that violence,
used properly, can benefit? There is not enough evidence to determine
whether or not Lucretius is the only source for Machiavellis usage of this
distinction, but his marginalia offer prima facie evidence for taking
Lucretius as a source for the distinction.
It is fair to say that Machiavellis interest in the eternity of the world
has little or nothing to do with metaphysical cosmology. Instead, as the
preceding chapters of the Discourses make clear, he is interested in iden-
tifying and removing obstacles to the imitation of ancient modes and
orders. In that sense, his discussion does not strike me as mirroring
Lucretiuss concerns. The key elements of chapter II.5 emerge more
clearly when juxtaposed not with Lucretius but with the discussion of
15 A similar point is made by Palmer, Reading Lucretius, 857. Palmer pays particular
attention to Machiavellis annotations to his copy of De rerum natura. According to Palmer,
these annotations show that, while Machiavelli did not follow every jot and tittle of
Lucretiuss system, it nevertheless was a key enabler of his work (86) insofar as it provided
him with an alternate way of thinking about the world, freeing him from the necessity of
believing in Providence (87).
16 Ibid., 84.
ancient religion in D II.2. The present religion Christianity devalues

the world by pointing towards something transcending it as our true
home; it dishonors the world, as he says in chapter II. Moreover, it
makes us less ferocious in the defence of the patria by undermining the
distinction between good and bad violence. While the ancient education
taught that it was a good form of violence to avenge ones beatings, the
Christian education urges us to turn the other cheek, suggesting that
there is no meaningful distinction between good and bad violence. If
one wishes, as Machiavelli wishes, to imitate the modes and orders of the
ancients, then one must imitate their education, and this requires that
one assumes and acts as if the world is eternal. To see this clearer, I turn
to Augustines discussion of the eternity of the world. Gennaro Sasso says
we cannot be certain that Machiavelli read Augustine, but he admits that
it is a very strong possibility; in what follows, I assume that Machiavelli is
familiar with Augustines position.17 Part of the difficulty of discerning
Machiavellis knowledge of Augustine lay in the fact that they had so
much in common in terms of their sources. So, to take one example,
Machiavelli and Augustine both had an intimate knowledge of Livy and
the Roman historians. But their common sources also make the question
of direct influence less important than it might seem. Because they are
often talking about the same texts, they often end up talking about the
same things, even if there was no direct influence. Of course, their re-
spective interpretations not only of Rome but also of Christianity are
often at odds with each other. Whence, contrasting Machiavelli with
Augustine can be illuminating even if one denies any direct relationship
between the two men.
Augustine and the Eternal World
In the year 410, Alarics Gothic tribesmen sacked Rome. Refugees flood-
ed into North Africa and some murmured that it was the abandonment
of the old gods and the embrace of Christianity that put Rome in this
position. The old gods made her strong, while the new God made her
weak. This claim took many forms. The more pious of the old believers
17 For Sasso, see his Machiavelli e gli Antichi e altri, 25660. For an argument that
claims Machiavelli had an intimate knowledge of Augustine, see Wright, Machiavellis City
of God. More recently, Warner and Scott, Sin City, argue that Augustines interpretation
of the Roman Republic had a decisive influence on Machiavellis, if only in the negative
sense that Machiavelli reversed all his judgments. Sebastien de Grazias Machiavelli in Hell
makes the even stronger claim that Machiavellis text shows a Pauline and Augustinian
anthropology (267).
thought that the old gods were themselves punishing Rome for aban-
doning them; more sophisticated critics of Christianity argued that,
while the old beliefs were probably not true, they did inculcate certain
civic virtues that made Rome strong. Without supposing that Machiavelli
intended to echo pagan criticisms, the similarity between Machiavellis
criticism of Christian education and these more sophisticated opponents
of Augustine should be enough to motivate at least a short excursus into
Augustines long book.
The City of God began as a response to these and similar objections, but
it quickly metastasized into something much larger.18 The growth of the
text is due, in part, to the loquaciousness of the bishop of Hippo, but it
is also due to the sophistication of his opponents. Augustine found him-
self having to show that Christianity did not sap the loyalty to the patria
that the defence of the empire required. This, in turn, led him to criti-
cize various accounts of virtue found in ancient historians, poets, and
philosophers. Augustines critique is multifaceted and hard to summa-
rize, but the gist of it is an attempt to show that ancient virtue was funda-
mentally incomplete and that Christian virtue is able to supply what it
lacking. For Augustine, the incompleteness of ancient virtue was not due
to a lack of intelligence on the part of the ancient thinkers but, more
profoundly, to the incompleteness of the world. The happiness they
were looking for could never and would never be found in the world.19
This leaves Augustine with a dilemma: either happiness is impossible or
it is achieved apart from the world. Not wishing to deny the possibility of
happiness, he is forced to argue that happiness is reached only in the
next world, in heaven. This leads Augustine to emphasize the essentially
temporary character of the world; the success and sufferings of this life
are nothing compared with the glory of heaven. Naturally, as part of his
argument for the incompleteness of this world, he must address the the-
ory that the world is eternal. In chapter 10 of book XII, Augustine argues
against the eternity of the world. He attributes the claim that the world
is eternal to Apuleius, a second-century Neoplatonist. Augustine raises a
common objection:
But if the human race has always existed, how can those histories be true which
tell us who were the first inventors, and what they invented, and who first insti-
tuted the liberal studies and other arts, and who first inhabited this or that
18 For a discussion of the various targets of The City of God, see Spiegl, Zur Universalen
Theologie Augustins.
19 For a more in-depth development of this point, see Harding, Augustine and Roman
Virtue, 10448.
region of the earth, and this island and that? When such men are asked this, they
reply as follows: that most, even if not all, of the earth is devastated by floods and
conflagrations after certain intervals of time, that the number of men then be-
comes very small, but that, from their progeny, the population is once more re-
stored to its former size that the things which seem to be newly discovered and
originated at such times are in fact only being renewed, having been interrupted
and extinguished by such great devastation; and that man could not exist at all,
unless produced by an already-existing man. But they say what they think [pu-
tant] not what they know [sciunt].20
On Augustines telling, Apuleiuss endorsement of (a) the eternity of the

world entails his acceptance of (b) the claim that disasters regularly wipe
out civilization and memory, forcing humanity to start over from scratch.
The position Augustine attributes to Apuleius anticipates important ele-
ments of the argument that Machiavelli advances in D II.5: the world is
eternal, despite our short historical memory, because of various disasters
and other causes that lead us to forget the past. Augustines argument
against (a) assumes this relationship, and, instead of entering into the
kind of metaphysical speculations required to refute (a) directly, he will
argue against (b), reasoning that if (b) is denied, then one can no longer
hold (a). In short, his argument is a simple modus tollens: if (a) then (b);
not (b); therefore not (a).
Augustine develops his argument against (b) in chapter 11; he claims
that (b) requires one to believe a number of implausible things about
human history. His point is that a temporary world with a beginning and
eventually an end provides a more plausible view of history than does the
one entailed by the eternity of the world. Augustine provides a brief
overview of varying historical accounts Greek, Egyptian, biblical to
show that no respectable historian believes that cataclysms have de-
stroyed all records of previous civilizations. He argues that the claim
that such disasters have occurred is an ad hoc device designed to sup-
port the eternity of the world in the face of evidence to the contrary. But,
Augustine continues, a study of history shows that there is no reason to
believe in worldwide civilization-destroying disasters and every reason
not to believe them. If we return to chapter 5 of the Discourses we can see
that Machiavelli responds to this argument in two ways. First, he advanc-
es his conspiratorial view of history: the various historical accounts in
question give no evidence of more ancient civilizations because they
areengaged in a kind of cover-up, conspiring to suppress knowledge of
20 Augustine, City of God, XII.10.

previous sects. As with all conspiracy theories, the lack of evidence be-
comes evidence. Second, Machiavelli points out that some historians
for example, Diodorus of Sicily disagree with the commonly accepted
reckoning. While Machiavelli purports to reject Diodoruss account, he
need not endorse it for his argument to work: its existence is enough to
provide a counter-example to Augustines claim that all historians agree
in tracing civilization back only about five thousand years.
Since nobody can seriously deny the power of plagues, famine, and
floods to destroy, Machiavelli spends the bulk of chapter 5 focusing on
the claim that the founders of new civilizations conspire to destroy re-
cords of the previous ones. The roots of this argument stretch back to
book I. In book I of the Discourses Machiavelli discusses the ancient theo-
ry of a cycle of regimes that is, that a city will move through successive
forms of government. This idea will be familiar to students of Platos
Republic, although there is general agreement that Machiavellis proxi-
mate source is Polybius. Machiavelli criticizes the theory for assuming
that any given regime will last long enough to complete the cycle: ac-
cording to Machiavelli, when in the corrupt and weaker moments of the
cycle, another stronger regime will conquer or destroy the weaker one
(D I.2). In this part of book II, he adds that the victors will often do their
best to obfuscate the admirable qualities of the defeated regime. This
tendency is more pronounced when the victors are of a different sect
than the defeated regime; in those cases, the victorious sect will attempt
to eliminate entirely the memory of the old sect. This, in a nutshell, is
his explanation of why history doesnt seem cyclical to Augustine: new
civilizations conspired to oppress and destroy the records of previous
civilizations. The argument for the eternity of the world in Machiavelli
is inseparable from violence, as Sasso puts it, la politica di conquista.21
This is a point to which I return later.
Expanding on this point, Machiavelli explains that we dont have
memory of more than five thousand years of history due to the varia-
tions of sect and language (D II.5). The first concern of a new religion
is to extinguish the memory of the old religion; Machiavellis evidence
for this claim is the behaviour of Christianity vis--vis the ancient reli-
gions: it suppressed all its orders and all its ceremonies and eliminated
every memory of that ancient theology (D II.5). Of course, Machiavelli
is quick to admit that they were not entirely successful; because early
Christians were forced to use Latin, they were unable to completely bury
the past. Machiavelli extrapolates from this account the further claim
21 Sasso, Machiavelli et gli Antichi, 173.

that all sects act like this: It is therefore to be believed that what the
Christian sect wished to do against the Gentile sect, the Gentile would
have done against that which was prior to it (D II.5). The reader thinks
here of the claim, at the end of chapter 4, that the Romans eliminated
the power and glory of the Tuscans; this claim is repeated at the end
ofthe chapter 5. Another cause of short memory comes from heaven.
By this locution Machiavelli has in mind plagues, floods, and other
events we would label as natural disasters. These disasters kill most of
the population, leaving behind only coarse mountain men, who have no
education and no memory of ancient things. If anyone preserves knowl-
edge of the past, he will manipulate it for his own purposes rather than
pass on the truth to others. Here we see a shadow of the concern
expressed in the preface to book II that history does not tell us what
happened but, rather, what the victors or survivors want us to believe
happened. Even the most sympathetic student of Machiavelli should
admit that these arguments are weak. The first argument relies on over-
generalization from a limited number of examples; the second requires
the assumption that there are no cities at high elevations. In fact, it is
hard to imagine that someone as smart as Machiavelli could have been
convinced by those arguments. All this is to suggest that whatever is go-
ing on in chapter 5, it isnt an argument for the eternity of the world in
the strict sense. That is to say, we cant charitably read it as an argument
designed to prove to doubters that the world is eternal. As we saw,
Machiavelli begins by reporting that some philosophers say the world is
eternal, mentions some objections to that claim, and then develops re-
sponses to those objections. In short, rather than proving the eternity of
the world, chapter 5 takes it for granted and simply addresses one well-
known criticisms of the claim. If one was really interested in advancing a
thesis regarding metaphysical cosmology, one could hardly do a worse
job. So why does Machiavelli choose this route?
Sacrifices and Our Religion
We can get a better of idea of what Machiavelli is up to by returning to

the context of the discussion of the eternity of the world: a discussion of
the obstacles that prevent one from imitating antiquity. As we saw, in
chapter 2 Machiavelli claims that the Christian religion is responsible for
the weakness of the present age vis--vis the Romans: Thinking then
whence it can arise that in those ancient times peoples were more lovers
of freedom than in these [modern times], I believe it arises from the
same cause that make men less strong now, which I believe is the differ-
ence between our education and the ancient. For our religion, having
shown the truth and the true way, makes us esteem less the honor of the
world, whereas the Gentiles, esteeming it very much and having placed
the highest good in it, were more ferocious in their actions (D II.2).
After pointing to the difference between ancient and modern educa-
tion, he then praises the Roman practice of blood sacrifice and pre-
sumably Machiavelli is aware that this included both animal and human
victims in contrast to the bloodless pomp of the Christian liturgy:
This can be inferred from many of their institutions, beginning from
the magnificence of their sacrifices as against the humility of ours,
where there is some pomp more delicate than magnificent but no fero-
cious or vigorous action. Neither pomp, nor magnificence of ceremony
was lacking there, but the action of the sacrifice, full of blood and fe-
rocity, was added, with a multitude of animals being killed there. This
sight, being terrible, rendered men similar to itself (D II.2). The en-
dorsement of sacrifice should catch our attention; it is quite straightfor-
wardly an endorsement of sacrifice in the usual sense of the term. But
by emphasizing the political benefits that accrue to sacrifice Machiavelli
also suggests an endorsement of what I have called the sacrificial dis-
tinction between good and bad violence. We should note that the an-
cient sacrifices differ from the modern sacrifices due to the presence of
blood and ferocity and the killing of animals. In short, the ancient
sacrifices exhibited a kind of good, socially beneficial violence. The
modern sacrifice he is probably thinking of the Roman Catholic Mass
is bloodless, having only delicate pomp; it has no violence in it at all.
The blood and gore of the ancient sacrifices displayed the socially ben-
eficial effects of certain kinds of violence and, in so doing, reinforced
the sacrificial distinction. The delicate pomp of the Mass avoids blood
and gore and, in so doing, undermines, or at least fails to reinforce, the
sacrificial distinction. Machiavelli describes in more detail the political
and moral effects of these bloody sacrifices: the ancients esteemed ac-
tive and strong men, while our religion has us esteem humility and
contemplation:
Besides this, the ancient religion did not beatify men if they were not full of
worldly glory, as captains of armies and princes of republics. Our religion has
glorified humble and contemplative more than active men. It has placed the
highest good in humility, abjectness, and contempt of things human; the other
placed it in greatness of spirit, strength of body, and all other things capable of
making men very strong. And if our religion asks that you have the strength in
yourself, it wishes you to be capable more of suffering than of doing something
strong. This mode of life thus seems to have rendered the world weak and giv-
en it in prey to criminal men, who can manage it securely, seeing that the
collectivity of men, so as to go to paradise, think more of enduring their beat-

ings than avenging them. (D II.2)
The sacrificial distinction has the benefit of teaching the Romans that
there is a good kind of violence and encouraging them to use it. The
captains and princes mentioned above gain glory by putting violence to
use for the good of the republic. In contrast, because our religion re-
fuses to distinguish between good and bad violence, it teaches good men
not to be violent. Violence becomes the sole possession of criminal men
who will use it only for their own purposes: when violence is criminal-
ized, then only criminals will be violent.
Machiavellis Romans, by locating the highest good in the hic et nunc
rather than in some world transcending paradise, would never have
humbly accepted their beatings; the Romans would raise an army, ap-
point a captain, and seek redress for their grievances. The violence that
avenges ones beating is a kind of good violence; the bad violence of the
criminal men running the world is, Machiavelli suggests, made possible
by the present educations unwillingness to admit that there are legiti-
mate and good forms of violence. Instead, it teaches people to patiently
suffer and hope for the next world. Machiavelli closely links the idea that
something transcends the world, in this case paradise, with the denial of
a difference between good and bad violence. This denial has disastrous
consequences; the thesis that the world is eternal, that this is the only
world, counter-acts this belief and can contribute to the re-arming of the
world. It aids the return to the ancient education and the distinction
between good and bad violence that was exhibited in its rituals and that
made ancient men very strong.
As he continues, Machiavelli suggests that this is not the fault of the
modern religion itself but, rather, is an interpretation of religion that
understands it in terms of idleness (ozio) rather than virtue. He doesnt
take the time to explain what he means in the Discourses, but he returns
to this theme in more detail in his dialogue in The Art of War. Although
The Art of War was published in 1521, he began writing it around 1518,
only five years after he began the Discourses; but beyond this temporal
connection between the two works, it is worth noting that the dedica-
tees of the Discourses (Buondelmonti and Rucellai) appear as characters
in The Art of War. The principle speaker in the text, Fabrizio, complains
that Christianitys emphasis on mercy has sapped the strength of fight-
ing men:
The other reason [for the lack of military virtue] is that todays mode of living,
on account of the Christian religion, does not impose the necessity to defend
oneself that there was in antiquity. For then, men conquered in war were either
killed or remained in perpetual slavery, where they lived their lives miserably.
Their conquered towns were either dissolved or, their goods taken, the inhabit-
ants were driven out and sent dispersed throughout the world. So those over-
come in war suffered every last misery. Frightened by this fear, men kept military
training alive and honored whoever was excellent in it. But today this fear is for
the most part lost. Of the conquered, few of them are killed; no one is kept in
prison for long, because they are freed with ease. (aw II.3058)
Commenting on this and similar passages, Marsha Colish notes that

Machiavellis claim that Christianity has made people less warlike would
have struck his contemporaries as simply bizarre.22 Instead, she argues
that it makes more sense to read these and similar passages as anti-
Savanarolan rather than as anti-Christian per se. She provides ample
historical and textual justification for this suggestion. Without wanting
to dismiss this reading entirely, I think two points are worth making: (a)
the distinction between Savanarolan Christianity and other version of
Christianity often blurs for Machiavelli, and (b) the passage just quoted
doesnt have Machiavelli claiming that Christianity entails pacifism the
context of the passage from The Art of War supposes that Christians are
engaging in warfare but only that the Christian method of war isnt as
harsh as is that of the ancients. I think Machiavellis point is not the
bizarre claim that Christianity produced a civilization of pacifists but
that it produced a civilization less good at violence than the preceding
one. Christian civilization uses violence badly. I think there are three
closely related points at play here: (a) Christian education refuses to
distinguish between good and bad violence; (b) people often fail to live
up to Christian ideals and are violent anyway; and (c) when this happens,
they are violent without knowing how to be good at violence: it is a slop-
py, illthought out, and slapdash affair. To anticipate a later discussion,
Christian princes are taught that violence is not good, and so they do not
know how not to be good. So Fabrizios claim seems to be that, even
though they are taught to be peaceful, (a) Christian states fight wars
anyway, and (b) this leads to stupid decisions such as (c) letting defeated
enemies go free. In contrast, Fabrizios ancient warriors did not feel bad
about violence and made sure that the defeated enemies stayed defeat-
ed. The problem here, although it remains unstated, is that Christianity,
even when violent, is not sufficiently comfortable with violence to use
itcorrectly.
22 Colish, Republicanism.
Machiavelli suggests that a Christianity interpreted according to virtue

would be more comfortable with violence and use it well: it embraces
severe revenge and punishment for ones enemies. Christianity accord-
ing to virtue would embrace a distinction between good and bad vio-
lence that would encourage the inflicting of immeasurable suffering
upon ones foes while discouraging other forms of violence, against
ones fellows. Christianity interpreted according to virtue yields violent
practices indistinguishable from those of the Romans: the political and
martial behaviour will be the same.23 So why doesnt Christianity import
those Roman behaviours? As it turns out, ancient virtue didnt exist in a
vacuum: the passages just quoted from the Discourses on Livy show that,
on Machiavellis reading, the virtue of the Romans is intimately tied to
(a) the sacrificial distinction and (b) the vision of the highest good as
something present in the eternal and only world. The problem with
Christianity, as Machiavelli sees it, is not merely its emphasis on the next
world but its refusal to distinguish between good and bad violence; since
few people live up to this theological refusal, instead of a world of non-
violence one simply gets a world in which violence is poorly used. He
holds this refusal, as we see in the passage from the Discourses quoted a
few pages earlier, responsible for the ozio of our religion, for its glorifi-
cation of humble, meek, contemplative men.24
Back to Augustine
Machiavellis comments on the present religion cannot fail to call to

mind ancient pagan criticisms of Christianity. Again, without claiming
that Machiavelli had an intimate knowledge of Augustines texts, due
totheir common sources the two often end up talking about the same
things. A comparison with Augustine can be a useful way to clarify
Machiavellis views. With this in mind, let us return to Augustine. Around
the year 411, Marcellinus wrote a letter to Augustine asking him to re-
spond to questions raised by a pagan named Volusianus. Although
Marcellinuss letter is lost, we can reconstruct some of Volusianuss criti-
cism by looking at Augustines reply:
23 See the discussion in Mansfield, New Modes and Orders, 1947, and, from a different
perspective, Viroli, Machiavellis God, 18598.
24 Maddox, Secular Reformation, 551, notes: in encouraging a life of private devo-
tion and contemplation, Christianity promoted a pernicious ozio, a form of leisure that
could be characterized as a detachment from political and social life. This detachment
is contrasted with both Ancient Rome and Machiavellis hope for the future. See, too,
Sullivan, Machiavellis Three Romes, 14ff.
Furthermore and this is a common allegation Christs teaching and preach-

ing must be incompatible with the ethics of citizenship. For he told us it is
agreed to return no one evil for evil, to offer the other cheek to an assailant, to give our
cloak to someone demanding a tunic, and to go twice the required distance with someone
who wants to requisition us. He alleges that all these commands are contrary to
the ethics of citizenship. Who would allow an enemy to steal something from
him? Who would be unwilling to inflict evil, in the form of a just war, as a recom-
pense for the ravaging of a Roman province? It is obvious that under the
Christian emperors the empire is in a very bad way, even though they have on the
whole observed the Christian religion.25
Based on this reply, it appears that Volusianus had the following con-
cern: Christian moral teaching is incompatible with the sort of distinc-
tions between good and bad violence required for the maintenance of
the empire in peace and security. The passages in italics suggest that all
forms of violence are to be avoided, such that the distinction between
good and bad violence collapses into an undifferentiated mass of prohib-
ited violence. But, Volusianus seems to reason, the functioning of the
empire requires that good violence be used to limit bad violence. The
demands of Christianity are at odds with the demands of governance
and citizenship. Moreover, it is clear from other exchanges between
Augustine and his pagan interlocutors that, on their reading at least, the
principle cause of these errors is the preference for a homeland in heav-
en over that on earth. In another exchange of letters, the pagan Nectarius
complains that he doesnt understand why the Christian desire for heav-
en trumps ones duties to the patria.26 Indeed, he argues in a fashion
reminiscent of the dream of Scipio that it is only by serving the earthly
patria that one can please the gods. The desire for a world beyond this
one seems, to Nectarius, to water down ones commitment to this world:
in seeking for that which is above one inevitably neglects the patria.
An obvious objection to the presentation of Augustine in the preced-
ing paragraphs can be raised with reference to his discussion of just war
in book XIX of The City of God. How can I maintain that Augustine denies
the sacrificial distinction between good and bad violence when he is ap-
parently willing to make a parallel distinction between just and unjust
wars? This objection, however, is based on a misreading of Augustines
position. Replying to it will serve double duty, since by better understand-
ing Augustines position we will also better understand the importance
25 Augustine of Hippo, Epistle 136 (emphasis in original).

26 Ibid., Epistle 103.
of Machiavelli. In chapter 7 of book XIX, Augustine notes that some-

times the duty of waging war is thrust upon a wise man because of the
evils of his opponent. An enemy that is burning farms, killing children,
raping women, and so on forces the wise prince to oppose him with
arms. This defensive action is what Augustine calls just war. While this is
the case, it is not a happy war. Augustine insists that the prince is miser-
able while waging this war; in fact, the discussion of just war occurs as
part of a larger discussion of how and why one will never be happy in this
world. As book XIX continues, it becomes clear that the results of the
just war are not entirely desirable. Assuming the wise prince triumphs
over his opponent, the peace achieved is only a pale imitation of the true
peace found in the city of God. The just warrior achieves a kind of peace,
a peace in which the threats of the enemy have been averted, but not the
true peace of the kingdom of God. One can compare the just war of
book XIX with Augustines discussion of pagan virtue elsewhere in The
City of God: although pagan virtues are not true virtues, they are neverthe-
less preferable to more unconstrained pagan vices Cato is preferable to
Nero likewise, the peace of the just war is not a true peace, but it is
preferable to unconstrained violence. Indeed, it is seldom noted that the
discussion of just war in book XIX occurs in the context of a discussion
of the inability of pagan virtue to produce happiness. The overarching
point, for Augustine, is that neither pagan virtue nor just wars offers true
virtue and true peace; the virtuous pagan and the just warrior are both,
in the last analysis, miserable. The true good and true peace will only be
found apart from this world, in the heavenly Jerusalem to come.27 All
this is to say that, for Augustine, the sacrificial distinction doesnt hold:
even the just war is not good but simply less bad. This is not the case of
happy warriors but of miserable warriors given no choice but to do bat-
tle; the result of the war, at best, is only a pale imitation of true peace.
The highest praise, in The City of God, is not assigned to the just warrior
who acts violently to produce a kind of peace but, rather, to the martyr
who refuses all acts of violence for the sake of the heavenly Kingdom.
Augustines account of just war in book XIX is aware of the sacrificial
distinction between good and bad violence but relativizes and ultimately
rejects it by subordinating the peace produced by the just warrior to the
true peace of the heavenly Jerusalem. The rejection of the sacrificial dis-
tinction is closely tied to the rejection of the claim that the highest good
can be achieved in this world. The overarching point of book XIX, if not
27 For a discussion of the unhappiness of the just warrior, and the broader context of
Augustines discussion, see Harding, Augustine and Roman Virtue, 1309.
the entirety of The City of God, is that (a) the highest good is not found in
this world and that (b) the Roman distinction between good and bad
violence rests on this mistaken and short-sighted commitment to this
transitory world. With this in mind, we can return to Machiavelli: his in-
terest in the eternity of the world is the photographic negative of that of
Augustine. If Augustines position is that the sacrificial distinction ought
to be rejected because the world is not eternal, then Machiavellis is that
the sacrificial distinction ought to be endorsed because the world is eter-
nal. Affirming the eternity of the world grounds the appeal to the sacri-
ficial distinction between good and bad violence.
As already suggested, the problem motivating Machiavellis discussion
of the eternity of the world is not so much a metaphysical problem as it
is a moral problem of misplaced priorities. The Augustinian education
prioritizes the city of God over the city of man and refuses the sacrificial
distinction with deleterious results: ozio, weakness, corruption, and forth.
The importance of the thesis that the world is eternal is not found in
metaphysical subtleties but in the suggestion that this world is the only
world that matters; everything is immanent, nothing is transcendent.
This reverses The City of God: if Augustine would point us towards the
heavenly city as our true home, Machiavelli points us back towards Rome
as our only home and urges us to use good violence to defend it. And,
Machiavelli suggests, this good violence can make us happy, or at least
does not make us miserable.
In fact, many Renaissance historians contrasted the doctrine of the
eternity of the world to providentialist accounts of history inspired by
Orosius and Augustine.28 The eternity of the world meant not merely
that it was not created but also that history was not guided by the hand
of providence; the anti-providentialist use of the eternal world thesis also
serves to harmonize the Augustinian reading of the argument with the
Lucretian one. Note that, according to Brown, one of the main lessons
Machiavelli takes from Lucretiuss atomism is precisely that there is
noprovidential hand guiding history: in one of his marginal notes to his
copy of drn, Machiavelli writes the gods dont care about moral
affairs.29 Arguably, this rejection of providentialist accounts of history is
part of the true knowledge of history Machiavelli offers us in the preface
28 Connell, Eternity of the World. He concludes his paper: What has been sug-
gested here is that the freeing of historical narrative from medieval providentialism
wasassisted by the presence of ideas both ancient and current concerning the eternity of
the world.
to his Discourses: there is no place else to go, we cannot fall expecting

providence to pick us up (see P XXIV).
The careful reader will have noted that I have two slightly different
arguments running parallel in the above section. On the one hand,
there is the discussion of the eternity of the world and the importance
Machiavelli places on locating the highest good in this world; on the
other hand, there is the argument about Machiavellis preference for the
distinction between good and bad violence and his suggestion that one
cause of Christian ozio is the unwillingness to make this distinction. These
two lines intersect insofar as the assertion of the eternity of the world
grounds Machiavellis reintroduction of the sacrificial distinction be-
tween good and bad violence. So long as the Christian believer keeps her
eyes set on heaven, Augustinians (in the broadest sense of the term) will
be able to persuade her to reject the sacrificial distinction Machiavelli
wants to make; the doctrine of the eternity of the world persuades her to
take her eyes off of heaven and makes the acceptance of that distinction
possible. Beyond that point, Machiavellis account in D II.5 suggests that
Christendom is itself a product of the violence it objects to: Christendom
founds itself by destroying the records of prior civilizations. The Christian
sect appears as a kind of paradox and a failure: it did not entirely suc-
ceed in its attempts to destroy records of the past. Christendom, from
the very beginning, did not use violence effectively.
T a k i n g O n e s E y e s O f f o f H e av e n
There is a strong tendency, exacerbated by the recent publication of his

black-notebooks, to read Heidegger as if he were the Red Skull (and the
critic Captain America). This is especially the case when one is looking
at the more practical or political aspects of his thought; and given
Heideggers own politics, this is easy enough to do. However, in looking
at the sacrificial distinction in Heidegger, as I begin to do now, I do not
want to reduce my reading to another attempt to catch him and foil his
evil plans. Instead, I am more interested in Heidegger because of his in-
fluence on subsequent generations of philosophers. With that in mind,
numerous scholars have noticed and commented upon the emergence
of sacrifice in the thought of Martin Heidegger, particularly in the 1930s.
Perhaps Robert Bernasconi provides the best summary of this research:
Soon after writing Being and Time, Heidegger clearly embraced the language of
sacrifice. According to The Origin of the Work of Art, the essential sacrifice is
one of the ways in which truth establishes itself in beings, alongside the founding
of a political state, the thinking of being, and, of course, the work of art. In the
post-script to What is Metaphysics (1943), Heidegger gave a very abstract ac-

count of sacrifice as answering to the need for the preservation of the truth of
being by the human essence expending itself. However, prior to both those tests,
in the Winter Semester of 193435, in lectures on Hlderlins poems Germanien
and Der Rhein, Heidegger took a concrete approach to sacrifice: he described
how for individual soldiers on the front line, the nearness of death and the
readiness to sacrifice creates the space for community. Sacrifice thus plays a
foundational role for Heideggers account of a people (Volk) as opposed to a
mere conglomeration as the they (das Man) is. This is all the more striking
given that Heidegger, in the previous semester, Summer 1934, had given a rich
account ofthe Volk in terms of the existentials of Being and Time Furthermore,
Heidegger does not limit himself to describing the role of sacrifice in shaping a
people, he actively promoted it. In a speech he delivered to the students at the
beginning of the same semester, he called for the courage to sacrifice in the
cause of the state: in you there must increasingly develop the courage of your
sacrifice for the salvation (Rettung) of the essence of our people (Volk) with their
state (Statt) and for the direction of its innermost force.30
However, we should not be misled into thinking that the sacrificial dis-
tinction only appears with the word sacrifice; Machiavelli rarely uses
the term, but it is (I contend) an essential part of his thought. However,
here Heidegger is gracious enough to use the term sacrifice to describe
a good type of violence that founds and preserves a people against
threats. While this vocabulary appears in the 1930s, the concept of a
good violence antedates the texts and vocabulary of the 1930s. In Being
and Time we find the sacrificial distinction presented in an ontological
(as opposed to merely ontic) register in Heideggers defence of his proj-
ect. He describes the existential analysis on offer in Being and Time as
doing violence to the claims of everydayness; later he laments that
common sense objects to his circle as violent because it attempts to
go beyond common sense understandings (bt 359/311 and 363/315).
Presumably existential analysis performs a good kind of violence:
Existential analysis, therefore, constantly has the character of doing vio-
lence [Gewaltsamkeit], whether to the claims of the everyday interpreta-
tion, or to its complacency and its tranquillized obviousness (bt
359/311). This violence, we are reassured later, is never done arbitrarily
but is based on a necessity grounded in the facts (bt 374/327). The
violence of existential analysis is for good cause. If indeed Being and Time
offers us a kind of good violence, where is the bad violence it opposes?
30 Bernasconi, Useless Sacrifice, 168.

This question is answered easily enough: tradition, the history of ontol-

ogy. According to Heidegger, the history of ontology blocks our access
to primordial sources; as such, we are to destroy the traditional content
of ancient ontology until we arrive at those primordial experiences
(bt 44/22).31 The destruction and violence of existential ontology
is meant to counter-act or displace the violence of the history of
metaphysics and to found or refound philosophy on proper existen-
tial grounds. To be sure, Heideggers language of violence and
destroying is metaphorical, but these are Heideggers metaphors and
we should take them at least as seriously as he seems to take them. The
spiritual (geistige) violence of existential ontology is, according to
Heideggers own presentation, inseparable from the phenomenologists
attentiveness to being-in-the-world and eschewal of traditional meta-
physical interpretations of being, particularly those that would analyze
being with reference to something transcending the world. In his own
way, Heidegger urges his readers to take their eyes off of heaven.
In Being and Time Heidegger famously defines the human being,
Dasein, as being-in-the-world, reminding the readers that it is a unitary
phenomenon but nonetheless susceptible to being investigated piece-
meal. Heidegger himself suggests dividing the investigation three ways,
focusing on the world, the entity in the world, and on being-in (bt 79).
As part of his discussion of world, Heidegger marks four common uses of
the term:
a) World as an ontical concept that signifies the totality of entities

present-to-hand
b) World as an ontological term, signifying the being of those present-
to-hand entities
c) World as that wherein a Dasein lives
d) World as the ontological-existential concept of worldhood
Heidegger restricts his use to the third (bt 93). In (c), he tells us that
world is a pre-ontological exisential signification. So, in (c) the world
is simply where we live. But this is merely an ontic point; the deeper on-
tological and existential counterpart to world is worldhood. We later see
that worldhood and Dasein are bound together such that, without a
proper understanding of being-in-the-world, we will not understand the
31 Of course, Heidegger takes pains to emphasize that his projected destruction of

the tradition is not purely negative: he hopes that by destroying it, he can rediscover what
remained un-thought in the tradition. One is tempted to say that he has to destroy the
village to save it.
worldhood of the world and vice versa. The upshot of this is that Dasein
must always be in a world and that the world of Dasein is the only world;
a phenomenology beginning from Dasein (and, for Heidegger, there is
no place else to begin) cannot transcend the world for that would be to
deny the basic ontological fact of Dasein that is, that he is being-in-
the-world. We cannot take our eyes off the world insofar as all explana-
tion must be immanent to the world. As Jean-Yves Lacoste puts it, for
Heideggerian philosophy, the world is phenomenologically insupera-
ble (ea 10). This is, of course, not to say that Dasein is trapped in the
world the way a fish is trapped in an aquarium but, rather, that whatever
appears does so against the world as a horizon of meaning. It is part of
Lacostes project to challenge this, and I have more to say about that
later.32 For now, I want to focus on the effects of Heideggers position.
We may venture to list two. First, as Lacoste notes on the same page just
cited, it means that one must accept the logic of worldly immanence.
Given that one cannot surmount the world, one only has access to things
within the world. Like Machiavelli, Heidegger allows no recourse to the
supernatural or supermundane.
This brings us to the second point: anything that purports to tran-
scend the world must be (violently) reinterpreted as immanent to the
world. We must take our eyes off of heaven: for Heidegger, theology can
only deal with mans experience of faith, not God himself (pt 489). To
see the novelty of this approach, one should note that Thomas Aquinas
argues precisely the opposite: the subject matter of sacred doctrine is
God himself (Summa Theologiae Q1, a7). Indeed, Heidegger seems to
have precisely Thomass definition of theology in mind when he writes
Theology is not speculative knowledge of God (pt 48). Theology, in
Heideggers hands, is transformed from a speculative science of some-
thing that transcends the world into the cartography of a way of being in
the world that does not (cannot) transcend the world. Here we should
remind ourselves of Heideggers insistence upon the methodological
atheism of philosophy: Christian philosophy is impossible, a squared
circle (pt 53; im 89). Likewise, Heidegger suggests that to affirm that
God created the world is to close off the question of being (im 89) be-
fore it is even asked.
In an unjustly neglected discussion of the relevance of Heideggers
thought for Christian theology, Hans Jonas remarks that Heideggers
central concern, being, is the quintessence of this world, it is saeculum.33
32 For a general overview of Lacostes project, see Schrijvers, Jean-Yves Lacoste.

33 Jonas, Heidegger and Theology, 248.
In subordinating theology to Dasein, and Dasein to time as the horizon

for the appearance of being, Heidegger subordinates theology to the
saeculum. Indeed, later in the same essay Jonas argues that the accep-
tance of Heideggers thought by theologians entails the acceptance of
the doctrine still heretical in most Christian confessions of perma-
nent ongoing public revelation. According to Jonas a consistently
Heideggerian theology must interpret the events of the Old and New
Testaments merely as phases or moments in the history of being rather
than as definitive revelations by something or someone beyond being.34
As Jonas points out, religious friends of Heideggers philosophy can
plausibly claim that his later work is not atheistic, but they neglect to
note that it is worse than that: it is pagan, it does not think a religiously
neutral world but deifies the world.35 Lacoste makes a similar point
when, in his discussion of the Heideggerian fourfold (Geviert), he notes
that, in the field of experiences the Geviert attempts to thematize, mor-
tals become acquainted with an immanent sacred, but not a transcen-
dent God (ea 18).
R i g h t ly P a s s i n g f o r a n A t h e i s t
Derrida is often quoted as having said that he rightly passes for an athe-
ist and, while many readers interpret the passing to suggest that he
only pretends to be an atheist, I suspect that the key word is rightly.
One should note at the outset two major trends in reading Derrida:
Martin Hgglunds radically atheistic reading and John Caputos reli-
gion without religion reading. I think that my claims regarding Derrida
(in this section at least) are innocuous enough to mesh with either read-
ing.36 Derridas programmatic 1967 text Of Grammatology famously as-
serts that there is nothing outside of the text (og 158). But what is the
text? It is, as it turns out, a world that cannot be overcome: the writer
writes in a language and in a logic whose proper system, laws and life,
his discourse, by definition, cannot dominate absolutely (og 158).
The text becomes an eternal world insofar as it is unsurpassable. There
has never been anything but writing (og 159) and thus it will always be,
in saecula saeculorum. The writer (and, as Derrida says, we are not only
34 Ibid., 2545.
35 Ibid., 249.
36 As near as I can tell, Caputos principle objections to Hgglund are (a) the claim
that Hgglund misreads Caputos work, including both his original thought and his exe-
gesis of Derrida, and (b) that Hgglund doesnt understand theology as well as he thinks;
needless to say, (a) and (b) are closely related. See Caputo, Return of Anti-Religion.
thinking of the writer in literature) is inescapably bound to the text, he

may push its boundaries, he may challenge and rearrange the structures
within the text, but he cannot get out of it (og 160). This is because
there is no transcendental signified that is, something outside of the
text that would organize and structure the meanings within the text. He
describes the claim that there is nothing outside the text as the axial
proposition guiding Of Grammatology (og 163). This claim can be read
either epistemologically or ontologically, but it is perhaps best read as a
synthesis of the two, whereby the epistemological reading is a conse-
quence of the ontological one.
The easiest way to see what I have in mind is to look at Derridas roots
in structuralism. According to structuralist linguistics, a sign signifies a
signified, but the signifying power of the sign is rooted in its difference
from other signs and not the signified. For classical structuralism, such
as that of de Saussure, language is a system of interdependent terms in
which the value of each term results solely from the simultaneous pres-
ence of the others.37 Although de Saussure doesnt emphasize it, the
definition just offered reduces the importance of the signified; one of
Derridas principle changes is to make explicit the denial of the exis-
tence of the signified. This has the effect, for Derrida, of enabling one to
think of language as a system of free floating signs that are not attached
or nailed down by being linked to a signified. The denial of a reference
entails the endless play of signifiers, of which the early Derrida made
so much: in short order this denial of reference was expanded to include
an explicit denial of any kind of transcendental signified that would
function to put a stop to the play of language; this includes but is not
limited to God (og 13). Later, Derrida claims: One could call play the
absence of the transcendental signified as limitlessness of play, that is to
say as the destruction of ontotheology and the metaphysics of presence
(og 50). Derrida is quite explicit that the denial of a transcendental
signifier means that there is nothing outside of the text to organize or
interpret it: not being or any other transcendental origin to the world
(og 51). The world is nothing but play, nothing but the free floating of
signifiers without any natural or necessary connection to anything be-
yond or before the world that would organize them.
It seems to me that in Of Grammatology Derrida offers two closely re-
lated arguments: first, there is the programmatic argument that if texts
can be shown to auto-deconstruct themselves, then there is a free
play of signifiers; second, if there is this free play, then there is no
37 de Saussure, Course in General Linguistics, 114. Emphasis mine.

transcendental signified. Evidence for the first conditional is developed

in his readings of Rousseau and Levi-Strauss. The upshot of the two argu-
ments is that there is no transcendental signified organizing and estab-
lishing meaning. The world is, in and of itself, meaningless. All meaning
is created by human beings rather than discovered: there are neither
Platonic forms nor religious divinities that would nail down the play of
signification and determine meaning once and for all. In Derridas world
(much like in Machiavellis) the world cannot be surpassed because
there is no meaning, no transcendental signified, outside of it.
Derrida is, or was, fond of pulling images and terms from the nooks
and crannies of the history of philosophy. One borrowing that is particu-
larly important for us, for two reasons, is his appeal to Lucretiuss infa-
mous swerve (clinamen) in his short essay My Chances. Derridas
appeal to Lucretius serves to link his thought closer to that of Machiavelli,
who, as we saw, is also influenced by Lucretius. Derrida also suggests an
Epicurean reading of Heidegger in this essay. It is not hard to see paral-
lels between the swerve and key Derridean notions. Commenting on just
this point, Christopher Johnson writes:
Already there is a clear structural similarity between Lucretius theory of the

clinamen and Derridas conception of the trace and the cart. In addition to
the preconditions of descent and chance, there is the micrological character of
the clinamen: Lucretius himself indicates that it is the nec plus quam minimum.
What is more, although of minimum dimension the clinamen is of maximal con-
sequence, since it is the cause and condition of the world we inhabit Finally,
like the trace, the clinamen is not a thing or an object, it is, properly speaking,
nothing. More precisely, it is a movement, or an atom of movement (but not an
atom), and is itself imperceptible. In Derridean terms, it might be described as
pure spacing.38
I think that there is a larger point beyond the clear structural similarity
to which Johnson points; or, to put it another way, the structural similari-
ties rest on broader metaphysical similarities. As we noted, Derridas
early battle cry was There is nothing outside the text, and by text he
meant, ultimately, the world. There is no transcendental signified struc-
turing or governing the world. The universe of Lucretius, like that of
Derrida, is one without anything outside of it to structure and order it.
There are only atoms swerving and crashing playing as they fall
through the void. Derridas appeal to Lucretiuss swerve suggests that he
38 Johnson, System and Writing, 134.

saw things in much the same way. Indeed, in the essay Derridas only
criticism of Lucretius is (not surprisingly) that he thinks the atomist
failed to think the swerve radically enough Derrida is inclined to
think the clinamen [swerve] beginning with the divisibility of the mark.
(mc360). Which is to say, while Lucretius (arguably) envisions two logi-
cally (if not temporally) distinct stages (a) the orderly cascade of atoms
through the void and (b) the swerve Derrida prefers to begin with the
swerve itself, prioritizing it ahead of the orderly fall. If the atoms are a
text, then it is one that is always deconstructing itself, always already
disordered. In all this, Derrida extends but does not deny the atomism of
Lucretius.
Regarding Heidegger, Derrida notes that the emphasis on falling that
we find in Lucretian atomism is found in the analytic of Dasein as well.
According to Lucretius, the swerve introduces chance into the cascade
of atoms; the world as we experience it is the result of this swerve. Derrida
argues that the structure of Dasein replicates the Lucretian cosmos:
[Heideggers] Geworfenheit or being-thrown is not an empirical charac-
ter among others, and it has an essential relation to dispersion and dis-
semination (Zerstreuung) as the structure of Dasein Dasein is itself
thrown, originally abandoned to fall and decline or, we could say, to
chance (Verfallen). Daseins chances are first of all and also it falls
Heidegger no doubt specifies this: the decline (Verfallenheit) of Dasein
should not be interpreted as the fall (Fall) outside an original, purer
and more elevated state (mc 3523). Derrida writes that one is struck by
certain analogies with Epicureanism. He seems to have in mind pri-
marily the role of chance and the idea of a fall that is constitutive rather
than punitive. Derrida admits that all this is highly schematic and more
suggestive than probative. Nevertheless, beneath the convoluted prose
that Derrida is known for lies an important point: that Heideggers ac-
count of things is not as far as one might expect from that of Lucretius
and other Epicureans. Heidegger is hardly an Epicurean, but Derrida
suggests that he has Epicurean tendencies, reproducing the swerving
falling atoms in the falling throwness of Dasein into the world. Since, as
we saw earlier, Heidegger conceives of the world primarily in terms of
meaning, rather than things, the fall of Dasein is arguably as constitutive
of the Heideggerian world as the fall of atoms is of the Lucretian one.
Returning to Derrida, I argue that his appeal to Lucretius reinforces
his fundamental positions, which are that (a) there is nothing outside
the text and (b) whatever order or structure the text has is arbitrary and
subject to deconstruction. Well, one might ask: What about the Other?
Doesnt the later Derrida modify this position precisely through his
emphasis on hospitality, on messianism, on religion? In short, isnt the

Other, as Other, outside the text? This is a vexed question, and a great
deal of scholarship has been devoted to sorting out precisely these issues;
it is in these later texts that partisans of the religious reading of Derrida
find a great deal of support. But, whatever religion one may find in the
religious Derrida, it is not a religion involving anything that transcends
the world: the other is not an angel; the other is a human (or maybe ani-
mal) other. The ethic of hospitality merely structures or restructures the
text in which one lives, it does not remove one from the text nor does it
open up to something outside the text. Even justice is within the text.
Indeed, Derridas famous claim that justice cannot be deconstructed
(fol 243) cannot be interpreted as placing justice outside the text with-
out undermining his entire philosophical project. Justice would then be-
come a transcendental signified, and a pretty traditional one at that!
Instead, justice is inside the text, as a peculiar way of relating to the text
in which one finds oneself: justice is the act of deconstructing, or (if you
prefer) one deconstructs in the name of justice. This can be taken either
uncharitably as a pretty self-serving definition of deconstruction (if you
are against deconstruction, you are against justice!) or more charitably
as indicating that, since any given structure is arbitrary and to that extent
violent, it is complicit with injustice. Deconstructing those structures is
justice to the extent that it attempts to rectify the prior violence. Taken in
context, Derridas claim is fairly clear on this point: Justice itself, if such
a thing exists, outside or beyond law, is not deconstructible. No more
than deconstruction itself, if such a thing exists. Deconstruction is justice. It
is perhaps because law is constructible and so deconstructible and,
better yet, that it makes deconstruction possible, or at least the exercise
of a deconstruction that, fundamentally, always proceeds to questions of
law and to the subject of law (fol 243, emphasis in original). It seems
clear to me that deconstruction-as-justice is presented as nothing more
than a critique of law-as-construction. Since the law puts force behind an
arbitrary structure, the deconstruction of law works against that violence.
To be sure, Derrida goes on to associate justice with the singular and the
incalculable, and law with the reverse (fol 244), but this series of (bi-
nary) oppositions only reiterates the general deconstructive principle of
noting binary oppositions and reversing their prioritization in a legal or
political context: if the law privileges the universal and the calculative,
and marginalizes the singular and incalculable, deconstruction will re-
verse it. However, as Derrida is the first to point out (and some Derrideans
are the first to forget), the new structures that we arrive at by deconstruct-
ing the old ones will themselves be unjust, and they, too, will be subject
to deconstruction at a future date.39 If and when a time comes when the

singular and incalculable is privileged over the law, the deconstructionist
should support the law.
Arguably, the justice enacted by deconstructing violent structures re-
peats the sacrificial distinction between good and bad violence: here the
good violence of deconstruction responds to the bad violence of arbi-
trary structures. Indeed, in Of Grammatology Derrida speaks of a neces-
sary violence that responds to the violence of phono-logo-centrism (og
18). Derrida dodges the conclusion that deconstruction distinguishes
between good and bad violence and practises good violence by arguing
that structures are always already deconstructing themselves in the play
of signifiers. Whence, the deconstructionist is not forcing the texts apart,
but only pointing out what is already happening. This image of decon-
structionist-as-spectator stands in tension with the image of deconstruc-
tionist-as-activist that Derrida also sometimes embraces. Whether or not
this tension is resolvable is, for our purposes, less important than its
mere existence: it suggests both the presence of the sacrificial distinction
in Derridas work and the effort (conscious or not) to suppress precisely
this distinction.
39 This point is made with particular force in Hgglund, Necessity of Discrimination.

3
Truth and Sacrifice in Machiavelli
Machiavellis understanding of truth is found in one of the

most famous passages in The Prince, his declaration of independence
from the preceding tradition. In many cases, this is taken as a manifesto
of a political realist and left at that. However, there is much more going
on here than such a reading implies; among other things, this passage
clarifies Machiavellis understanding of sacrifice. As such, a closer in-
spection of the famous passage the first paragraph of chapter 15 is
called for:
It remains now to see what the modes and government of a prince should be with
subjects and with friends. And because I know that many have written of this, I
fear that in writing of it again, I may be held presumptuous, especially since in
disputing this matter I depart from the orders of others. But since my intent is to
write something useful to whomever understands it, it has appeared to me more
fitting to go directly to the effectual truth of the thing than to the imagination of
it. And many have imagined republics and principalities that have never been
seen or known to exist in truth; for it is so far from how one lives to how one
should live that he who lets go of what is done for what should be done learns his
ruin rather than his preservation. For a man who wants to make a profession of
good in all regards must come to ruin among so many who are not good. Hence
it is necessary to a prince, if he wants to maintain himself, to learn to be able not
to be good, and to use this and not use it according to necessity. (P XV)
It is worth noting that the discussion of truth in this paragraph is book-

ended on either side by moral or political questions that is, how to treat
friends on the one hand and how to not be good on the other. This
moral context provides important clues to interpreting the middle sec-
tions of this paragraph, and I return to them shortly. First, however, I
want to work out a preliminary interpretation of the notion of truth in
the middle sentences. Once that is done, I return the role played by the
moral context of the passage.
The key phrase is la verit effettuale della cosa. Leaving aside for now
Machiavellis important adjective, effettuale, we can note at once that he
ties the truth (la verit) closely to the thing (la cosa). The turn towards
the things zur sache selbst! is central to Machiavellis presentation of his
advice in this chapter and to his entire philosophy. The preceding tradi-
tion, according to him, had never directly confronted the things them-
selves; instead, the tradition interpreted these things in terms of an
imagined transcendence, for example, platonic forms or divine ideas.
This, in part, is what Machiavelli has in mind when he complains that
individual things were interpreted through the lens of imagined repub-
lics and principalities. As the phrase suggests, imagined republics (as far
as Machiavelli is concerned) are not real. The preceding tradition misin-
terpreted the things in the world themselves by interpreting them in
terms of fictional transcendence rather than in terms of the immanence
of la cosa. In tying the truth to a particular thing Machiavelli refuses to
understand truth in terms of universal forms or essences and, instead,
focuses on particular truths about particular things. On this reading,
Machiavelli appears to be a kind of nominalist, denying the existence of
transcendent universal entities so as to focus on the particular sensory
things at hand.
Republics Neither Seen nor Known to Be
However, there is more in the phrase la verit effettuale della cosa than
merely a nominalist rejection of Platonism so as to address the things
themselves. The orientation towards the things of this world is radi-
calized when we focus on Machiavellis adjective effettuale. The most
straightforward translation would be real or effective, suggesting that
Machiavelli simply thinks that we should base our actions on what princ-
es actually do rather than on what soft-hearted idealists think they should
do. Some commentators have demurred and felt the need, rightly so, to
provide a longer exegesis. In her recent commentary on The Prince Erica
Benner argues that we ought not to simply identify la verit effettuale with
what is normally done by princes insofar as Machiavelli is not very im-
pressed by what princes normally do.1 Indeed, to follow the practices of
Italian princes would be terrible advice: what Italian princes actually do
is a big part of the problem The Prince is supposed to solve! Part of the
1 Benner, Machiavellis Prince, 1834.

Truth and Sacrifice in Machiavelli 53
problem with the Italian princes is that they are a product of the pres-
ent religion and its education. This education, recall, refused the kind
of distinction between good and bad violence that promotes (in
Machiavellis reasoning) the effective violence of the ancient Romans,
leaving only the ineffective violence of an uncoordinated tantrum in
itsplace.
So, we have to look elsewhere for the meaning of the term. Sebastian
de Grazia points out that, although Machiavelli did not coin the word
effettuale, he is one of the first Italian writers to use it. He glosses it as
eminently useful suggesting that, for Machiavelli, the truth is primar-
ily something to be used rather than contemplated;2 in this he is in
agreement with Leo Paul de Alvarezs commentary on the word in his
translation of The Prince.3 We may add to this the comment of William J.
Connell that effettuale is an unexceptional rendering of the Latin effi-
ciens, suggesting that the key idea is the separation of truth from final
causality.4 On this reading, Machiavelli can be taken as anticipating mod-
ern conceptions of truth more commonly associated with Descartess
claim that there is no need to discuss final causality in the natural sci-
ences. Harvey Mansfield takes a more radical reading of the phrase. In
his introduction to his translation of The Prince he says the turn towards
effectual truth contains an assault on all morality and political science,
both Christian and classical, as understood in Machiavellis time.5
Mansfield takes this to indicate the absence of anything like medieval
natural law in Machiavellis thought. I think he is right about this, but
would add that, insofar as medieval accounts of natural law rely upon a
world-transcending God that creates and orders the world, including the
provision of normative moral standards, a thorough rejection of medi-
eval natural law requires the rejection of transcendence.6 Claude Lefort
makes a similar point when he claims that Machiavellis discussion of
truth is, ultimately, a critique of philosophy and its pretension to find a
truth apart from the world.7 Viroli understands la verit effettuale rhetori-
cally: to pursue the effective truth of the matter means to pursue the
truth which permits one to attain the desired result that is, as Machiavelli
2 de Grazia, Machiavelli in Hell, 280.

3 De Alvarez, Translation and note on Machiavelli, The Prince, 945.
4 Connell, Eternity of the World, n.p.
5 Mansfield, Machiavellis Virtue and the introduction to his translation of The Prince,
cited in this text as P.
6 See, for at least one instance of this claim, Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, Q41, a4.
Obviously, classical natural right theories would not have the same dependence on God as
medieval natural law theories.
7 Lefort, Writing, 1334.
says in the same sentence, what is useful [utile] for the prince. He is com-
mitted, in other words, to the truth of the orator not the truth of the
scientist.8 Viroli understands rhetoric primarily in terms of deliberation
and persuasion, so that effectual truth is that which aids in deliberations
about desired ends and the construction of persuasive arguments that
will advance him towards those ends. The truth is, in this formulation,
dependent upon the princes desires: different means will appear as ef-
fective depending on the princes ends. These disparate approaches to
Machiavelli, it is worth noting, all agree in (a) focusing on his presenta-
tion of truth in terms of something useful or practical as opposed to
theoretical or contemplative and (b) being focused on and rooted in
this world, not something transcending it.
Worldly success is the mark of truth. This is why in Discourses on Livy
Machiavelli writes that witnesses to a decision are able to determine
whether the opinions undergirding it are true or false by looking to
whether or not the plan succeeds and why he later associates divergence
from the truth with the weakness of a lord (D II.22 and III.27). Returning
to our passage from The Prince, Machiavellis next sentence develops this
concept of truth by denying that imaginary republics that are neither
seen (visti) nor known to be (conocsciuti esse) can be associated with truth
(vero). Machiavelli rejects imaginary republics because they in the most
literal sense possible cannot be seen with the eyes. This is Machiavellis
evidence for the unreality of these imagined republics: they have never
been seen. To be real is to be sensible, or, more generally, to be a phe-
nomenon, to appear. Invisible republics and principalities are false or
imagined because they are not phenomenal. This takes us beyond nomi-
nalism since nominalists as the example of William of Ockham reminds
us are perfectly capable of believing in non-sensible realities, provided
they are understood as singular rather than as universal entities. Indeed,
Ockham and other scholastic nominalists were quite capable of accept-
ing the existence of non-sensible and world-transcending truths for
example, truths about God. As a matter of fact, a common complaint
about medieval nominalism from philosophers of Thomistic persuasions
is that the nominalist God is too transcendent! In any case, in exclusively
associating the sensible with knowledge and truth, Machiavelli is reject-
ing the various accounts of truth that locate it somewhere outside of the
world (in the forms, in God, in whatever). If we are looking for philo-
sophical antecedents for Machiavellis view, we find them in not sur-
prisingly Lucretius and the Epicurean tradition. In contrast to most
8 Viroli, Machiavelli, 82.

other ancient philosophers, the Epicureans were radically empiricist.

Cicero glosses the Epicurean position as follows: [Epicurus] thinks that
this truth is perceived by the senses, as fire is perceived to be hot, snow
white and honey sweet. In none of these examples is there any call for
proof by sophisticated reasoning; it is enough simply to point them
out.9 Whether or not Machiavelli was familiar with Ciceros exposition
of Epicureanism, he could have found the same doctrine in Lucretius.
While it might be going too far to characterize the rejection of imagined
republics and principalities of chapter 15 as purely Lucretian, it is fair to
say that it is entirely compatible with the doctrines of Lucretius.
Looking forward from Machiavelli to our own time, he can also be
read as denying or undoing precisely the move that Heidegger associat-
ed with the inauguration of metaphysics: Platos subordination of the
sensible individual to the world-transcending forms. In Machiavellis
case, he thinks that the focus on imaginary republics gets in the way of
properly understanding the things of this world. The partisan of imagi-
nary republics and principalities believes, after all, that truth is found
there, in a super-sensory and transcendent imaginary republic. So (for
example) the Augustinian maintains that, despite the fact that I was born
in the Bronx, my true home is the invisible city of God, and understanding
this point will be key for properly understanding anything else about
my life. For Machiavelli, knowledge can never be acquired through re-
flection on imagined republics; instead, we acquire knowledge, as he
intimates in the epistle dedicatory to The Prince, from history and expe-
rience. These two things are, after all, the sources of everything he knows
(P, epistle dedicatory). If history and experience are the source of all
that he knows, then knowledge is limited to what is immanent in the
world. What is experience if not sensory knowledge of worldly things?
And what is history if not the record of events in this world? Chapter 15
of The Prince suggests three things. First, that there is no super-sensory or
transcendent standard of truth and goodness; second, the illusory belief
in super-sensory or transcendent truths prevents people from under-
standing the world; third, by trying to live in accordance with a imagined
truth one will always be defeated by princes who do not.
M a c h i av e l l i s P e r v e r s e U n c o n c e a l m e n t
Having mentioned Heidegger, let us focus on him for a bit. In a series of

essays launched in the wake of Being and Time, Heidegger presents the
9 Cicero, On Moral Ends, I.30.

history of philosophy in terms of a primordial experience of truth as

alethea (unveiling or unhiddenness) followed by the forgetting and cov-
ering over of this experience with truth as the correctness of a proposi-
tion, orthotes (pdt 176; oet 1289).10 Truth as orthotes, in turn, gives
birth to the metaphysics of presence. The metaphysics of presence devel-
ops into the technological experience of beings as mere resources (bes-
tanden) rather than as the dynamic and mysterious unveilings of being.
According to Heideggers work of 1930, Platos Doctrine of Truth, the
beginning of this shift can be found in Platos analogy of the cave. There,
Plato reduces the sensible world to the lower levels of the cave, while the
world-transcending forms or ideas found after the escape from the cave
are present as true and permanent:
But Plato, overwhelmed as it were by the essence of , understood it in turn

as something independently present and therefore as something common
() to the individual beings that stand in appearance. In this way indi-
viduals, as subordinate to the as that which properly is, were displaced into
the role of non-beings. (pdt 210)
The subordination of the of individuals to the idea (), Heidegger

argues, changes the meaning of truth, such that truth is no longer
understood as unveiling but instead as the correctness of apprehend-
ing and asserting (pdt 177). In his 1939 essay on Aristotles Physics,
Heidegger expands on this point. There he argues for a connection be-
tween phusis and alethea, and, as such, Platos doctrine of truth indicates
a fundamentally new stance towards phusis: it subordinates nature to the
idea such that phusis is no longer understood as a possible source of
truth in its own right (ecpa 230). Truth is not found in nature but in the
idea above and beyond nature. In contrast to Platonism, the understand-
ing of truth as alethea that Heidegger endorses binds truth to the ap-
pearances of beings in the world.
Heideggers rejection of orthotes in favour of alethea reconfirms his
commitment to the primacy of the world as articulated years earlier in
Being and Time. Plato makes it clear that the task of the philosopher is
to ascend from the world of opinion and sensation which includes
phusis to the world-transcending ideas if knowledge of being is to be
10 To be sure, the faultiness of Heideggers philology is by now nearly universally

acknowledged; however, Heideggers deeper point about the priority of arguably
stands independent of philology. See Carmen, Heidegger on Correspondence and
Correctness, 1068.
acquired.11 So, for Heidegger, Platos new theory of truth includes a

devaluation of the natural world that strips it of its former role as the
unveiling of being and instead understands being in terms of a transcen-
dent idea. This can be seen clearly in Platos sequel to The Republic, The
Timaeus.12 The demiurges construction of nature is accomplished, Plato
says, with reference to the forms: the demiurge looks to the forms as
guides and paradigms (tim 28a-b). As such, the world is only the deriva-
tive product of the demiurges craft, incapable of revealing the secrets of
being. Not surprisingly, Heidegger objects to the demiurgic creation ac-
count in The Timaeus. Indeed, The Timaeus goes on to use the platonic
devaluation of appearance in the Cave analogy to argue for the non-
eternity of the world: It [the world] has come to be. For it is both visible
and tangible and has a body and all such things are perceptible. And,
as we have shown, perceptible things are grasped by opinion, which in-
volve sense perception. As such, they are things that come to be, things
that are begotten.13 In sum, in Platonism, the world is not eternal and
truth is found outside the world.
The world, for Machiavelli, is not subordinated to the idea. But why
does he resist the Platonic subordination? The answer to this question
lies in the adjective imagined: the truth is not subordinated to the idea
because the idea does not exist outside the imagination of philosophers
ideas are only as real as unicorns and golden mountains. We can note
here that Machiavellis interpretation of universals as figments of ones
imagination reproduces the nominalist position that universals are
found only in the mind rather than in things. In nominalist semantics
universal terms referred confusedly to numerous particulars rather than
to really existing universals: universals existed only as universal thoughts,
ideas, imaginations, not in reality. I am not claiming that Machiavelli was
a student of nominalist semantics I doubt he would have had much
patience for the subtle logical distinctions upon which nominalism
thrived but we can surely note the affinities. Of course, Machiavellis
position cannot be reduced to nominalism. As I noted earlier, scholas-
tic nominalism emphasized the transcendence of God in a way that
Machiavelli never does and never could. His nominalism is coloured by
his commitment to an eternal world. This world is eternal, there is noth-
ing transcending it; claims to the contrary are only delusions. Sebastian
de Grazia insightfully notes that, in this sentence, Machiavelli moves
11 Plato, The Republic, 518bd.

12 For evidence that Plato intended The Timaeus to function as a sequel to The Republic,
see Plato, The Timaeus, 17c19b.
13 Ibid., 28bc.
from speaking of la verit effetuale to a more generic trueness by drop-

ping the adjective here, Machiavelli indicates that the effectual truth is
the only kind of truth.14 The only truth is the truth of this world, the
visible world, the eternal world. As such, his rejection of imagined repub-
lics is not simply a statement of political strategy but a rejection of what
Heidegger called metaphysics that is, truth as orthotes. Moreover, in
rejecting idealized republics and turning to what appears before him, he
turns his attention from eternal permanence towards the empirically
visible, towards what can be seen. It is a kind of alethea that rejects the
Platonism of orthotes and sees truth as eminently sensible. One might be
tempted to characterize Machiavellis as a perverse alethea, contrasting
virt with gelassenheit, but there is a closer connection between truth and
violence in Heidegger than his notion of gelassenheit suggests, as we see
later when we turn to his Introduction to Metaphysics. Anticipating that
discussion, we can point again to the well-known philosophical machis-
mo of Heideggers discourses: one constantly destroys, overcomes,
and so forth.
The Expulsion of the Transcendent
Machiavellis argument rests on an assumed premise: that these so-called

invisible republics are, in fact, invisible. There is no argument for his
claim that nobody has had any experience of these republics. I have the
suspicion that Heidegger makes a similar move arguably, he assumes
that the Platonic ideas cannot unveil themselves as a kind of alethea; that
the ascent to the forms is entirely propositional rather than mystical
but I wont pursue this point here. The turn towards history and experi-
ence that Machiavelli announces in his epistle dedicatory to The Prince,
and which is reinforced in this section, carries with it certain exclusions.
Not every historical event is admitted into what Machiavelli calls history,
and not every vision is admitted into the visible. Not every appearance
gets to count as an appearance. An older gentleman in the far west of
Ireland once told me he had heard the Banshees cry shortly before
someone died; most readers of this book would automatically assume
that he had heard no such thing. Some people have claimed to see heav-
en in mystical visions, but we Machiavellians maintain that it is not visi-
ble: Machiavelli takes it as axiomatic that Savonarola didnt talk to God
(D I.11). In short, the invisible in Machiavelli is not determined in a
14 De Grazia, Machiavelli in Hell, 280.

strictly empirical way but, rather, according to a standard provided by his

commitment to the eternity of the world: anything that might suggest
that the world is not eternal is either excluded or reinterpreted in a way
compatible with the eternity of the world. The eternity of the world cre-
ates a kind of policing of the visible that limits entry into the visible to
certain kinds of things and excludes others. Any appearance or experi-
ence that might suggest that the world is not eternal is barred from entry.
That way of phrasing it, however, is not entirely accurate: the policing of
the visible does not exclude new things that are trying to enter the visible
and be taken into account by a philosophy that hitherto had not done
so. Machiavellis policing is more akin to that of bouncers than to that
border guards. The point of the policing is to eject or expel troublemak-
ers who were already inside, not to prevent the entry of troublemakers
from outside. This is indicated in Machiavellis emphasis on his novelty:
if what was being excluded in Machiavellis account was not already in-
side, his turn away from invisible republics would be nothing new.
Machiavelli is doing something novel insofar as what he terms invisible
or imagined used to be considered as very visible or real: the bouncers
are kicking out long-time residents. In pointing to Machiavellis policing,
I am not saying that that we are obliged to believe everything we are told
about world-transcending experiences but, rather, that Machiavelli re-
quires us to believe nothing. His commitment to an eternal world ex-
cludes it tout court.
The expulsion of the transcendent is an important move in
Machiavellis philosophy. It is not unimportant that he opens chapter 15
with a discussion of the novelty of his doctrines, and it is this expulsion
in particular that constitutes his novelty. This double movement of ex-
pulsion and constitution is reminiscent of Ren Girards account of the
scapegoating mechanism, and, because of this, it is possible to give a
Girardian reading to this and related passages in Machiavellis writings.15
The crisis is Italys supine state. We saw in the passages discussed earlier
that Machiavelli thinks that the Christian denial of the eternity of the
world is at the root of Italys problems. Christianity is to blame for the
weakness of Italy and the failures of previous writers on political matters.
Having identified the invisible republics of Christianity as the source of
the crisis, Machiavelli expels it, creating a new philosophical tradition on
the basis of this expulsion, an expulsion his successors will then ritually
15 The general outlines of a Girardian approach to Machiavelli are developed in

Wydra, Human Nature and Politics.
repeat every so often: Hume on miracles, Nietzsche on the death of God,

and so on and so on.16
However, there are two possible objections to this reading. First,
Girardian expulsions are supposed to be violent and bloody affairs, in-
volving (as he likes to put it) collective murder or lynching. Nothing of
the kind happens in The Prince; instead we just have words on a page
(although the words sometimes describe pretty gory things). However,
this objection rests on an overly narrow reading of Girard: while he finds
lynching to be the most common scapegoating mechanism, especially
in archaic societies, he admits that there are other, less dramatic, meth-
ods available. In modern thought he detects a kind of gigantic intel-
lectual expulsion of the whole Judeo-Christian tradition (thsfw, 262).
Machiavelli expels Judeo-Christian transcendence from his thought as
the source of innumerable problems without seriously engaging it to see
if those things appear as problems from within that tradition. For it is
one thing to say that Christian education has discouraged violence and
thereby made people less capable of using it effectively (which Machiavelli
does say); it is another to say that this is a problem that discredits
Christianity rather than being what might be termed user error. For one
might agree with him about the fact while disagreeing with the evalua-
tion thereof. And whether or not avenging ones beating is good or bad
will depend, as we saw, on whether or not the world is eternal. Machiavellis
discussion of Christianity is determined and guided by his commitment
to sacrifice and the eternity of the world. All the parts of Christianity that
depend upon transcendence are either reinterpreted (this is, as we shall
see, part of what Machiavelli means when he speaks of reinterpreting
Christianity according to virtue) or ignored altogether to create a kind
of sacrificial Christianity. We return to this point later; this much suffices
to dispatch the first objection.
Turning now to the second objection: if one is giving a Girardian read-
ing of Machiavellis expulsions, then one must include the next move in
Girards account the sanctification of the scapegoat. According to
Girard, once the expulsion of the scapegoat has done its work, the re-
maining community thinks better of him. In a mysterious way, they see
the scapegoat as not just the cause of the problem but also as the solu-
tion: in the story of Oedipus, the man who left Thebes in shame is
16 One might object to this reading by saying: Well, the armies conquering Italy were
Christian armies too, so Machiavelli couldnt really think that the Christian denial of the
eternity of the world is to blame. But this misses the point of scapegoating: of course that
denial isnt to blame for the crisis, but the scapegoater doesnt realize this. On the self-
deception involved in scapegoating, see Girard, sg, 111.
divinized at Colonus (vs 856). If the Girardian parallels are to hold,

then the transcendent should not merely be expelled from Machiavellis
politics but also be held up in esteem, admired in its absence. But just as
the scapegoat returns transformed (as in the story of Oedipus), so, too,
does Machiavellis scapegoat. If Christianity is blamed for the crisis, it is
also held out as a possible solution to it, if only it could be interpreted
interms of virtue. Indeed, how many times has one heard or read that
Christianity would be a great source of social progress if only we could
remove the deleterious influence of Paul, or Augustine, or Thomas, or
Luther and Calvin, or Trent, or the Pope, or the fundamentalist? This is
a basically Machiavellian ritual, rejecting Christianity as it is while hoping
for a better, transformed Christianity according to virtue that will help
bring about desired social change. Machiavellis Christianity according to
virtue is a doppelganger of Christian belief that looks very much like the
original but is something entirely different.17 I return to this point later.
For now, I note two points: first, in turning towards experience or visibil-
ity, Machiavelli is actually turning towards certain kinds of experience,
certain kinds of vision, and excluding others; second, this move can be
interpreted as a kind of scapegoating expulsion of the experiences that
purport to point towards a good apart from this, the eternal world.
Effecting the Truth
The Machiavellian vision of the eternity of the world in the Discourses is

mirrored in The Princes rejection of imagined republics and principali-
ties. He does not create the space for a new science of politics that exists
apart from metaphysics (in the broadest sense of the term) but instead
and this is crucial for the remainder of the text introduces a new
metaphysics of immanence to support the new science. This new meta-
physics, in turn, is constituted by the expulsion of the old metaphysics.
Our question becomes: What is this metaphysics? It is helpful to return
to Heideggers discussion of the relationship between ones understand-
ing of truth (as alethea or as orthotes) and how one understands nature
17 This, I take it, is the point that Vickie Sullivan wants to make in Three Romes. While
I differ with Sullivans analysis of particular passages in Machiavelli, I think that she is gen-
erally correct in her assessment that Machiavelli is hostile towards traditional Christianity
but finds some uses for modified temporal Christianity. I depart from Sullivans general
point insofar as I would locate the difference between Machiavellian Christianity and trad-
itional Christianity in terms of the question of sacrifice. While Machiavellis thought is,
I am arguing, basically sacrificial, Christianity (in theory if not always in practice) is
anti-sacrificial.
(phusis): different doctrines of truth imply different understandings of

nature. Heidegger argues that Platos doctrine of truth led to a funda-
mentally new stance towards phusis: nature is now subordinated to the
idea and no longer a possible source of truth in its own right (ecpa
230). Truth is not found in nature, but in the idea transcending nature.
If Heidegger is right about this (and I am stipulating for the sake of
argument that he is) then we can learn something about Machiavelli
byasking if and how his new doctrine of truth yields a new approach to
nature. As Mansfield suggests, Machiavellis new doctrine of truth en-
tails the rejection a transcendent structure or meaning with which hu-
man beings are morally obliged to be in accord. The world is eternal
and the world is merely what appears in it with no super-structure of
meaning attached. There is no transcendental signified in Machiavelli:
this is rejected when he rejects imaginary republics. That is to say, for
Machiavelli as for Derrida, there is no preordained structure to which
the world or our actions in it should conform; instead, whatever struc-
tures we find are purely human affairs, internal to the world. If there is
a difference between Derrida and Machiavelli on this score, it is only
that Machiavelli more highly estimates the ability of princes to restrict
the play of signification.
One objection to Machiavellis understanding of truth as effectual
truth is fairly straightforward: truth is not a matter for the prince to de-
termine but, rather, is already out there in the facts of the world. One
might kick a rock, proclaiming, I refute Machiavelli thus! But I think
that this misses the point. Machiavelli never suggests that there are not
certain empirical facts, or even necessities, that the prince must take into
account. However, I do think that he strongly wants to maintain that
these facts are under-determined and open to a multiplicity of possible
interpretations, without a transcendental signified specifying the correct
one(s). The prince determines, or attempts to determine, the correct
interpretation of the fact. But, recalling Virolis claim that to pursue the
effective truth of the matter means to pursue the truth which permits
one to attain the desired result,18 we should add that the correct inter-
pretation depends on the goals of the prince. If we take the heaviness of
a rock as a fact, whether or not that heaviness is good or bad will depend
on the princes goal. But beyond this, for Machiavelli, a successful prince
will be able to both interpret facts and influence what the facts actually
are. The prince makes empirical facts to the extent that he is capable of
influencing events and outcomes in the world: if he is strong enough to

move the rock, he may do so and thereby change the fact. In digging
dams and ditches (P XXV) the princes exercise of virtue not merely
defends him against fortune but changes the facts regarding topogra-
phy. To clarify, let us introduce a distinction between two kinds of state-
ments: empirical statements and metaphysical statements. Empirical
statements can be said to be the kind of statements the truth or falsity of
which can be determined by the senses for example, that the brown cat
is on the blue mat in a fairly straightforward way. The truth or falsity of
metaphysical statements, on the other hand, cannot be determined in
the same way is the brown cat essentially a cat, but not essentially
brown? And should the cat be on the mat? The answers to these ques-
tions, I take it for granted, are not visible. Sensation shows where the cat
is, but not where it should be; it shows me the brown cat, but not the
distinction between substance and accidents. One should note that one
function of a metaphysical statement is to interpret empirical statements.
Machiavellis rejection of imagined republics does not claim that there
are no true empirical statements, but it does claim that there are no
privileged metaphysical statements that definitively interpret the empiri-
cal; instead, the interpretations are due to the princely imposition of
modes and orders.
Imagined Republics and Real Princes
If appeals to imagined republics and principalities to transcendent re-

alities have no basis in reality, if they are false and fictitious, where then
do they come from? Machiavellis answer is quite simple: the modes and
orders of the prince. The prince, as we learn in chapter 6 of The Prince,
introduces new modes and orders. In my view, the introduction of new
modes and orders is most profitably read alongside the doctrine of ef-
fectual truth. In introducing modes and orders the prince produces a
discourse or text that includes metaphysical claims (invisible repub-
lics) that interpret the empirical truths of the world in this or that man-
ner. One might easily give this a Heideggerian spin, with reference to
the discussion of essential violence in Introduction to Metaphysics: the
Machiavellian prince, like the Heideggerian poet or thinker, orders
anddiscloses being in such a way that human beings can enter into it
(im175). Of course, there are limitations to this analogy that I will spell
out in later. For now, however, I want to highlight the analogy so that the
reader will keep in mind the broader significance of our discussion of
Machiavelli. In the face of the overwhelming presence of nature, the
princes modes and orders offer his subjects an interpretation or organi-
zation of nature. The discussion in chapter 6 of The Prince is the seed of
an idea that comes to full bloom in Discourses on Livy, in which Machiavelli

asserts that, since the inhabitants were sparse in the beginning of the
world, they lived dispersed for a time like beasts; then, as generations
multiplied, they gathered together, and to be able to defend themselves
better, they began to look to whoever among them was more robust and
of greater heart, and they made him a head, as it were and obeyed him.
From this arose knowledge of things honest and good, differing from
pernicious and bad. (D I.2) In this (very Lucretian) passage we see that
initially human beings lived in a manner akin to beasts: without under-
standing, without insight, without morals. However, over time they be-
gan to form communities with one person at the head. It is through the
work of this person that the overwhelming confusion that plagued them
is reduced to order; this disciplining and disposing (im 175) of the
overwhelming marks the beginning of history, for both Heidegger and
Machiavelli.
The ordering of how the world is disclosed to us, I take it, is what
Machiavelli has in mind when he refers to the modes and orders intro-
duced by the new prince in chapter 6 of The Prince. The greatest princes
(Moses, Cyrus, Theseus, and Romulus) did not simply order govern-
ments but ordered or reordered societies or cultures, including as the
case of Moses makes clear beliefs about things that transcend the world
and yet guide ones experience of the world. In this sense, I think that
Machiavellis assimilation of Mosess introduction of modes and orders
to that of the other three princes is the most important part of chapter6.
It explains how or why people in an eternal world come to believe in
something transcending it by placing the source of those beliefs in the
modes and orders of the prince. Transcendence is an illusion created by
the princes modes and orders. In the Discourses Machiavelli writes, since
he wished his laws and orders to forward, Moses was forced to kill infinite
men (D III.30, emphasis mine). The source of the law, it seems, is the
arm of Moses not the finger of God. The effect here is an immanentizing
of Mosaic Law. Interpreting Mosaic Law in terms of our discussion of
chapter 15 of The Prince indicates that (a) Moses presented it as coming
from God and that (b) the Israelites believed it came from God but that
(c) it actually came from Moses, in the same way that the modes and or-
ders of, for example, Rome came from Romulus. This claim can be fur-
ther developed if one accepts the claim, recently propounded by Mark
Jurdjevic, that Machiavellis presentation of Moses is influence by his
meditations on Savonarola. In 1498, Machiavelli wrote a commentary on
some of Savonarolas sermons at the request of Ricciadro Bechi. The ser-
mons he heard were on Moses. In those sermons Savonarola emphasized
Mosess willingness to employ violence in leading Israel out of Egypt and
his (Savonarolas) willingness to do the same. And while there are good
reasons for supposing that Savonarola provided Machiavelli with a life-
time of material upon which to reflect, for us, the important point is that
Machiavellis account of the sermon famously refers to Savonarola as a
liar. I take this to indicate, at least, that he did not accept Savonarolas
pretensions to speak with God, but it also suggests that he doesnt accept
Mosess either. His treatment of Numa, in Discourses I.11, reinforces this
reading: there he praises Numas duplicity in founding Roman religion
Numa pretended to speak with a nymph.19 I have more to say regarding
Numa later, but for now it suffices to note Machiavellis explicit denial
that either Numa or Savonarola spoke with divine beings.
The (effectual) truth of metaphysical statements depends on the
prince, not the world. But the prince does not create the truth entirely
ex nihilo. He owes the world the opportunity to impose an interpretation
upon it: first, things are unveiled as brute facts; second, the prince inter-
prets those facts in the way he sees fit. If there were no shellfish, they
could not be unclean. In this case, the metaphysical statements of imag-
ined republics are promulgated by princes when they impose modes and
orders on the people that influence how they interpret visible things: for
example, that it was wrong to eat shellfish.
This as we will see later is what Machiavelli sees Numa to have done
with the Romans. And to do both these things, the prince may have to
learn how to not be good. So, the moral context of the opening para-
graph to chapter 15 makes it clear that Machiavelli is primarily con-
cerned with disputing the traditional view of transcendence; he is not
interested in denying the brute facts of nature, but only in their being
interpreted in terms of a transcendent reality. This insight is an essential
one for Machiavelli since it is what makes his own project possible. If he
did not assume that the modes and orders he inherited were the arbi-
trary impositions of dead princes, he would not attempt to replace them
with his own. If he thought that the tradition preceding him was cor-
rectly developing a true doctrine concerning those things unseen, he
would err gravely in departing from those orders. Machiavellis oft-
proclaimed novelty is inseparable from his rejection of imagined repub-
lics and principalities and the view that traditional metaphysical or moral
doctrines are merely the calcified modes and orders of dead princes.
The constructed and arbitrary nature of traditional metaphysical and
moral discourse (they are simply the modes and orders of a prince or
19 The discussion of Machiavelli and Savonarola above is based on and indebted to

the much longer account in the first chapter of Jurdjevic, Great and Wretched City, 1652.
princes) shows why those discourses can be deconstructed. Machiavelli is

not claiming that there are not certain determinate states of affairs that
human beings can notice and to which they can adapt themselves as if
the world were simply the princes daydream to be put together as he
likes but, rather, that there is no transcendent signified (metaphysical,
moral, or whatever) that determines the correct interpretation of the
world. In the absence of any imagined republic the prince may impose
whatever modes and orders seem appropriate to him. Machiavelli reveals
both the constructability and deconstructability of any discourse, includ-
ing and especially religious discourse. Machiavellian deconstruction is
not identical to Derridean deconstruction in all aspects, but they are
kindred spirits (they both rightly pass for atheists) as both require the
rejection of imagined republics and what else is Derridas injunction to
do without recourse to a (non-existent) transcendental signified? be-
cause they, in the last analysis, purport to transcend the only world we
have. Later, however, we will have cause to wonder whether Derrida is
entirely consistent in his rejection of imagined republics.
One important upshot of Machiavellis account of truth is found in
chapter 22 of The Prince. There he is ostensibly discussing the relation-
ship between the prince and his secretaries. Throughout this discussion,
however, he refers to the brains (cervelli) of the prince and the advi-
sor.20 Accordingly, Machiavelli argues that one can judge a prince by how
well he chooses his advisors the first conjecture that is to be made of
the brain of a lord is to see the men he has around him and offers
advice for how a prince may choose a good advisor. In this discussion we
learn, for example, that:
There are three kinds of brains: one that understands by itself, another that dis-
cerns what others understand, the third that understands neither by itself nor
through others; the first is most excellent, the second excellent, and the third,
useless. (P XXII)
This reference to brains, rather than to the more abstract terms pre-
ferred by philosophers for example, mind, soul is closely linked, I
think, to the dismissal of imagined republics in chapter 15. The brain is
visible in a way that the mind or soul are not. There is, contained in this
linkage, a key to Machiavellis anthropology. The mind, the soul, and
so forth are among those invisible truths that are excluded with the
20 In P 18, Machiavelli also states that princes that can get around mens brains with
their astuteness.
rejection of imagined republics; the human being is strictly and simply

visible. Understanding, to the extent that the brain accomplishes it, ap-
pears as a strictly material process, explicable (in principle, if not actu-
ally) in terms of the brain and the nervous system.21 If human intellectual
powers are reducible to the functioning of their visible brain, then the
visible truths about the human being will exhaustively explain or inter-
pret humanity.
Machiavelli shows an interest in truth only insofar as it is useful for
some end; against the classical and medieval vision of scientia as a con-
templation of super-sensory and transcendent truths, Machiavelli fo-
cuses on the practical uses of knowledge because there is nothing to
transcendent to contemplate. In his Discourses, Machiavelli asserts that all
sciences require practice: there is no such thing as a purely theoretical
science (D III.39). If we return to the first sentence of chapter 15 of The
Prince, we see that Machiavellis goal is not to write something merely for
the sake of contemplation but, rather, to produce una cosa utile a chi la
intende: a useful thing for he who understands. The goal of truth is its
effect: truth must be a useful thing for the person who compels the un-
veiling. For this reason, Machiavelli bases his doctrines on how one lives
(vive) rather than on how one ought to live (vivere). In choosing the
third person singular, rather than the infinitive, Machiavelli reinforces
his previous rejection of imagined republics: infinitives remain vague
and uncertain that is, universal while the conjugated verb finds a
determinate meaning by being attached to a particular agent in a par-
ticular tense.22 Moreover, one can only see how individuals actually live
one can observe their behaviour but one cannot see, and will never
see, how they should live. By rejecting imagined republics and accounts
of how one ought to live Machiavelli rejects both traditional philoso-
phy and theology as a grounding for politics, principally because they
involve the discovery of eternal and universal verities rather than the
particular products of human action. Both the theoretical city of the
21 Brown, Return of Lucretius, 82, writes that the soul played no part in Machiavellis
physiology. The replacement of souls with brains is, it is worth noting, consistent with the
atomist doctrines of Lucretius. Palmer, in Reading Lucretius, notes that Machiavellis notes
on his copy of Lucretiuss poem showed particular interest in Lucretiuss arguments for the
physical or tactile nature of thought, emotion and sensation (83).
22 In syllogistic logic, infinitives are interpreted as A-propositions that is, universal
affirmative propositions. So the phrase To run is healthy is interpreted as meaning All
running is healthy. Renaissance humanism eschewed logic because of the barbarous style
of scholastic logic as well as its distance from practical affairs, but it did not challenge the
system of logic as such.
philosophers and the heavenly city of the theologians are rejected in

favour of immanent cities.
To Learn to Be Able Not to Be Good
Let us now (finally!) return to the moral context of the opening para-
graph of chapter 15 of The Prince. Recall that the discussion of truth is
bookended by moral concerns: the opening sentence concerns how one
should treat ones friends, and the concluding remarks note that one
should learn how not to be good: For a man who wants to make a pro-
fession of good in all regards must come to ruin among so many who are
not good. Hence it is necessary to a prince, if he wants to maintain him-
self, to learn to be able not to be good, and to use this and not use it ac-
cording to necessity (P XV). This passage is inseparable from the middle
sentences discussions of the effectual truth; in fact, to learn to be able
not to be good may be the most effectual truth. The key to unlocking
this passage is the word good. What does Machiavelli mean by good?
It should be clear from the forgoing that he does not mean good in the
sense of conformity with a moral code derived from God or nature; in-
stead, he seems to mean what people profess or say is good. In terms
borrowed from the Discourses we may say that good here indicates what
our current Christian education teaches people to take as good. If so,
then learning to be able not to be good means learning the distinction
between good and bad violence and learning to embrace good violence,
even though the embrace of any kind of violence runs contrary to
Christian education. Of course, Machiavelli knows that Christendom has
never been pacifist, but it has been worse: it has been ineffectually vio-
lent. By refusing to make the distinction between good and bad violence
(in the name of high ideals) but failing to live up to their refusal,
Christian princes blunder from one escapade to the other, from one in-
stance of incompetent violence to the other. Learning not to be good
means learning the distinction between good and bad violence. If one
accepts the distinction, then one can learn how to use good violence ef-
fectively when necessary. The ability to be not good means (at least, if
not entirely) that one knows (a) that there is a difference between good
violence and bad violence and (b) how to use good violence for the ben-
efit of ones state. Of course, one might prefer to avoid violence alto-
gether, and those who profess to be good claim to detest violence, but
since they never live up to the profession of goodness, one must use vio-
lence. The difference between the one who has learned what Machiavelli
teaches and the one who has not is not whether or not they are violent but
whether or not they know how to use violence effectively.
If one learns to be not-good, one has, in effect, learned the sacrificial

distinction between good and bad forms of violence. It may seem that
this has few, if any, connections with the more abstract metaphysical,
Heideggerian remarks on the effectual truth that came just a few pages
earlier. However, this is not the case. Recall that the Augustinian rejection
of the sacrificial distinction rests on an appeal to the world that tran-
scended the visible one and yet provides the only proper way of interpret-
ing this one. It is only by means of the city of God that the city of man can
be understood; according to Augustine, it is only by understanding the
city of God that one can finally understand the deepest and most pro-
found truths about our life and world, and this city of God desires mercy,
not sacrifice. All of this is rejected in the rejection of imagined republics.
The princes imposition of meaning and order on an otherwise chaotic
world, either through the proclamation of imagined republics or the
promulgation of laws, is, as we see in more detail later, inseparable from
a good kind of violence the founding violence of the armed prophet.
F o r wa r d t o t h e B e g i n n i n g
If my interpretation is correct, then Machiavelli is saying that philosophi-

cal and theological interpretations of transcendence are neither discov-
ered nor revealed, but created by princes. Machiavelli addresses this
issue late in his Discourses on Livy: in particular, chapters 43 and 46 of
book III. He begins chapter 43 by noting that the passions of human be-
ings among other things, their natural desire to acquire does not
change much over time. However, despite the seeming permanence of
human passions, one notes also the contrary: that people in different
times and places seem to act quite differently from each other. This is
due to the varying forms of education and modes of life in which dif-
fering peoples engage. These forms and modes are (as we saw elsewhere)
imposed by the prince or other political leaders. In chapter 46 he devel-
ops these ideas in a passage worth quoting at length:
It appears that not only does one city have certain modes and institutions diverse
from one another, and procreates men either harder or more effeminate, but in
the same city one sees such a difference to exist from one family to another
These things cannot arise solely from the bloodline, because that must vary
through the diversity of marriage, but it necessarily comes from the diverse edu-
cation of one family from another. For it is very important that a boy of tender
years begin to hear good or bad said of a thing, for it must of necessity make an
impression on him, which afterwards regulates the mode of proceeding in all the
times of his life. (D III.46)
These two chapters give us a prcis of how Machiavelli sees the modes
and orders initially set down by the ruler and passed down, over the
years, decades, and centuries, such that they infect the thoughts and in-
fluence the behaviour of those born many years later. One is never out-
side the text. That which the armed prophet forced his followers to
believe and do many years ago, the citizen generations later believes and
does voluntarily because he was raised to do so.
The connection between tradition and the founding violence of the
armed prophet is made clearer early in the opening chapter of bookIII.
Machiavelli admits that tradition is not a perpetual motion machine; it
needs to be periodically recharged. The question then becomes, how
do we do this? Machiavellis answer is clear: one renews tradition by
returning to the great beginnings in a repetition of the original found-
ing. This is because all the beginnings of sects, republics and king-
doms must have some goodness in them (D III.1). Machiavellis claim
that all beginnings have some good in them finds an echo in Heideggers
Introduction to Metaphysics when he claims that all beginnings are great
(im 17). In Heideggers case, The great begins great, sustains itself only
through the free recurrence of greatness, and if it is great, also comes to
an end in greatness. The great end seems inexplicable if something is
great, why would it end until we note that he earlier spoke of greatness
in the sense of the enormity of total annihilation. A great end, in
Heideggers sense, is compatible with a decline and fall in Machiavellis
sense; and in both cases the end is deferred by a return to the great and
good at the beginning. Machiavellis reasoning seems to be that if a city
lacked goodness, it would have been destroyed at the beginning. It is this
goodness that enabled the acquisition of their first reputation and first
increase (D. III.1)
Republics return to their beginnings either through extrinsic acci-
dent or intrinsic prudence (D. III.1). Machiavelli gives two examples of
this kind of repetition. Both kinds repeat the fearful conditions of the
founding, the first unwillingly and the second intentionally. To describe
the first, Machiavelli refers to the sack of Rome by the Gauls as narrated
in the fifth book of Livy. The beating delivered to the Romans by the
Gauls showed the Romans the extent to which they had departed from
the modes and orders of their founders. Describing the second kind
of return to beginnings the one motivated by intrinsic prudence
Machiavelli writes:
Those who governed Florence from 1434 up to 1494 used to say, to this purpose,
that it is necessary to regain the state every five years; otherwise it was difficult to
maintain it. They called regaining the state putting that terror and that fear in
men that had been there in taking it, since in that time they had beaten down
those who, according to that mode of life, had worked for ill. But as the memory
of that beating is eliminated, men began to dare to try new things and to say evil;
and so it is necessary to provide for it, drawing [the state] back towards its begin-
nings. (D III.1)
There is a crucial difference between the two modes. The first mode,
exemplified by the attack of the Gauls on Rome, is uncontrollable. One
would not recommend that a leader rely on enemy attacks to drag the
people back to their noble beginnings. On the other hand, the Florentine
practice offers a kind of controlled violence that beats the people just
enough to remind them of greater beatings in the past. Here, to main-
tain the state it was necessary every so often (under controlled condi-
tions) to recreate the fear and terror associated with the founding of the
state. Creating and maintaining tradition is, on this reading, inherently
violent. Commenting on this and similar passages, Vicki Sullivan writes
of the life-giving properties of spectacular executions.23 This is a won-
derful phrase. It (a) expresses Machiavellis view of the important role
that executions play in politics but also, (b) without meaning to, gets at
precisely the point Girard wants to make about scapegoating and (c)
suggests an application of Girards thought to Machiavellis executions.
In Sullivans view, Machiavelli recommends that these executions be di-
rected primarily against young and ambitious men that is, those most
likely to challenge republican modes and orders. On my reading,
Machiavellian executions could target men like that but need not be
limited to them. These executions are sacrificial rather than punitive
and do not simply eliminate specific threats. Machiavellian sacrifice re-
news the modes and orders, or what Girard would call the system of dif-
ferences, that order the city.
The movement Machiavelli describes (i.e., regaining the state every
five years) can be read as a kind of Girardian ritual: the spontaneous vio-
lence that led to the foundation of the state has to be repeated every so
often as a kind ritualized and planned violence to maintain the state.
Indeed, there is a kind of ritual of cruelty in tradition as Machiavelli de-
scribes it. This insight confirms a crucial point hinted at earlier: it is not
entirely correct to say that Machiavelli offers us a secular politics, or a
politics free from ideological and religious constrains.24 Instead, we
23 Sullivan, Machiavellis Three Romes, 157.

24 This is not to say I totally reject Maddoxs thesis in The Secular Reformation that
Machiavelli contributed to a secular reformation (the secularization of all religious mat-
ters that impinge on the business of the state [Maddox, Secular Reformation, 540]) but
must say that (in Ren Girards understanding at least) Machiavelli of-
fers us a new religion. In saying this I am not speaking to Machiavellis
explicit religious intentions (if he indeed had any) but pointing to his
reproduction of the structure of archaic religions. In regaining the
state the terror of the beginning is intentionally reproduced in a lim-
ited and more manageable fashion, to keep at bay a total return to the
terror of the beginning that is, lawlessness and disorder. In short: the
good violence of execution keeps the bad violence of lawlessness away.
Whether he intends these passages to have a religious meaning or not,
what Machiavelli describes as a political act mirrors exactly Girards pre-
sentation of archaic religious rituals: a re-enactment of the punishment
of the scapegoat that serves to avoid a return to the condition that led to
the original scapegoating. According to Girard: Rite is the re-enactment
of mimetic crises in a spirit of voluntary religious and social collabora-
tion, a re-enactment in order to reactivate the scapegoat mechanism for
the benefit of society rather than for the detriment of the victim who is
perpetually sacrificed (sg 140).
This, says Girard, is the origin of religious ritual, and in this sense, the
practice adduced here by Machiavelli is religious. In Things Hidden since
the Foundations of the World, Girard argues that religion is nothing other
than this immense effort to keep the peace. The Sacred is violence, but if
religious man worships violence it is only insofar as the worship of vio-
lence is supposed to bring peace; religion is entirely concerned with
peace, but the means it has of bringing it about are never free of sacri-
ficial violence (thsfw 32, emphasis in original). One could replace
the word religion with politics and have a fairly accurate summary of
Machiavelli: politics is nothing other than this immense effort to keep
the peace. The political is violence, but if Machiavellian politics worships
violence it is only to the extent that the worship of violence is supposed
to bring peace; politics is entirely concerned with peace, but the means
it has of bringing it about are never free of sacrificial violence. This is not
accidental; rather, it is evidence for the claim that Machiavelli, like
Jonass Heidegger, does not offer us something religiously neutral but,
instead, a whole new religion.
This being the case, it should not be surprising that Machiavelli turns
then to religious examples of the return to founding moments, this one
(apparently) less violent: the reforms of Sts Francis and Dominic. These
only that this secularization is not theologically neutral, despite its claims to the contrary.
Instead, I would want to maintain that Machiavelli reproduces religious structures but puts
them at the service of the state; religion appears as subservient to the state only after it has
reinterpreted the state in terms of the eternal world.
two saints, according to Machiavelli, saved Christianity by returning to

the example of its founder. The effect of this reform, however, has been
negative: it has allowed the prelates and princes of the church, says
Machiavelli, to continue to be terrible rulers and leaders. While the two
saints saved the church, it is not clear that Machiavelli thinks we are bet-
ter off with it saved: it seemed to ensure that the corrupt went unpun-
ished. They [Francis and Dominic] give them [the people] to understand
that it is evil to say evil of evil and good to live under obedience to them
and, if they make an error, leave them for God to punish (D III.1). What
are we to make of this? It seems that Machiavelli wants to distinguish
between those traditions that can and should be rescued by a return to
origins, on the one hand, and traditions that should be allowed to die
off, on the other. It is clear, to me at any rate, that he ranks traditional
Christianity in the latter. I return to this point later. For now, I want to
point out, in light of the reference to Girards work above, that Girard
claims that the sacrificial death of Christ as narrated in the Gospels isun-
like those of other ancient texts. Mythic texts for example, the Oedipus
cycle assume the guilt of the victim; the Passion narratives constantly
assert the innocence of the scapegoat. The Passion unveils the hidden
workings of the scapegoat mechanism, disrupting the power of sacrifice
(thsfw 1724). The Passion narrative is an anti-sacrificial text. To the
extent that Machiavelli appeals to the power of sacrificial acts in his ac-
count of tradition, he must find a way to underplay, or evacuate entirely,
the unmasking effects of the Passion. Is this what the discussion of Francis
and Dominic is supposed to do? Machiavelli writes that, by imitating the
life of Christ [they] brought back into the minds of men what had
already been eliminated there (D III.1). Machiavelli is lamentably vague
as to the details of what is restored to mens minds, except to say that the
effect of Francis and Dominic is to focus the peoples attention on the
next world, where God will punish wrong-doers, over and against this
world, where one must avenge ones own beatings. If we call to mind the
comparison between Roman and Christian education in the opening of
book II, it seems clear that the two great saints reinforce and revivify the
difference between Christian and Roman education. In short, Francis
and Dominic err by rejecting, and teaching others to reject, the sacrifi-
cial distinction between good and bad violence. The criticisms of Francis
and Dominic suggest that the revivification of this tradition was not ben-
eficial in the same way as was the Florentine example. In fact, it seems
downright unhelpful since Francis and Dominic made the people more
comfortable in their chains rather than freeing them. If one does not
benefit by a return to the founding of the tradition, then one could
argue it is not a good tradition, not a tradition worth rescuing. Also, if
returning to the foundation is not helpful, then the initial founding was
equally (or more) unhelpful. If Francis and Dominic ultimately provided
a disservice to the people by returning to the origins of Christianity, then
we might conclude that the founding of Christianity was a lamentable
disservice. Or, to be more precise, conclude that the original Christian
rejection of the sacrificial distinction between good and bad violence was
a lamentable disservice as we noted, Machiavelli still holds out the pos-
sibility of a reformed sacrificial Christianity that is more comfortable
with and proficient at using violence.
One could say, therefore, that Machiavelli divides traditions into two
kinds: beneficial and harmful. This distinction corresponds to, but is not
identical with, the sacrificial distinction. The beneficial traditions should
be maintained by returning occasionally to their origins via good vio-
lence, while the harmful ones should be allowed to run out of steam;
rejuvenating harmful tradition only prolongs the problems. Note that
both involve a kind of violence. The beneficial tradition is founded and
preserved by violence, while the harmful tradition seems complicit with
violent oppression. This association of tradition with violence and op-
pression interpretative or physical anticipates Derridas approaches
to tradition. Deconstruction rests on the premise that traditional dis-
courses are founded on a hidden violence that it is the task of the phi-
losopher to dig up and hold up for our inspection, making the violence
interpretive or otherwise known to all. Ive noted already some kin-
ship between Machiavelli and deconstructive analysis, mainly insofar as
both agree that there is no transcendental signified and that tradition is
inseparable from violence. While I think that the parallels between a
Machiavellian and a deconstructionist view of tradition are many, they
depart at a central point: for Derrida, the goal in unmasking the violence
in tradition is to minimize it as much as possible; for Machiavelli, it is to
better understand how to use the interplay between violence and tradi-
tion for one own ends.
F i s h a n d G u e s t s S t i n k a f t e r T h r e e D ay s
There is another, closely related point, that is worth dwelling on.

Hospitality emerges as a major theme in the later works of Derrida.
Icant hope to unravel the complex web that Derrida weaves in his vari-
ous discussions of hospitality in the space devoted to the issue, but it is
worth noting a few points. In general, Derridas interest in hospitality is
linked to his interest in forgiveness (in fact, both are discussed at length
in Hospitality) and, in general, to ethics understood in a broadly
Levinasian sense of openness to, or right relations with, the other. In his
eulogy for Levinas, Derrida goes so far as to characterize hospitality as

the whole of ethics (ael 50). If Derrida means ethics in the Levinasian
sense, then one can describe hospitality as a kind of radical openness to
the other an openness so radical that, in Derridas eyes, it becomes al-
most impossible. In one treatment of the topic, Derrida writes that hos-
pitality if there is any must, would have to, open itself to an other that
is not mine, my hte, my other, not even my neighbor or my brother
(H363). This radical openness, for Derrida (as for Levinas), is funda-
mental and opposes hospitality to violence. And, as usual, John Caputo
provides a useful summary of the key idea and it is worth quoting him at
length. We join him as he is introducing some of the questions Derrida
is concerned with when discussing hospitality:
How to welcome the other into my home, how to be a good host, which
means how to make the other at home while still retaining the home as mine,
since inviting the other to stay in someone elses home is not what we mean by
hospitality or the gift. Hospitality, as Penelope learned while Odysseus was off
on his travels, means to put your home at risk, which simultaneously requires
both having a home and risking it. Derridas growing discourse on hospitality
reflects the Jewish and Levinasian provenance of Deconstruction, for hospital-
ity is the most ancient biblical virtue of all. In a desert world, the world of no-
mads, the primordial and life giving virtue was to offer respite to the stranger,
the traveler, the migrant, whose survival turns on the expectation of hospitality,
who cannot so much as set out without anticipating hospitality, without trusting
in hospitality.25
The aspect of risk that Caputo emphasizes here is important. For Derrida,
to be hospitable is to take a grave risk the other that one welcomes may
bring dangers with them; they may, like Penelopes suitors, stay on as
enemies within the gates, eating her substance and plotting to kill her
son, Telemachus. Derridas point, however, is that it is a risk that one is
obliged to take without taking it into account. Once one weighs the risks,
one has exchanged hospitality for economy.26 In short, for Derrida, hos-
pitality is risky. To be hospitable is to take a risk. Whatever the merits of
this position, we can see some of the distance between Machiavelli and
Derrida by examining Machiavellis account of hospitality and risk.
In brief, Machiavelli suggests that hospitality should not be consid-
ered as taking an uncalculated risk but as a calculation made to avoid or
25 Caputo, More Radical Hermeneutics, 57 (emphasis in original).

26 For an argument along these lines, see Derrida, gd, 11112.
minimize risk. There is a crucial passage from his Discourses on Livy that
reads as follows: Duke Valentino had taken Faenza and made Bologna
bow to his terms. Then, wishing to return to Rome through Tuscany, he
sent his man to Florence to ask passage for himself and his army In
this one [the Florentines] did not follow the Roman mode, for since the
Duke was well-armed and the Florentines so unarmed that they could not
prevent him from passing through, it was much more to their honor that
he should appear to pass by their will rather than by force (D I.38). In
this passage, the Florentines refuse to welcome Duke Valentino (Cesare
Borgia) to their lands. Machiavellis criticism lies in the claim that, since
they could not stop him, they should have been hospitable towards him.
I believe that this passage, and others like it, offers a radically different
view of hospitality than that developed by Derrida and Caputo, and that
juxtaposing the two offers a number of interesting results.
The passage from Machiavelli suggests that, rather than being a risk,
hospitality is a strategy for reducing risk: one welcomes the stranger, giv-
ing him or her what he or she wants, in the hopes that, by doing so, one
will preserve the peace and ones own authority or state. Hospitality is
not a radical openness to the other but, rather, precisely the opposite: it
is a kind of strategic closedness to the other that attempts to manage and
minimize the effects of his arrival. It is not the antithesis of violence or
totality but, rather, a strategy for preserving totality rooted in violence.
Of course, one can readily point out that the Derridean and Machiavellian
examples are quite different: one a stranger wandering through the des-
ert, the other a bloody-minded prince leading an army. On this basis one
could object that the desert stranger seems quite harmless and would be
easy to expel from the camp or tribe if necessary. Whence, in letting the
stranger enter as a friend, one is taking a greater risk than in keeping
him out, and, insofar as this is the case, hospitality is a risk. This ap-
proach, which seems in keeping with the views of Derrida and Caputo, is
perhaps too sentimental and naive. In the pre-modern context (mainly
the Old Testament), from which Derrida and Caputo like to draw ex-
amples of hospitality, a solitary stranger could bring danger to the camp;
he or she might be capable of destroying it if insulted, if not through
force of arms, then through curses, magic, or other supernatural powers.
For example, in Greece, the stranger might call on Zeus Xenios as the
avenger of strangers or, even worse (from the point of view of the inhos-
pitable), the stranger might by Zeus Xenios in disguise.27 Inhospitality in
the latter case could have devastating consequences.
27 On Zeus Xenios, see Dowden, Zeus, 7880.

If we keep this point at the forefront of our minds, one of Derridas

preferred examples of hospitality-as-risk can be readily interpreted as
hospitality-as-risk-reduction. I have in mind here Genesis 1718. There a
visitor shows up unannounced at Abrams tents and is received with great
welcome. Derrida writes: This is indeed hospitality par excellence in which
the visitor radically overwhelms the self of the visited and the chez-soi of
the host (H 372). God overwhelms Abram by changing his name to
Abraham and promising him a multitude of descendants. The important
point for Derrida is not the interpretation of the passage typically given
by theologians but, rather, the fact that the passage indicates something
like the phenomenological structure of radical hospitality: hospitality
not only welcomes the other, but transforms or interrupts the host. The
move from Abram to Abraham is easily interpreted as a kind of Levinasian
movement from the illusion of self-possession and autarchy to the more
profound realization due to the presences of the other of heterono-
my, and I think this is what Derrida finds exemplary in this text. Derridas
account of hospitality trades on a sentimental way of imagining the
scene: the stranger is always taken as weaker and in need of help. This is
also true in the passage cited above from Caputo. While both Caputo
and Derrida admit that there is always risk in hospitality, hospitality as
they present it precedes risk, and it is in a sense risk that depends on
hospitality. If one is not hospitable, then one is not taking a risk. The
risk is the lamentable consequence of our obligation to be hospitable.
In contrast, Machiavelli sees risk as preceding hospitality, not resulting
from it, and interprets hospitality as one possible way of managing the
risk. So, for Derrida, the stranger is not dangerous unless and until I am
hospitable; for Machiavelli, the stranger is dangerous independently of
my choices, and the choice to be hospitable or inhospitable is a way of
dealing with that risk.28
28 Another possible motivation for hospitality, which I think would be worth consid-
ering in a lengthier treatment of the issue, would be to consider hospitality in connection
with honour. Many of the societies that are closely associated with rituals of hospitality
(ancient Greece, Old Testament Judaism, Arabia, the American South, and so on) are also
societies that are closely associated with notions of honour, both personal and familial. It
stands to reason that acts of hospitality could be interpreted as either attempts to avoid
dishonour (by treating someone poorly who should not have been so treated) or to gain
honour (perhaps in the sense of conspicuous consumption). Moreover, many of these
same societies were or are characterized by violence in the name of honour. The connec-
tion between violence and honour is well known, but it might be equally valid to connect
all three: hospitality, honour, and violence as a kind of three-legged stool. But since neither
Derrida nor Caputo discusses the connection between honour and hospitality at length, I
will not get into it here.
Depending on how we interpret the relationship between risk and

hospitality, our reading of Genesis changes. On this (Machiavellian)
reading, Abrams hospitality is not despite risk but precisely because of
risk: he hopes that by welcoming the stranger, supplying his needs and
giving him no cause for alarm or offence, he will soon peaceably leave
and continue his journey. Abrams hospitality is a kind of strategy for be-
ing left in peace. Just as Florence should have calculated that it would be
better served by giving Valentino what he wanted rather than forcing
him to take it, Abram calculates that he is better served by giving a
stranger what he wants rather than forcing him to take it. In both cases,
the idea is that, by freely offering some of my goods and services, the
need will not arise for the other to forcibly take all of my goods and ser-
vices. In this context, it is worth noticing that the passages from Genesis
that Derrida discusses immediately precede the chapters describing the
events leading up to the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. While
scholarly and religious commentators disagree about the precise nature
of the sin of Sodom, there is general agreement that the people of
Sodom were not hospitable to the guests and foreigners in their midst.
We need not concern ourselves, therefore, with sorting out the precise
nature of that inhospitality; the important point for my argument here is
that Sodom was destroyed by strangers because of a lack of hospitality.
(Zeus Xenios isnt the only God that protects guests!) It is precisely this
context that suggests that hospitality is less risky, not more risky, than
inhospitality. The other, the stranger, brings danger with him; he is al-
ways a potential enemy and the smallest spark may light the fire of con-
flict. By welcoming the other the host avoids offending him/her and,
thereby, avoids, or hopes to avoid, an outbreak of violence. Hospitality is
not incalculable; rather, it is the result of a calculation.
I t W a s f o rt u n at e T h at P h a r ao h
Knew Not Joseph
I conclude this chapter with a brief discussion of the relationship be-

tween virtue and truth. For our purposes only a few key points need to be
highlighted. Insofar as (a) truth is an effect of the princes actions (ei-
ther by influencing empirical situations or by imposing interpretations
of them) and (b) the success of the prince depends on his virtue, it fol-
lows that truth is dependent upon virtue. The opening chapter of The
Prince makes it clear that Machiavelli does not understand virtue in terms
of ratio (as in an activity of the soul in accordance with reason) but,
rather, in terms of stato. Virtue is defined as one of the two ways (the
other being fortune) by which one can achieve stato. This suggests that
there is a relationship or similarity between truth (understood as the

effectual truth) and stato. But what exactly does stato mean?
This word, often translated as state, has been commented upon at
length by Richard Black:
In Florentine usage of the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, stato never
carried the modern sense of a public embodiment of power, The State, or the
commonwealth. Rather, it normally meant regime, used in the sense of mem-
bership of the ruling group of a city, or of power over a territory, city or people.
It was never a synonym for republic or city Disapproval is clear, for exam-
ple, in the political writings of fifteenth century Florentines such as Leon Battista
Alberti, Agnolo Pandolfini or Giovanni Rucellai, for whom stato had a pejorative
sense, associated with tyranny.29
Machiavellis stato is not, therefore, the state but power. States may or
may not have stato; officials may or may not be able to enforce their will.
The contemporary term failed state may be taken to indicate a state
without stato. To the extent that virtue is a path to stato, one might say
that virtue primarily, if not exclusively, is the ability to project effective
force on ones surroundings. This further binds together truth and state.
Earlier I argue that the effectual truth above all others is the sacrificial
distinction between good and bad violence and that it is the acceptance
of this distinction (learning to be not good) that enables the prince to
enforce his will in other matters. We may now go a step further and note
that the enforcement of his will is nothing other than the state. The
achievement of the state requires that (a) one endorse the sacrificial
distinction between good and bad forms of violence and (b) is compe-
tent or effective at using the good kind.
In chapter 1 of The Prince, as a path to state, virtue is principally juxta-
posed not to vice but to fortuna (P I). Machiavelli sees an inverse rela-
tionship between virtue and dependence upon fortune: the more
virtuous one is, the less the outcome of ones action depends upon for-
tune. But what is fortune? Anthony Parel argues that fortune is primar-
ily astrological: there is no real difference between the impact of
Fortune and that of the heavens or planets on human affairs.30 Parel
goes on to argue that, in the astrology of Machiavellis day, this plane-
tary influence was impersonal and predictable; one can compare for-
tune to the tides, whose ebb and flow is influenced (impersonally) by
29 Black, Machiavelli, 1001.

30 Parel, Farewell to Fortune, 591.
the moons gravitational pull. Finally, given the complete collapse of

Ptolemaic astronomy and astrology, Parel argues, it is impossible to find
anything philosophically useful in Machiavellis writings concerning for-
tune. But Parels account is perhaps more specific than is needed for our
purposes; it has also met a serious rival in Alison Browns Lucretian read-
ing of fortune. According to Brown, although Machiavelli accepted the
important role of astrology in our lives he was novel in allowing unex-
pected room in this deterministic universe for the swerve of chance that
enabled a bold and clever person to exercise his free will.31 According
to Lucretius, atoms fall, or are supposed to fall, in a straight line through
the void. However, they occasionally swerve. The swerve disrupts the or-
derly cascading of atoms, causing them to crash and bash into each oth-
er; from these crashes atoms join and separate creating the things of the
world around us. On Browns reading, fortune seems to designate the
random joining and splitting of atoms that constitute the things and
events of life, but, precisely because these are the result of a swerve, one
has space to act freely. Parel is not convinced by the Lucretian reading:
the crux of his criticism is that Machiavellis language in chapter 25 of
The Prince uses the language of Ptolemaic astrology, not Lucretius and his
swerve.32 Certainly, Parel argues, if Machiavelli adhered to Lucretiuss
account, it would have shown up in chapter 25.
Although I am broadly sympathetic to the Lucretian reading, for the
argument I am advancing to work, we do not have to settle the debate
between Parel and Brown; it is enough to recognize that (a) fortune re-
fers to events that one does not control, without concerning ourselves
with defining too closely what does control them, and (b) it is the task of
virtue to minimize the effect that these events have on our plans and
ourselves. This much Parel and Brown both grant, disagreeing only
over how virtue minimizes the effects of fortune; either by waiting for
more propitious times (Parel) or stepping into the space provided by
the swerve (Brown). In his Discourses, Machiavelli challenges Plutarchs
claim that Romes empire was dependent upon fortune: according to
Machiavelli, what Plutarch attributes to fortune is actually the effects of
Roman virtue. While fortune is not entirely eliminated, Rome because
of her virtue had less need to rely on it than did other regimes (D II.1).
In The Art of War Machiavelli makes a similar point, noting that the reli-
ance on fortune on the part of the princes of Italy is accompanied by a
lack of virtue (aw II.313). Whether or not fortune is dependent upon

32 Parel, Farewell to Fortune, 599601. For Browns response to Parel, see her
Lucretian Naturalism, 10810.
the fall of atoms or the movement of planets, the important point for
Machiavelli is that a virtuous person will not allow his or her fate to be
decided solely by fortune but will, by whatever means possible, attempt
to manage and influence the outcome. This requires the sacrificial
distinction.
For Machiavelli, after one has had insights into what the fortunes of
ones times require, one can manage them, adapt to them, and turn
events to ones purposes. In chapter 25 of The Prince he notes that for-
tune is only able to demonstrate her power where virtue has not been
put in order to resist her (P XXV). There are two famous images used
to describe the relationship between fortune and virtue in chapter 25,
and both images are violent. The first compares fortune to a raging
flood, and virtue to the dams, dikes, and canals that control the floodwa-
ter and prevent the flood from doing any serious damage. The point of
this comparison seems to be twofold. First, fortune like a raging flood
is not something that can be controlled. The twists and turns of fortune
are precisely those things that, for whatever reason, one cannot control.
However, the impossibility of controlling fortune does not entail an in-
ability to manage its effects. While a prince cannot keep the river from
rising, he can order things such that the flood neither wash away crops
nor flood towns. Virtue, in this analogy, is found in the preparations
that precede the flood: the building of dikes and dams. The great earth-
moving and water-managing project that Machiavelli describes should
call to mind our earlier discussion of truth. Here we find the virtuous
prince changing the facts on the ground, creating embankments, canals,
and the like where previously there was nothing. The virtuous prince is
seen in his effects. We should add that this construction project would
not have been accomplished without sweat and hard labour; there are
no diesel-powered earthmovers in Machiavellis example. We can assume
that, in constructing the earthworks, the prince forces people to work
harder and longer perhaps at little or no pay than they would ordi-
narily work. No doubt many of the labourers will question the need for
the system of flood control the prince is forcing them to construct: they
may grumble, Why prepare for a flood that may never come? Livy notes
that Tarquin angered the Roman people by forcing them to dig sewers
and flood controls.33 But these disgruntled labourers return us to discus-
sion of the armed prophets earlier in The Prince: the armed prophet the
one who relies on virtue forces people to obey even when they do not
wish to or do not believe him (P VI). In this sense, the first metaphor for
33 Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, I.56.

the virtue-fortune relationship implicitly relies on the sacrificial distinc-

tion between good and bad violence: the prince limits the power of for-
tune via the good violence of the armed prophet.
If the first metaphor suggests that virtue is found in the ordering of
things such that fortune can be resisted, it also indicates that this resis-
tance to fortune cannot be taken to entail a complete elimination of it.
A similar point is made in his discussion of totally new princes in chapter
6 of The Prince: here he lists four Moses, Cyrus, Romulus, and Theseus.
According to Machiavelli, these men came to power through their own
virtue, relying on fortune only for the opportunity (P VI). Moses was
fortunate to find the Hebrews enslaved, Theseus fortunate to find the
Athenians scattered, and so on. So, even our most virtuous princes had
some (minimal) relationship with fortune. Fortune is never eliminated,
only managed. Indeed, it is in the management of fortune that the
prince demonstrates his virtue Moses by liberating the Hebrews and
introducing his new modes and orders (the Mosaic Law), Theseus by
uniting the Athenians, and so forth. The prince in chapter 25 likewise
needs fortune to threaten floods so that he can display his virtue in man-
aging the risk. If he lived in a place that was not prone to floods, he
would be forced to find another way to exercise virtue. The dikes and
dams of chapter 25 play a role similar to the modes and orders of chap-
ter 6: both are (a) introduced by the prince in response to fortune, (b)
forced on a presumably unwilling population, and (c) if they function
well over the long term, will be evidence of the princes virtue.
Machiavellis second famous analogy in chapter 25 is a more disturb-
ing one. Here fortune is likened to a woman who enjoys (so it seems)
being beaten by an impetuous man: I judge this indeed, that it is better
to be impetuous than cautious, because fortune is a woman; and it is
necessary, if one wants to hold her down, to beat her and strike her
down. And one sees that she lets herself be won more by the impetuous
than by those who proceed coldly. And so always, like a woman, she is the
friend of the young, because they are less cautious, more ferocious, and
command her with more audacity (P XXV). This passage concludes
Machiavellis discussion of the importance of adapting oneself to the
changing circumstances fortune presents. Sometimes it is better to move
slowly and cautiously, with planning and foresight, sometimes one should
simply run in and hope for the best. It is easy enough to reconcile that
much with the metaphor of dams and floods: if it is not currently rain-
ing, then one should carefully plan how one will proceed to build the
drainage system; once the flood is upon you, it is time to start stacking
sandbags right away. Even Machiavellis praise for audacity could be fit
into this reading by arguing that, if one is going to build dams, dikes, and
canals, one should try for something on the scale of the Hoover Dam or
the Panama Canal rather than a simple beaver dam. If Machiavelli is
recommending projects on an audacious scale, then the antagonistic re-
lationship with fortune telegraphed in this passage makes more sense.
The opening metaphor of dikes and dams can be taken to suggest only
a kind of passive rerouting of water. To prevent this misinterpretation
Machiavelli concludes with something more violent. Our relationship
with fortune should not be one that peacefully harmonizes with it, but
one that strives to beat it down and minimizes the effect it can have on
our lives. To be virtuous, it seems, means (among other things) to beat
down fortune. Here again, we have a good kind of violence that subdues
fortune and, by doing so, benefits the people and the prince.
This returns us to the first chapter of The Prince, where fortune and
virtue are identified as the two ways in which one can obtain the state: the
virtuous person does it with her own arms, while the fortunate one must
rely on the arms of another. It becomes clearer, as the text moves on to
compare armed and unarmed prophets, that virtue is the more reliable
way of obtaining and preserving ones state. Nevertheless, I do not think
that virtue and fortune are, as some commentators suggest, antitheses
separating like water and oil:34 instead, I suspect that Machiavelli imag-
ines the pair working in tandem in each individuals life with the caveat
that, the more virtuous one is, the less influence fortune has on ones
life. Indeed, chapter 25 of The Prince suggests that fortune is the arbiter
of half of our actions but that, with the proper planning and care vir-
tue one can decrease or limit the influence of fortune. Likewise, in the
Discourses, Machiavelli tells us that it is when men have little virtue [that]
fortune shows its power very much (D II.30). One can imagine some-
thing of a pie chart, such that, as the size of the virtue portion increases,
the size of the fortune portion correspondingly decreases. Of course,
this image is merely a heuristic device. Even the greatest princes
Romulus, Theseus, Moses, Cyrus needed fortune to give them the op-
portunity to exercise virtue, although, unlike Savonarola, they didnt rely
on fortune for anything more than that.
The contrast between the four armed prophets and Savonarola points
us to the close connection between virtue and the ability to force obedi-
ence; this connection is deepened by Machiavellis reference to the virtu-
ous cruelty of Agathocles and Hannibal (P VIII and XVII; D III.212). It
is here, in his discussion of cruelty well and poorly used, perhaps more
34 This, it seems to me, is the guiding intuition of Benners Machiavellis Prince (see
xxxvii); however, her restatement in Questa Inconstante Dea comes closer to the view
outlined here.
than anywhere else in The Prince, that the sacrificial distinction rises to
the surface and appears naked to the world. Virtuous cruelty, or cruelty
well used, is sudden, devastating, and quickly over, accomplishing its
goals in a minimum amount of time for the benefit of the people.
Hannibal was able to control his polyglot army in difficult circumstanc-
es because of inhuman cruelty and infinite other virtues; Agathocles was
able to rise to power and provide for the security of Syracuse through
his cruel execution of the leading citizens. The cruelty well used of
Agathocles and Hannibal is easily read as the good kind of violence and
the cruelty poorly used as the bad kind. One could object that Machiavelli
never praises the cruelty of Agathocles and that, to the extent that he
distances himself from Agathocles, he is resisting, rather than employ-
ing, the sacrificial distinction. However, while Machiavelli initially hesi-
tates to describe Agathocles as virtuous, a careful reading of the
chapter suggests that he does in fact believe he exercised virtue. There
are two passages that are typically used to show Machiavellis rejection
of Agathocless methods. First: One cannot call it virtue to kill ones citi-
zens, betray ones friends, to be without faith, without mercy, without
religion; these modes can enable one to acquire empire but not glory.
Second: His savage cruelty and inhumanity, together with his infinite
crimes, do not permit him to be celebrated among the most excellent
men (both from P VIII). It seems to me that many astute commenta-
tors are misled by these passages.35 Machiavelli says that one cannot call
Agathocles virtuous (Non si pu ancora chiamare virt) and that his crimes
do not permit him (non consentono) to be celebrated, which is not the
same thing as denying that he was virtuous or worthy of celebration. It is
entirely possible that one may believe both (a) that Agathocles is virtu-
ous and (b) that such an opinion is controversial and it would be unwise
to publicize it. The situation here is the mirror image of the one alluded
to in the Discourses, where one might believe (a) that Caesar is a usurper
and tyrant but (b) that one cant go around saying such things (D I.10).
Moreover, one may consider that the current state of education prohibits
precisely the kind of distinction that enables one to call Agathocles virtu-
ous: the sacrificial distinction. There are two points that confirm this
reading. First, Machiavelli later announces that Agathocless well-used
cruelty allowed him to redeem himself in the eyes of God and man.
Second, Machiavelli seems to want us to closely associate Agathocles and
Hannibal he uses the words infinite and inhuman to describe them
both, referring to Agathocless infinite crimes (infinite scelleratezze) and
35 For a recent example, see Benner, Machiavellis Prince, 11314.

Hannibals infinite virtue (infinite sua virt) on the one hand, and
Agathocless cruelty and inhumanity (crudelt e inumanit) and Hannibals
inhuman cruelty (inumana crudelt), on the other (P VIII and XVII).
To the extent that he has a high opinion of Hannibal something sug-
gested by his comments in The Prince and his comparison with Scipio in
the Discourses (D III.21) we have reason to conclude that he has a high
opinion of Agathocles.36
The inhuman cruelty of Hannibal and Agathocles is not used for its
own sake they are neither sadists nor sociopaths but for the sake of
imposing or retaining ones modes and orders. We should keep in mind
here our previous discussion of the role good violence plays in forming
and preserving traditions; recall that Moses was forced to kill infinite
people to impose his modes and orders. The example of Cesare Borgia
is particularly apt here: having found the Romagna disordered, lawless,
and chaotic, he ordered his governor to use whatever means necessary to
subdue the Romagna and to establish law courts (P VII).37 While cruel,
Machiavelli argues that this is less cruel than the mercy of the Florentines,
which allowed disorder to fester and metastasize (P XVII). The mercy of
the Florentines may also be taken as an example of the kind incompe-
tence that Machiavelli suggests accompanies the refusal to make the sac-
rificial distinction. Machiavellian virtue does not exclude the judicious
use of cruelty and force.38 Indeed, Hannibal and Torquatus both ap-
pear as illustrations of virtue in book III of the Discourses precisely on
account of their cruelty. And elsewhere in book III, Machiavelli con-
trasts the virtue of the Roman army with the fury and impetuosity of
the Gauls late in his Discourses (D III.36). Machiavellis sacrificial logic
distinguishes between good and bad forms of violence, and the distinc-
tion between cruelties well and poorly used is an instance of that more
general distinction.
36 A longer and more developed argument for the virtue of Agathocles can be found
in McCormick, Enduring Ambiguity.
38 Viroli puts the matter this way: As soon as a dominion is consolidated, cruelties
and absolute powers have to be replaced by ordinary civil justice and reason, as the trad-
ition of civil wisdom prescribes; but before the rule of law is in place, politics in the conven-
tional sense of the art of ruling according to reason and justice need the help of the
ambivalent but powerful art of the state (Machiavelli, 556). While I think Benner is cor-
rect in her judgment that Machiavelli disapproves of capricious cruelty and thinks that
even well-used cruelty is not sufficient to found a lasting state (Benner, Machiavellis Prince,
11518), it is important to recognize that, while it is not sufficient, it may at times be neces-
sary. This seems to be Virolis point and I think Machiavellis as well.
However, my emphasis on cruelty and good violence in Machiavellis

account of virtue should not lead the reader to conclude that virtue ex-
cludes mercy and humanity; recent work on Machiavelli has gone a long
way towards correcting the view that Machiavelli is all blood and death
and it should be acknowledged. In any case, good violence is good, in
sacrificial systems, precisely because it is more productive of peace and
stability in a community than are other forms of violence. We should not
take these harsh edges to be the entirety of Machiavellis thought: Viroli
is surely right to remind us that, while Machiavelli offers a radical cri-
tique of the tradition, the aim of the critique is to restrict the range of
its validity rather than dismiss it altogether.39 Nevertheless, there is also
a certain sense in which, precisely by restricting it, he rejects it: if we take
it that the (Augustinian) tradition had a blanket prohibition on sacrifi-
cial violence, the Machiavellian restriction of the prohibition to simply
one that restricts the bad forms of violence and the concomitant en-
dorsement of the good kind can be readily interpreted as a rejection of
the tradition.

4
Sacrifice and the City
As we saw, Heidegger points to a close connection between how one

thinks about truth and how one thinks about nature. Likewise, there is a
close connection between Machiavellis understanding of truth and his
understanding of nature. I begin with Machiavellis claim in his Discourses
that it is truer than any other truth that if where there are men there are
no soldiers, it arises through a defect of the prince and not through any
other defect, either of the site or of nature (D I.21). In approaching this
passage, we have to keep in mind that, for Machiavelli, soldiering is, or
should be, a profoundly moral enterprise (aw I.199204). As in chap-
ter15 of The Prince, here truth is discussed in a moral context; but this
passage is a bit clearer in divorcing morality and truth from nature.
Moreover, Machiavelli links both soldiering and truth, as we have seen
earlier, to the acceptance of sacrifice. One effect of this passage is to so-
lidify and strengthen the link between truth and sacrifice. The passage
occurs in the course of a discussion of the third king of Rome, Tullus,
who came to power after forty years of Numas peaceful reign. Tullus
found that he lacked men experienced in military matters. Rather than
turning to foreign troops, he introduced modes and orders that encour-
aged military virtue. Machiavellis reflection on the career of Tullus cul-
minates in the above passage. Machiavellis point is that nature does not
influence the morals of the people in a decisive way but that, instead, the
prince does. What is truer than any other truth is that the manner in
which one lives ethics, morals, and politics is not determined by any-
thing other than the modes and orders of the prince. The discussion of
truth in The Prince is taken one step further: not only is there nothing
super-sensible or transcendent that functions as a source of moral truth,
but there is nothing in this world either. Moral truth and nature are deci-
sively separated. To see this more clearly, we have to unpack Machiavellis
understanding of nature.
Three Tensions
Machiavellis understanding of nature, like so many other things, is dif-

ficult to pin down. There are at least three sets of tensions in his under-
standing of nature: the first regards nature and morality; the second
regards changeability and stability; and the third concerns the difference
between nature and convention. The first tension is already at work in
the first paragraph of this section that is, in my claim that Machiavelli
does not see nature as the source of morals. As I note in the discussion
of truth, Mansfield has remarked that Machiavelli understands truth
such that nature cannot be a guide to moral action. However, one can
object that this presentation of things can be contrasted with certain
claims he makes about nature, human nature in particular, that suggest
that his moral and political teachings are in fact based on nature. On this
side of the tension, one can point to the many passages in Machiavellis
writings in which he refers to the envious nature of men, or in which
he says that men naturally desire to acquire, and so forth (as in chapter
3 of The Prince, but the list could go on indefinitely). One could argue
that the peculiarities of his moral theory are derived from nature, just a
different view of nature nature red in tooth and claw than that of
natural law theorists. But in these passages nature is not so much a guide
as it is an obstacle. To this extent, nature does influence political life in
Machiavelli, but as a source of problems rather than as a guide. One
should think of the relationship between politics and nature as that be-
tween two opposing football teams: the two teams influence each others
actions and reactions, but only in an agonistic sense.1 For Machiavelli,
our natural predispositions are not to be perfected in civic life; rather,
they are to be overcome: the wise prince creates modes and orders that
channel and tame human nature, transforming it into something pro-
ductive and good. However, this means that nature as a whole lacks any
sort of telic orientation and that so, too, does human nature in particu-
lar: we are not oriented towards the good; instead, men never work
any good unless through necessity and laws make them [men] good
(DI.3, see too aw VII.160). So the constant atelic movement of nature
1 Benners Machiavellis Ethics focuses attention on the extent to which Machiavellian

virtue requires the acknowledgment of limitations. The virtuous prince, in her analysis,
does not try to do everything but, instead, sets about doing what is possible for him, in his
situation, moderating his course and moving slowly to build firm foundations for his state.
I think that she is largely correct in this, and I would suggest that this involves recognizing
the obstacles presented by nature and discerning which can be overcome, which can be
avoided, and which must be simply accepted.
Sacrifice and the City 89
demands that the prince figure out how to adapt his modes and orders
to withstand those movements. Nature, it might not be too much of an
overstatement to say, is the first enemy that must be overcome; in fact,
one could read major portions of The Art of War as dealing with exactly
these issues that is, how the prince should respond to nature (awIV.19
25 and V.145160). While Machiavelli recognizes certain natural regu-
larities or necessities, these do not serve as the basis for a natural law we
should follow but, rather, as problems we endeavour to overcome.
Indeed, as Erica Benner observes, the concept of natural law, whether
attributed to divine authorship or not, makes little sense in Machiavellis
vocabulary.2
This takes us to second tension, that between change and stability. We
find that Machiavelli endorses both: he maintains not only that nature
has not changed since the time of the Romans but also that it is con-
stantly changing (D I.pr and I.6). The solution to these clashing visions,
according to Althussers reading, is a cyclical theory of history: by moving
in permanent cycles, the world can both change and not change.3 This
is suggestive, but not entirely helpful insofar as the cycle Machiavelli has
in mind in the passages of the Discourses Althusser cites is a political one
rather than a natural one. A simpler way of resolving the tension might
be to argue that, while nature is constantly changing, the natural princi-
ples that govern those changes have not altered since the time of Rome.
A true knowledge of history will enable one to see how Rome reacted to
those changes and better prepare one to react to contemporaneous
changes. So far these considerations operate at the level of Machiavellis
political theory; however, a deeper analysis of Machiavelli can be ac-
quired through a brief comparison with Heideggers reading of Aristotles
Physics. According to Heidegger, although Aristotle conceived of phusis
in terms of movement, movement was ultimately understood in terms of
rest, in the kind of standing still associated with the achievement of an
end, a telos. So for Heideggers Greeks, natures movements were di-
rected towards a kind of telic rest (ecpa 21617); for Machiavelli, as
noted, there is no telic rest. That is to say, change or movement is taken
as a fundamental principle of nature; there is no telic vector to this
change, it merely changes. Here the work of Alison Brown and Ada
Palmer is instructive. Both Brown and Palmer argue persuasively for (a)
Machiavellis interest in Lucretius and (b) that his primary concern in
reading Lucretius is with the account of the atomism and the swerve in
2 Benner, Machiavellis Ethics, 201.

3 Althusser, Machiavelli and Us, 346.
book II. The metaphysics of Lucretian atomism harmonize readily

with the account of Machiavelli I have just offered. For Lucretius, the
falling and swerving of atoms produce constant change without telic
rest, but the principles underlying the falling and swerving atomism
remain constant. Brown writes: they [Machiavellis notes on book II
of Lucretius] all contribute key ideas to his philosophy that have hith-
erto seemed difficult to reconcile.4 She points in particular to the rec-
onciliation of precisely the tension under discussion here: the tension
between Machiavellis assertions that the world is constantly changing
and that it is not changing. If one accepts that falling, swerving atoms are
the basic unit of the world around us, then one can account for both the
constant atelic change Machiavelli endorses (because it is all just falling
atoms) and the claim that the world hasnt changed (because whatever it
is, it is still constituted by swerving falling atoms). This strategy enables
us to reconcile Machiavellis purported atomism with his endorsement
of an eternal world: if by the world we mean earth, then it is not eternal
insofar as it did not and will not always exist; but if we mean the falling
and swerving of atoms that give rise to the earth, then it is eternal. And
this reconciliation becomes easier if we keep in mind that Machiavellis
endorsement was less a matter of metaphysics than it was of politics. In
asserting the eternity of the world, one removes an obstacle to the imita-
tion of ancient education: the belief in an imagined kingdom that sur-
passes this world
In any case, for Aristotle, and by extension Aristotelian scholasticism,
nature is changeable to the extent that natural things are understood as
possessing an internal principle of motion, and these motions or changes
can be understood in terms of certain telic orientations and forms that
remain fundamentally unchangeable.5 There is logic beneath the change-
ability of particular natural things; since nature does not proceed ran-
domly Aristotle understands fortune (tyche) as, strictly speaking, only in
the mind.6 The Christian tradition saw fortune in a similar way, such that
it was only the human misinterpretation of divine providence. The atelic
changeability of nature in Machiavellian metaphysics entails the reality of
fortune as a force in the eternal world. I return to this point later.
The third tension is in what counts as nature. At times (as in our first
two tensions) Machiavelli seems to oppose nature to something like con-
vention, in the manner of the classical philosophers. At other times,
4 Brown, Return of Lucretius, 76

5 See Aristotle, Physics, 192b1030 and 193b520. For a scholastic version of the
same, see Aquinas, In libros Physicorum, liber 2, lectio 1, n.5.
6 Aristotle, Physics, 198a510.
however, he suggests that ossified traditions and conventions become

natural. So, he refers to the hereditary prince as a natural prince (P II)
and refers to the natural affection that the people bear towards their
hereditary barons (P IV). The list could go on. This tension is particu-
larly vexing insofar as, if taken literally, it borders on the paradoxical. I
suspect, however, that, in the later context, he is referring to what appears
natural to people and in the former to what is really natural. The resolu-
tion of this tension returns us to the modes and orders instituted by the
new prince. When modes and orders have been in place for many years,
for many generations, they begin to seem natural to the people living
with them: it seems natural for the hereditary prince to rule or for the
people to love their barons. But since there must have been a first prince,
or new prince, what appears natural to the people was at one time im-
posed, with some degree of offence (P III and VI).
G o d a n d F o r t u n e , M a c h i av e l l i a n d B o e t h i u s
Roughly a thousand years before Machiavelli was implicated in some

kind of revolutionary conspiracy, imprisoned, and tortured, Anicius
Manlius Severinus Boethius found himself in a similar situation. Like
Machiavelli, he responded to his situation by writing; unlike Machiavelli,
he died in prison. Boethiuss Consolation of Philosophy begins with the au-
thor in a jail cell lamenting his unjust imprisonment and wishing for
death. He is soon interrupted by the appearance of Lady Philosophy.
While the figure of Lady Philosophy is somewhat mysterious and suscep-
tible to numerous interpretations, it does not serve our limited purposes
here to delve into the precise nature of his guest. It is enough to note
that she presents herself as his doctor and offers him a kind of therapy.
This consoling proceeds, as she makes clear, in two stages: the first stage
will use softer remedies to clear away Boethiuss errors, while the second
stage will use harsher cures to lead him to the truth.7 It is worth noting
that, among his errors, the principle one indeed, the one that book II
focuses upon entirely involves fortune. Without wanting to claim that
Machiavelli was familiar with Boethiuss texts, I do think that it provides
a useful contrast to the thought of Machiavelli and that, by juxtaposing
the two, we will be able to highlight certain themes in Machiavelli that
might otherwise go unnoticed. So what is Boethiuss error regarding
fortune? Essentially, it is a belief in the reality and efficacy of fortune:
Boethius complains that God who controls everything else in the
7 Boethius, Consolation of Philosophy, I.6.

universe does not care for humankind and, in his negligence, leaves us
at the mercy of fortune. Boethius sings:
There is nothing discharged from the old orders

Deserting its posts and proper position
Controlling all things toward their set object
Only human deeds you [God] disdain to reign in
In the way they deserve you, their helmsman
So it is; why can slippery Fortune
Cause such change and such sport.8
In Boethiuss complaint, we are at the mercy of fortune because God

does not control human deeds. Unlike the rest of nature, which Boethius
perceives to be following set orders dictated by God, we are ignored by
God. This has a twofold result: on the one hand, we are free, but on the
other hand, we are at the mercy of fortune.
Lady Philosophys goal, throughout the rest of the text, is to persuade
Boethius that he and humankind in general is not scorned by God
but, rather, that all things are ordered by his providence without thereby
denying human freedom and responsibility. The details of this explana-
tion are, for our purposes, not important. The important thing for us is
the claim that fortune is illusory: according to Lady Philosophy, what
mortals refer to as fortune is not really fortune at all but simply a misin-
terpretation of divine providence. This is to say, the existence of fortune
and the existence of providence are taken to be mutually exclusive: if
God exists and Gods power embraces all things, then there is no such
thing as fortune. This conclusion, it is worth noting, is already hinted
at in the closing argument of book II, in which Lady Philosophy argues
that every fortune is good fortune.9 As she develops her argument, she
revises her claim to mean that, in the strict sense, there no such thing as
fortune and especially no such thing as misfortune. No matter what hap-
pens, the wise will not complain as they will understand every event as a
good.10 According to Lady Philosophy, the apparent ups and down of
fortune, all the vicissitudes of life, are incorporated into a single divine
plan, a single still point that interprets, governs, and unifies the multi-
plicity and changeability of the visible world. As Lady Philosophy puts it:
This sequence moves heaven and the stars, balances the elements
among themselves one with the other, and transforms these elements in
8 Ibid., I.m.5.
9 Ibid., II.p.8.
10 Ibid., IV.p.3.
the interchange of each with each; the same sequence renews all the
things that are born and die, through the development of their offspring
and seed, resembling each other from generation to generation. This
sequence also ties together the actions and the fortune of mortal men, in
an indecomposable interweaving of causes, and since this sequence sets
out from the loom of motionless Providence, it is necessarily the case that
these motions be unalterably well.11 The more one cultivates virtue and
wisdom, the closer one approximates the stillness of the divine; and it is
in this approximation and proximity that one can be said to be free.
The crucial difference between Machiavelli and Boethius is not
found in the question of freedom. Both admit, in one way or another,
that human beings are free and responsible for their actions. No, the
crucial difference is that Boethius and with him the mainstream of the
Christian tradition sees fortune as illusory, as a foolish misinterpreta-
tion of providence, while Machiavelli sees it as a real force in the world.
This difference, in turn, points us towards a deeper one: according to
Lady Philosophy, we can conclude from the omnipotence and omni-
benevolence of God that fortune as typically understood and as
described in book I or the early parts of book II of the Consolation
does not exist. Ultimately, the denial of the reality of fortune by Lady
Philosophy is predicated upon Gods transcending of the world: we know
that fortune is illusory because we know that God exists outside the world
and governs it. For Lady Philosophy, the world is perpetual but not eter-
nal.12 Eternity, in her usage, means not merely always existing but a
kind of changeless stillness of a permanent now with no past or future.13
The perpetuity of the world (as Lady Philosophy makes clear) is defined
for reasons we dont need to get into here by the surpassablity of the
world. Indeed, for Lady Philosophy the perpetuity of the world is experi-
enced in swiftly passing moments, whatever stability it has derives from
and point towards the eternity of God. The non-eternity of the world, in
Boethius, means that the world points beyond itself towards the tran-
scendent eternity of God, and this, in turn, means that fortune is illusory.
One is free, according to Lady Philosophy, only to the extent that one
transcends the world and dwells under the shadow of providence; this
theme is present in Lacoste as well, and his words can be taken as a sum-
mary of Lady Philosophys view: the man who finds complete repose in
God escapes the worlds rule over him (ea 26).
11 Ibid., IV.p.6 (emphasis mine).

12 Ibid., V.p.6.
13 For a fuller exposition of this point, see Stump and Kretzmanns classic Eternity.
Machiavelli, on the other hand, reverses the Boethian position: the

eternity of the world means that it points towards nothing but itself:
change, not stillness, is the only constant. This being the case, fortune is
not illusory, or at least not in the same way as it is in The Consolation of
Philosophy. But if Boethius offers us a kind of modus ponens (if there is an
omnipotent God, then fortune is an illusion; there is an omnipotent
God, therefore fortune is an illusion), does Machiavellis position func-
tion as a kind of modus tollens? In other words, does Machiavellis admit-
tance of fortune into his ontology entail the rejection of God? Not
necessarily. In fact, at times it seems that Machiavelli blurs God and
fortune:
And although one ought not to reason of Moses, he having been a mere execu-
tor of the things that were ordained by God But let us consider Cyrus and the
others [Romulus and Theseus] who have acquired or founded kingdoms: you
will find them all wonderful [mirabilis], and if their particular actions and orders
are considered, they seem not discrepant from those of Moses, who had so great
a preceptor. And in examining their actions and life, one sees that fortune pro-
vided them with nothing other than the occasion which gave them the matter
into which they could introduce whatever form they pleased. (P VI)
Machiavelli begins by separating Moses from the other three on the basis
of Mosess discourse with God; however, by the end of the passage he has
united them in terms of their debt to fortune. The opportunity to exer-
cise virtue was given by fortune (not God) to both Moses and the pagan
founders. Moreover, fortune merely provides the unformed matter that
the virtuoso informs with new orders (P VI). This reverses the Boethian
Christian argument: rather than fortune being merely a human misun-
derstanding of divine providence, Machiavelli presents divine provi-
dence as a misunderstanding of fortune. It was not Gods will that
enabled Moses to act, but good luck. In the same way, he begins chapter
25 with a mention of God and fortune as both governing the things of
this world. However, here, too, Machiavelli quickly forgets God to focus
on fortune.14 Nevertheless, there is reason to believe that Machiavelli is
14 In this, I am in agreement with Parel, when he writes: Instead of being a ministra

of God, she [fortune] is the mistress of human destiny Briefly, in the Machiavellian
cosmos, there is no room for Gods providence (Machiavellian Cosmos, 65). Against this, in
Amazing Grace, Nederman argues that readers like Parel over-simplify medieval and late
medieval approaches to fortune. According to Nederman, one can find various medieval
figures running from Augustine of Hippo (What we call random occurrence [casam] is
nothing but that of which the reason and cause is hidden from view) through John of
not blurring them so much as it seems: God and fortune often appear as
two distinct forces operating at times in tandem and at time competi-
tively; the blurring occurs because we dont always know whether events
are due to God or to Fortune.15 Whatever the case, the reality of fortune
is a symptom of the deeper gulf between Boethius and Machiavelli and,
by extension, traditional Christian theology and Machiavelli. As Viroli
puts it, a God that allows the presence of an occult force in heaven with
such great power over the events on earth, and who allows a capricious
and furious Fortuna to torment mortals is a very different God from the
Christian God that governs nature and the human world through divine
providence.16 In sum, the Boethian denial of the reality of Fortune is
predicated on the claim that God transcends the world; on the other
hand, Machiavellis understanding of Fortune is inseparable from a vi-
sion of an imminent God as one agent among others acting in the eter-
nal world.
Salisbury affirming the reality of fortune (6267). But this isnt exactly the case: as the
quoted passage from Augustine reveals, they affirm it only in the same epistemic sense that
Lady Philosophy did that is, that things appear as fortune only because we lack a com-
plete understanding of providence. Fortune is unexpected to us, but not unplanned by
God. But, Nederman continues, Machiavelli also attributes plans to Fortune (628). Im not
sure how literally we should take those passages that personify fortune and attribute agency
to her though. It is quite possible that those are the same figures of speech that give us the
spirit of Music or power of Love and that, by chasing them down, we lose the forest for
these trees. In any case, there is no need to decide the issue on that basis alone since
Nederman has a more substantive argument as well: Machiavellis counsel that we should
not rely only on fortune but should work hard to take advantage of the opportunities for-
tune offers mirrors Thomistic teaching on grace and free will whereby fortune is a kind of
grace that still needs to be put to work by the will (6345). There is certainly something to
that parallel, but it needs further development. The discussion of grace and free will in
Christian theology is inseparable from debates about divine knowledge (or foreknowledge,
as the case may be) and power. The few references to scholastic thought that Nederman
finds in The Prince and elsewhere do not allow us to reconstruct Machiavellis position on
these disputed topics, and we cant say too much for sure regarding grace and free will. As
the parallel stands now, I suspect it goes in the opposite direction than intended: fortune
is a replacement for grace in an eternal world. Grace, as Nederman points out, is ultimately
oriented towards heavenly beatitude, while in Machiavellis case we are dealing with secu-
lar political aspirations rather than eternal beatitude (635). In sum, whatever parallels
there are between Machiavelli and traditional Christian teachings on this score, they are
far outweighed, to my mind, by the gulf between the quest for heaven and the quest for
stato, between the temporary world and the eternal world.
15 For more on this point, see Viroli, Machiavellis God, 302.
16 Ibid., 33.
M a c h i av e l l i s ozio and Lacostes opus dei
There is a sense that the Machiavellian man is haunted by his exposure

to fortune. The principle task in life, it seems, is to limit as much as pos-
sible the role that fortune can play in ones life, minimizing fortunes
strength through the judicious use of virtue. As chapter 25 puts it, she
can only demonstrate her power when virtue is not ordered to resist her
(P XXV). The exposure to fortune replaces or covers over other sorts of
exposure, including especially exposure to God. In his phenomenologi-
cal study of liturgy, Jean-Yves Lacoste argues that an opening move in li-
turgical experience is the choice to subordinate ones openness to the
world to ones exposure to a world-transcending God (ea 51). By this,
Lacoste wants to say that liturgical experience comes after other forms of
experience; that one arrives at the liturgical after passing through the
limits of the world and history. The exposure to God, in Lacoste, is not
limited by the world but instead marks ones transcending of the world
as a kind of symbolic exodus (ea 50). The liturgy, he goes on to argue,
symbolizes and realizes a kind of peace and fraternity not given in the
world of history and politics. For Lacoste, in being exposed before God
one is exposed to something transcending the world of history, ethics,
and politics. It is this kind of exposure that Machiavelli denies or pre-
vents: insofar as fortune displaces God and insofar as fortune is under-
stood in a political or moral register that is, as the counterpart to virtue
there is nothing outside of the world for the Machiavellian person to
be exposed to. The importance of fortune derives from the eternity of
the world.
One can wonder if Lacostes description of liturgy in terms of a vigil,
something that comes after the work of ethics and history, does not give
too much to the Machiavellian view of history. Jean-Yves Lacoste writes
in his phenomenology of the liturgy, Experience and the Absolute, that
there is an essential link between violence and history (ea, 55). He
correctly notes that, if this is granted, one either embraces a cynical view
of history in which there is no real peace or one takes an eschatological
view that locates peace somewhere beyond history: the philosophy of
history and moral philosophy, however, come up against violence (or ill
will) as against an inalienable secret of existence in history: although
non-violence can take place in history, it will never be its principle deter-
minant (ea, 56). In all this, Lacoste agrees with Machiavelli. But for
Lacoste, this determination of history by violence means that liturgy can
only be something done later, as vigil, after one has exhausted oneself
performing ethical and historical obligations. Here we can only ask the
question, but we will return to it later: Does Lacoste give up too much to
Machiavelli when he grants violence such a central role? Does this not
reproduce Machiavellianism? Despite his insistence on surpassing the
world, does Lacostes surpassing appear as a mere vacation from history
rather than as a true surpassing of the world? Is liturgy then not an in-
stance of what Machiavelli called ozio, a break from the violent work of
seeking peace? Lacoste justifies this break by claiming that liturgy takes
time from our sleeping hours rather than from our working hours. But
why should opus Dei take place only after hours? Isnt this an admission
that it is a dispensable ozio after all? And cannot this be absorbed into
Machiavellianism with the assertion that sleep is made possible by secu-
rity, and that security is made possible by the armed prophets virtue?
The liturgical surpassing of the world would then be a luxurious illu-
sion, a leisurely dream of an imagined republic, rather than a true sur-
passing. Without speculating on Lacostes intentions, we can say that
his text admits of this Machiavellian reading but does not require it.
Lacoste accepts a Machiavellian world minus the claim that the world is
eternal. In other words, he adopts the Machiavellian view of history and
politics precisely so as to place God outside of it, protecting and empha-
sizing the surpassable (non-eternal) nature of the world. In terms of
this chapter thus far, it could be described as a quasi-Boethian and
quasi-Machiavellian move, mixing the two in equal parts. It agrees with
Boethius in allowing for the surpassing of the world and in putting God
outside the world, but by interpreting history in the way he does
Machiavellianly he seems to deny the role Boethius gives to provi-
dence. The question for Lacoste, then, is as follows: Is the Boethian God
outside the world reconcilable with the Machiavellian view of history,
with fortune, rather than with providence?
How to Build a City
As a preparation for answering the above questions, let us turn to the

first book of the Discourses for Machiavellis most sustained treatment of
nature. Here he is concerned first of all with the choice of locations for
cities. He analyzes the advantages and disadvantages of fertile and in-
fertile lands insofar as the development of civic virtue is concerned. One
should note that this is not a worry found in Livy: when Livy considers
the geography of Rome, he is only concerned to identify which were the
first hills to be settled.17 Machiavelli argues that building cities in fertile
areas will liberate people from the onerous necessity of hard work, thus
17 Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, I.6.4.

allowing them to cultivate a life of leisure (ozio) rather than virtue. The
fertility of the area will remove the need for political structures and insti-
tutions to the extent that people will be able to satisfy their basic needs
without much effort or risk. However, settling in an infertile and inhos-
pitable area will force people to cultivate civic structures while, at the
same time, rendering them incapable (due to poor quality of the land)
of raising the crops needed for a flourishing population (thus leaving
the city weak and insecure). Neither horn of this dilemma is particularly
suited to political life. In fact, in both cases nature opposes the forma-
tion of successful communities: in the first, the fertile land provides little
incentive to enter into political life; in the second, the inhospitable land
threatens the lives of the inhabitants. Machiavellis solution to this prob-
lem is that one should choose the fertile grounds but introduce modes
and orders that create an artificial necessity to work in order to make
up for the lack of natural necessity. That is to say, since the people are
not led by nature to cooperate and work hard, it falls to the leader or
founder to compel them to do so: those [founders] should be imitated
who have inhabited very agreeable and fertile countries, apt to produce
men who are idle and unfit for any virtuous exercise, and who have had
the wisdom to prevent the harms that the agreeableness of the country
would have caused through idleness by imposing the necessity to exer-
cise on those who had to be soldiers (D I.1). The creation of artificial
necessity overcomes the fertility of the land by constructing a situation in
which the people live as if cooperation and hard work were needed to
sustain their lives when, in fact, they are not. The founder imposes an
artificial necessity that overcomes the limitations of the natural environ-
ment and human selfishness to create the ideal political environment.
The task of virt is to overcome the inhospitality of nature by introdu-
cing the modes and orders conducive to life. A similar point is made in
The Art of War. There, Fabrizio explains that people are more or less vir-
tuous not because of nature but because of princes; when the princes are
not good, virtue does not show itself (aw II.28491). This is why it is
truer than any other truth that, if the people are not soldiers, the prince
is to blame.
For Machiavelli, the world is eternal, but it is not a place of dwelling in
Heideggers sense. We have to force the world to accept us. This is done,
as we saw, through virtue. In Machiavellis thought, the pairing of the
eternity of the world with the inhospitality of the world means that hu-
man beings are never at rest but always struggling against a hostile world.
For Machiavelli, as much as for Heidegger, the human being is essen-
tially unheimlich. The homelessness of humankind in Machiavelli takes
the form of a striving for home. It is precisely because they have no
natural habitat that human beings must, under the direction of the
founder, come to dwell in cities. There is no guidance or natural law
that orients one towards this or that way of life; instead, as we saw earlier,
the founder imposes community upon people. In Being and Time (1927),
the homelessness of Dasein consists mainly in the fact that Dasein is
existentially and ontologically a being-in-the-world but not a part of the
world, a thing among other things. One is an individualized (vereinzelt)
Dasein (bt 233). This homelessness is more fundamental, Heidegger
continues, than absorption in das Man; it is admittedly covered over
and hidden by Daseins fallenness into the they but revealed in its
depths by Angst. A few years later, in Introduction to Metaphysics (1935),
Heidegger uses unheimlich to translate the Greek deinon, tying the con-
cept much closer to violence than is apparent in Being and Time. The
human being is uncanny (unhiemlich) and, as such, must forge a home in
the world with violence, wresting stability and order from the overwhelm-
ing sway of nature (im 167). Is this far from Machiavelli or are they two
sides of the same coin?
One can push this even further, with a reference to the work of Lacoste.
In his discussion of precisely this topic in Heidegger, he (Lacoste) notes
that Heideggerian homelessness is conditioned on the fact that we are
being-in-the-world that is, that the world precedes us and envelops us:
If we belong to the world then the world is not something that fun-
damentally belongs to us or that we have established. It precedes us as
something for which we have not wished, as that which pre-exists and
outlives us, and where the mode of our presence in it must be under-
stood as that of house arrest (ea 12). Much the same can be said of
Machiavellis world. We find ourselves in a world neither hospitable nor
adapted for our purposes, and we have no escape. In both cases
Heidegger and Machiavelli the task becomes to make ones way in
this world not of ones choosing. In the case of Being and Time, we do
this by falling into the everydayness of das Man, anaesthetizing our-
selves in idle chatter so as to ignore or hide from this predicament. In
the case of Machiavelli, one embraces the modes and orders of the
founder. According to Machiavelli, all cities are built either by those na-
tive to the area or by foreigners (D I.1), but in a certain sense everybody
is a foreigner. Indeed, those Machiavelli classifies as natives are merely
those who do not have to go far to find a defensible place. In no way does
he understand native as indicating any special connection to the land
moral, spiritual, political, or otherwise. In that sense, as our previous
discussion should have made clear, no such relation obtains with the
world as such. It is only after one has, under the direction of a founder,
carved out a space that one can speak of these kinds of connections. But
even then, in Machiavelli, the connection is primarily to the institutions,

modes, and orders under which one lives rather than to the land as such.
To the extent that one feels a special connection to the land, Machiavelli
would argue that one does not feel it with the land per se but, rather,
with the land as worked over by the modes and orders of ones city.
According to Heideggers account in his 1951 essay entitled Building,
Dwelling, Thinking, the essence of building is dwelling (bdt 361).
Building, in the sense Heidegger has in mind, is not mere construction
but, rather, a kind of disclosure of being or articulation of the place.
Heidegger writes of a footbridge that it doesnt merely connect the
banks, but the banks emerge as banks only as the bridge crosses the
stream. As he goes on, he suggests that the bridge gathers the fourfold
into a single place, enabling one to dwell within that fourfold. The tone
of the Heidegger of the 1950s is less dramatic than that of the Heidegger
of earlier essays; as John Caputo puts it, mythopoetry replaced the bom-
bast and struggle of the 1930s.18 While building Heideggers footbridge
or peasant hut certainly requires hard labour, the tone and imagery of
the essays suggest that buildings blossom forth from the earth rather
than being imposed upon it. And certainly nobody gets killed. Building
the bridge doesnt require sacrifice or violence in Heideggers telling,
despite the fact that there is a strong tradition connecting bridge-
building with human sacrifice (via immurement) in the peasant folkways
of Germany: to make the bridge secure, one must bury a child in its
foundations.19 But even as Heidegger represses sacrificial violence, the
peaceful, bucolic nature of the essay is haunted by death. Early in the es-
say, Heidegger notes that the essential being of the mortal is being ca-
pable of death as death, and the essays final pages describe a coffin
(bdt 352 and 362). Dwelling, it turns out, is inseparable from death.20
The closing paragraph of the essay references a housing shortage and
offers another iteration of homelessness, this time being not as a transla-
tion of deinon but as indicating a lack of dwelling. Heideggers immedi-
ate concern is to remind his audience that constructing housing is not
the same as building dwellings, but the old buildings that were destroyed
and that need to be replaced were destroyed in the Second World War.
Heidegger is concerned that the new construction projects will provide
18 Caputo, Demythologizing Heidegger, 179.

19 To be clear, this tradition is not peculiar to the Germans there is a persistent
legend about London Bridge being built the same way but we would expect Heidegger
to have some knowledge of the German tradition.
20 This point is made admirably by Young, Heideggers Later Philosophy, 64ff.
homes but not dwellings: dwelling is not an organic outgrowth of earth

but, rather, something created and achieved. In this instance, it has to be
achieved by those with the power to organize responses to crises: the
princes of postwar West Germany. And with this paragraph, Heidegger
finds himself, despite himself, returning to the paths blazed by Machiavelli.
If gods dwell in the vineyards of Rome, well, the terraced vineyards of the
Roman hills were made possible by the modes and orders of Romulus (or,
if Heidegger prefers a Greek example, the olive groves of Athens were
made possible by the modes and orders of Theseus). This is why
Machiavelli will sacrifice most other goods at the altar of stability: for with-
out a stable city, one is thrust back into the inhospitable world. The hous-
ing crisis is natural and normal: the patria, the heimat, dwelling rests on
the modes and orders of the prince. The combination of these two real-
izations entails that the city must be protected at all costs, against all
threats, both foreign and domestic.
C a l u m n y, A c c u s a t i o n , a n d S c a p e g o a t s
We have already noted the connection between violence and tradition,

on the one hand, and violence and founding, on the other. The armed
prophet comes to power through the use of violence, and the modes
and orders introduced by the prophet require periodic repetitions of
that founding violence to stay vibrant and effective. In both cases, we
could characterize these as instances of the fertile, good violence distin-
guished, in sacrificial logic, from the destructive, bad violence. Both his-
tory (what happens) and tradition (our interpretation of what happens)
are soaked in violence. The connection between history and violence
forged by Machiavelli that is, a connection in which violence is taken
as normal and, indeed, the motor of history has been widely accepted,
even by philosophers who would not consider themselves Machiavellian
(as we saw in our discussion of Lacoste). In Machiavellis work as a
whole, violence never recedes from view; nevertheless, the goal of this
violence is peace, the establishment of a new principality adorned and
strengthened with good arms and good laws, in which the citizens feel
free and secure enough to attend to the joys and sorrows of ordinary
life.21 There is a calming passage in The Prince, in which Machiavelli de-
scribes the successful ruler in terms that seem far from the violence
found on other pages:

A prince should also show himself a lover of the virtues, giving recognition to
virtuous men and he should honor those who are excellent in an art. Next, he
should inspire his citizens to follow their pursuits quietly, in trade and in agricul-
ture and in every other pursuit of men But he should prepare rewards for
whoever wants to do these things, and for anyone who thinks up any way of ex-
panding his city or his state. Besides this, he should at suitable times of the year
keep the people occupied with festivals and spectacles. And because every city is
divided into guilds or into clans, he should take some account of those commu-
nities, meet with them sometimes, and make himself an example of humanity
and munificence. (P XXI)22
It is hard to reconcile this view of city life with the claims made earlier in
my paragraph. After all, this situation seems both peaceful and inside of
history. But it isnt so clear: the situation described here needs to be read
in connection with Machiavellis earlier discussion of Cesare Borgias
conquest of the Romagna. Borgia did bring peace and stability to a pre-
viously corrupt and uncivil place, but he did this by inflicting all sorts of
pain and suffering on the countryside, culminating in the murder of his
own officer, Remirro de Orco (P VII). Machiavellian peace is the prod-
uct of (good, sacrificial) violence rather than the antithesis of violence.
One might with some plausibility describe it as the peace of Cacus.
Describing this peace, Augustine writes:
Let us, however, consider a creature depicted in poetry and fable: a creature so
unsociable and wild that people have preferred to call him a semi-man rather
than a man. His kingdom was the solitude of an awful cavern, and he was so sin-
gular in his wickedness that a name was found for him reflecting that fact for
he was called Cacus, and kakos is the Greek word for wicked. He had no wife
with whom to give and receive caresses; no children to play with when little or
instruct when a little bigger, and no friends with whom to enjoy converse, not
even with his father Vulcan. He gave nothing to anyone; rather, he took what he
wanted from anyone he could and whenever he could. Despite all this, however,
in the solitude of his own cave, the floor of which, as Virgil describes it, ever
reeked with the blood of recent butchery, he wished for nothing other than a
peace in which no one should molest him, and a rest which no mans violence,
22 John McCormack points out that the word translated as spectacles is spettacoli,
the plural form of the same word he uses to describe the Remirro incident. This point
can lend a fairly different tone to the passage. And though I wont develop the point here,
I suspect that a thoughtful comparison of these spettacoli with Machiavellis discussion of
the bloody and violent sacrifices of antiquity in the Discourses would reinforce the analyses
offered in this book. See McCormick, Prophetic Statebuilding, 7.
or the fear of it, should disturb Thus for all his monstrous nature and wild
savagery, his aim was peace: for he sought, by these monstrous means, only to
preserve the peace of his own life.23
If Cacuss violent peace is rooted in his monstrous nature, the close con-
nection between the desire for peace and Machiavellian violence is root-
ed in the doctrine of the eternity of the world. Note that Machiavelli
complained, as we saw in chapter 1, that the Christian rejection of the
doctrine has, in his sense, made people insufficiently violent and less
peaceful. If one is to achieve Machiavellian peace one must injure peo-
ple so gravely that they cannot respond (P III).
Machiavellis presentation of peace as the product of sacrificial vio-
lence, of cruelty well used, is sometimes taken as one of the novelties of
his teaching. And while I dont object to that reading, I think that there
is a deeper sense in which we can say that Machiavellis teaching is not
new at all but, in fact, returns to something old. That is to say, it returns
to archaic sacrificial religion wherein peace is the product of violence.
Ive gestured in this direction more than a few times in the preceding
chapters, but now it is time to make the point more substantively.
We have to depart a bit more from the text of Machiavelli and turn to
those of Ren Girard and his understanding of the relationship between
sacrifice and archaic religion. In Violence and the Sacred, he argues that
archaic religion develops as a ritualization of what was, at first, a spontan-
eous act of violence (vs 92). This spontaneous violence develops out of
and completes what Girard calls a sacrificial crisis. As already noted, in
Girards terminology, sacrifice is used to distinguish legitimate (good)
from illegitimate (bad) forms of violence (vs 378). When, for a variety
of possible reasons, the sacrificial rites are no longer able to serve that
purpose, the community enters into a sacrificial crisis. In such a crisis,
the difference between legitimate and illegitimate violence breaks
down, and the various rules, taboos, rites, and customs that previously
structured and ordered the community are rendered impotent. The vio-
lence spreads throughout, respecting neither person, nor rank, nor sta-
tion. Due to the breakdown of modes and orders, difference is abolished:
the combatants become more alike the more they fight just as two
boxers assume the same stance in the ring. This brings us to a surprising
paradox: the more we fight, the more similar we become, and as we
become more similar, the more we fight. At the apex of this cycle, the
rivals become nearly indistinguishable (vs 1439). The sacrificial crisis
23 Augustine, City of God, XIX.12.

culminates in undifferentiated violence, exemplified in the violence of

the Bacchanalia in Euripides, where all differences, boundaries, and re-
strictions are broken down and overturned in the fury of desire (vs 126
30). The temperature continues to rise, until either the burning violence
consumes the people or a scapegoat is found. In the latter case, the swirl-
ing violence eventually begins to orbit around a specific person as the
combatants gang up on this unfortunate individual or group. First one
person blames a specific person or group for causing this trouble, then
another imitates this desire to punish said person or group, and another,
and so on, until the entirety of violence and rage is (re)directed exclu-
sively on this person or group. This unfortunate soul is the scapegoat.
The choice of the scapegoat is not motivated by forensic concerns he is
not blamed because he is actually guiltier than the others but, rather,
because he is the easiest target: maybe he has a physical or mental im-
pairment that makes self-defence harder; or maybe he is a stranger with
few or no allies to defend him; and so on. As with predatory animals, the
weakest of the pack is targeted for the hunt. The killing, torture, expul-
sions of the scapegoat function to redirect the intra-communal violence
away from the community. By receiving all the violence of the others, the
scapegoat unites the community and restores calm (vs 789). In restor-
ing calm, the violence suffered by the scapegoat can appear as beneficial.
The death of the scapegoat transforms the villain into a saviour and is
the birth of that notoriously ambiguous thing, the mysterium tremendens et
fascinans, known as the Sacred. The sacred leads to ritualized violence.
When facing similar crises, the people remember what has worked in
the past and return to it, not this time as a spontaneous murder but,
rather, as a ritual sacrifice. If we look for the presence of this archaic
sacred, this strange power that causes the rise and fall of the community
in Machiavelli, we could do worse than to focus our attention on fortune.
According to Girard, the sacred can be easily applied, mutandis mutan-
di, to fortune: The sacred embraces all those forces that threaten to
harm man or trouble his peace. Natural forces and sickness are not dis-
tinguished from the threat of a violent disintegration of the community.
Although man-made violence plays a dominant role in the dialectics of
the sacred and is never completely omitted it tends to be relegated to
the background and treated as if it emanated from outside man (vs58).
If Dame Fortuna is a goddess, then she is certainly an archaic one.
One of the defining features of archaic religion, according to Girard,
is a belief in the fertility of violence, that legitimate violence violence
properly channelled and directed rather than random and chaotic can
be used not to destroy but to build and preserve the community. We have
seen this kind of dynamic at work over and over again in Machiavelli.
The judicious use of cruelty builds up the community (for example, it

establishes law and order in the Romagna and prevents riots in Pistoia)
by directing violence towards a few individuals rather than allowing it to
spread and destroy the entire community. Cruelty well used is nothing
other than a revival of the scapegoating violence of archaic religion.
Machiavellis novelty, then, is the novelty of a return to something old,
older than ancient philosophy, to the archaic pre-Socratic sacrifices de-
picted by the tragedians.
One obvious objection to this reading presents itself: Machiavelli tells
us, in The Prince, that one should only proceed against someone with
manifest cause (P XVII). That is to say, Machiavelli demands that those
to whom the prince is cruel be guilty; he must have a reason for his
cruelty. It cannot be, as in the case of archaic religion, merely a temper
tantrum. Indeed, one could go further and argue that archaic scapegoat-
ing, insofar as it proceeds against someone without cause, is precisely
what Machiavelli recommends against. Nevertheless, this objection can
be parried: a key element of archaic scapegoating is that the persecuting
community believes that it has cause; it believes the scapegoat is guilty.
Despite what Girards vocabulary can suggest to the casual reader, the
archaic communities do not know that they are scapegoating that is,
they do not know that they are killing the innocent (vs 83; thsfw 116
18; sg 111). In their eyes, the scapegoat really does have it coming.
This is why Girard thinks that there is always an important degree of
misunderstanding present in myth. Machiavellis emphasis on the need
for manifest cause is readily interpretable in terms of the ancient rites
demand for unanimity: the victims guilt must be publicly attested to so
that the people can consent to the victims death. The demand that the
prince have manifest cause for proceeding against his victim supports,
rather than opposes, the reading offered here.
The punishment with manifest cause that Machiavelli mentions in The
Prince can be profitably compared with the account, in the Discourses, of
accusations and calumny. Machiavelli writes: Between one side and the
other there is the difference that calumnies have need of neither wit-
nesses nor of any other specific corroborations to prove them, so that
everyone can be calumniated by everyone; but everyone cannot, of course, be
accused, since accusations have need of true corroborations and of cir-
cumstances that show the truth of the accusations. Men are accused to
magistrates, to peoples, to councils; they are calumniated in piazzas and
loggias (D I.8, emphasis mine). The problem with calumny is not pri-
marily the lack of evidence but that everyone can be calumniated by
everyone. To be sure, the lack of evidence is one of the reasons this is
possible, but the more fundamental problem is that anyone can do it.
Calumny threatens to spread throughout the city, with each person

accusing the other, reproaches and recriminations flying through the
streets with no respect for proper authority. Instead of appealing through
the proper channels established by the orders of the city, the calumnia-
tor sidesteps them and ultimately eliminates them. The difference be-
tween magistrate and private citizen is neither acknowledged nor
respected; in this way the calumniator blurs the distinction between
the legitimate (sacrificial) violence of the magistrates and the illegiti-
mate violence of the mob. Calumny is a threat not merely to the one ca-
lumniated but also to the modes and orders of the city. It is, in a nutshell,
the bad kind of violence that threatens communities. When calumny is
allowed to spread its contagion, as it was at Florence, the result is inevi-
table: on every side hatred surged; whence they went to division, from
division to sects; from sects to ruin (D I.8). Calumny produces a kind of
sacrificial crisis wherein the modes and orders of the city are destroyed.
Indeed, one of Girards descriptions of the sacrificial crisis The institu-
tions lose their vitality, the protective faade of the society gives way, so-
cial values are rapidly eroded, and the whole cultural structure seems on
the verge of collapse (vs 49) could be read as a gloss on Machiavellis
account of calumny.
In contrast to the crisis of calumny, the alternative path accusation
relies on and reinforces the modes and orders of the city. The accusa-
tion enables the humours of the people to be vented in an ordered way
(D I.7) without hurt to the city. Indeed, it seems that accusations serve to
benefit the city by allowing for the public punishment of citizens. As
Machiavelli explains, when a citizen is crushed by the public, there is lit-
tle or no disorder in a republic, even if the citizen was wrongly punished
(D I.7). Why? Because to the extent that it was done with public consent
there is no single individual or group that can be blamed for the crush-
ing, thus avoiding a cycle of vengeance between partisans and sects. In
this way, problems in the city can be resolved without endangering the
modes and orders of the city. Accusation is not non-violent in contrast to
the violence of calumny both seek the death of another citizen. Nor
should we contrast them in terms of adherence to rules of evidence; it is
not impossible that the calumniator have evidence for what he whispers
in piazzas and loggias or that the public accuser mishandle evidence.
Instead, the only thing distinguishing calumny from accusation is that
calumny undermines the modes and orders of the city while accusation
respects them, in particular the difference between legitimate and ille-
gitimate violence. In short, the distinction Machiavelli draws between
accusation and calumny is only an instance of the broader sacrificial
distinction between good and bad violence: accusation is a case the good
kind of violence, and calumny is a case of the bad kind of violence.
A well-ordered city will provide the means for citizens to accuse one
another; a city without good orders will suffer the destructive effects of
calumny. Accusation and calumny are therefore not distinct species but
two different manifestations of the same reality, the reality of conflict
and violence within cities and between citizens. Violence is at the heart
of the city. Machiavelli repeatedly affirms the fertility of (good) violence:
the city at peace is the product of the princes (mostly legitimate) vio-
lence and, as such, is subordinated to violence. This thought is, as we
have already noted, not only not new but also downright archaic. Im not
sure to what extent modern philosophy is determined by Machiavelli
the scholarship on the wirkungsgeschichte of Machiavelli varies from
Strausss view that he is highly determinative of the trajectory of modern
thought to the opposite extreme, that he is utterly inconsequential (this
seems to be Heideggers view) but to whatever extent it is, it is to that
extent a return to the archaic. I dont hope to add anything to this de-
bate, as interesting as it is, but only want to point out that we can discern
the fingerprints of archaic thinking in Machiavellis work, which is not
surprising, considering his fascination with antiquity. When a great mind
is motivated to think deeply about ancient modes and orders we should
not be surprised to find that the same mind is influenced by them.
5
New Princes, New Philosophies,

andOldGods
I would like to begin this chapter with a discussion of Machiavellis

minor work from 1520, The Life of Castruccio Castracani. It is a short and
strange work; beginning with a short discourse on fortune and virtue, it
turns to a biography of Castruccio and culminates with a series of apho-
risms attributed to him. This biography, needless to say, is the stylized
biography of Renaissance humanism rather than a biography informed
by modern historical scruples; it is designed to depict a moral exemplum,
a model his readers should follow.1 J. Macfarland argues for two points
that are relevant here. First, Macfarland notes that Castruccios life is
designed to illustrate several of the political and military principles
found in The Prince, the Discourses and The Art of War. Second, given this,
Machiavelli seems to have wanted to hold up Castruccio as a modern
example of one who, as it were, successfully put Machiavellis ideas into
practice.2 The text culminates with a list of aphorisms attributed to re-
workings of passage taken from Diogenes Laertiuss Lives of the Philosophers.
Their presence indicates that Castruccio provides us with clues to the
understanding of philosophy Machiavelli proposes as an alternative to
the philosophy of imagined republics.
Machiavelli begins the biography of Castruccio by reflecting on the
fact that very often the greatest men arise from low origins or over-
come great torments. Sometimes, Machiavelli remarks, they overcome
1 On this point, and its relevance for reading cc, see Bondanella, Machiavellis
Archetypical Prince. This paper is particularly important for one of the claims that I
advance in this book: that Machiavelli immanentizes religion. Bondanella shows that the
biography of Castruccio follows the structure of medieval hero-tales but eliminates every
transcendental element, every reference to angels, demons, saints, and so on; instead, poli-
tics is all.
2 Macfarland, Machiavellis Imagination of Excellent Men, 13346.
New Princes, New Philosophies, andOldGods 109
this shame by purporting to be descended from the gods. This, he claims,

is appropriate for it shows that fortune, rather than prudence (pruden-
za), is responsible for greatness. His point is unclear especially since it
seems to run contrary to a central teaching in both The Prince and the
Discourses but it seems to be that when one starts out so low only good
fortune can account for a rise to greatness. Castruccio, it turns out, is one
of these men. However, as he goes on, we find that Castruccios success is
not based merely on fortune but, instead, involves both fortune and vir-
tue. In this, we are not far from the opening chapter of The Prince, in
which virtue and fortune are identified as two ways of gaining power.
However, if Castruccios ascent to power is based primarily or predomin-
antly on fortune, he hardly seems a good candidate for imitation or of
interest to Machiavellis friends since they are men who enjoy virtuous
deeds (azioni virtuose vi dilettate). And in any case, one cannot reasonably
expect to imitate anothers fortune. So despite the reference to fortune
in the opening pages, one could reasonably conclude that Machiavelli is
more interested in Castruccios virtue than in his fortune. If Castruccio
owes his success to fortune it is only because she has given him certain
opportunities to exercise virtue rather than success per se. In the case of
Castruccio, fortune ensured that, as a foundling, he was taken in and
raised by an old priest and his sister. Later, fortune would ensure that he
has the opportunity to leave the priest and become a soldier. However,
from this point onward, Castruccios rise to power is founded on his vir-
tue. In this, he is no different from the armed prophets of The Prince,
who, while attaining power through their own efforts and strength, were
dependent upon fortune insofar as she created the conditions (e.g., the
enslavement of the Hebrews, the dispersal of the Athenians) that the
armed prophet exploits. Indeed, commentators have repeatedly drawn
our attention to the similarities between Castruccio and the four armed
prophets of The Prince.3 Castruccio, however, does not rise to the level of
the four armed prophets discussed in the latter insofar as he does not
introduce new modes and orders on the same scale. Each of the four
armed prophets in The Prince founded important civilizations or empires.
Castruccio is not nearly as important as those four. He comes closer to
Agathocles the Sicilian, a man who also rose from low birth to a position
of great power through crime and cruelty. Nevertheless, it has been
argued that Castruccios biography is meant to retell the story of the four
3 See Bondanella, Machiavellis Archetypical Prince; and Schnapp, Machiavellian

Foundlings.
armed prophets in more modern guise; here the failures of Castruccio

function to warn us of the difficulty of obtaining such heights.4
Castruccios aforementioned rejection of the life of a priest for the life
of a soldier and captain dramatizes Machiavellis endorsement of ancient
education and all that it contains over and against that of the Christian
religion. Machiavelli tells us that, as a youth, Castruccio rejects his ec-
clesiastical books for weapons; upon doing so, he begins to display his
great virtue of both body and mind (virt di animo e di corpo grandissima).
This is the first time that Machiavelli uses the word virt in the narrative
of Castruccios life proper as opposed to in his introductory remarks. So,
it is with the abandonment of ecclesiastical things that virtue first ap-
pears in the narrative. In chapter 1, we noted Machiavellis complaint
that Christian education, in contrast to that of the Romans, does not
teach a distinction between good and bad violence and, thereby, makes
one less capable of using violence effectively. In the Discourses, his com-
plaint associates the belief in the eternity of the world with Roman vir-
tue; here, he associates virtue with the rejection of ecclesiastical things.
This is the flipside of the same coin: the ecclesiastic things that Castruccio
rejects presuppose a belief in something transcending the world. It ap-
pears both here and in the Discourses that virtue requires sacrifice. Later,
upon being introduced to Messer Francesco, Castruccio declares that
nothing would make him happier than abandoning his studies for the
priesthood (or, more precisely, studii del prete, the studies of a priest) to
become a soldier:
One day he [Messer Francisco] desired to find out more about the boy, and
when he was told the story of his background he resolved to take him under his
wing. One day he called Castruccio into his presence and asked him where he
would prefer to be, in the house of a gentleman who would teach him to ride and
use weapons, or in the house of a priest, where he would be taught nothing but
offices and Masses [uffizii e messe]. It did not escape Messer Francesco that
Castruccio brightened at the mention of horses and arms. The boy stood before
4 Schnapp, Machiavellian Foundlings, 65376. See, too, the insightful discussion of

this question by Erica Benner in Machiavellis Prince, 7287. I think Benner is largely correct
that Machiavelli suggests Heiro is a more obtainable model than are the four major princes
of the chapter; but, despite this, I cannot share her conclusion that the discussion of the
four is entirely ironic. I take it that the metaphor of the archer that opens the chapter sug-
gests that, by aiming at the higher target, one may hit the lower one that is, by modelling
Romulus one may become Heiro. The deeper point, however, may be less about how or
who to imitate than about the activities of founders. In other words, Benners suggestion
that The Prince is a republican book revealing the nature of princely power is, I think,
largely correct; chapter 6 reveals the discourse-forming power of founding princes.
him in humble silence, but when Messer Francesco encouraged him to speak,
Castruccio replied that if Messer Antonio [the priest] did not mind, nothing
would make him happier than abandoning his priestly studies [studii del prete]
and taking up those of a soldier. (cc 406, translation slightly modified)
This is the key point in Castruccios life as Machiavelli presents it; after
entering into the service of Francesco, Castruccios rise to pre-eminence
continues unabated. It is the decision to abandon the house of the priest
that launches him on his career. To understand Castruccios decision
more fully, it is worthwhile to pause and consider the life of a priest and
that of a soldier.
T h e T r a n s f i g u r at i o n o f S o l d i e r i n g
Machiavellis longest consideration of soldiering is found in The Art of

War. In the preface to the text, Machiavelli points out that there is a long-
standing opposition or disjunction between military and civilian life,
such that the two are seen as having little or nothing to do with each
other. Indeed, says Machiavelli, when a man enters into the military, he
feels the need to change his character entirely, leaving civilian ways be-
hind. Nevertheless, he continues, if the orders of antiquity were still fol-
lowed, this opposition would not be so drastic. In fact, in antiquity the
military life presupposed and perfected that of the civilian, not the op-
posite: And if in every other order of cities or kingdoms the utmost dili-
gence was used to keep men faithful, peaceful and full of the fear of
God, in the military it was redoubled (aw Pr.5). Machiavelli suggests
that, if the ancient orders were followed, one would again find the most
faithful, peaceful, and devout men in the military. But why are the an-
cient orders not followed, if they are so clearly superior? In the preface
itself, Machiavelli avoids making any kind of explicit explanation. Later
the main speaker in the dialogue, Fabrizio, when asked why ancient or-
ders are not followed, answers with a lament for the effect of Christian
mercy on soldiering. Although I have already quoted this passage, it is
worth doing so again:
The other reason [for the lack of military virtue] is that todays mode of living,
on account of the Christian religion, does not impose the necessity to defend
oneself that there was in antiquity. For then, men conquered in war were either
killed or remained in perpetual slavery, where they lived their lives miserably.
Their conquered towns were either dissolved or, their goods taken, the inhabit-
ants were driven out and sent dispersed throughout the world. So those over-
come in war suffered every last misery. Frightened by this fear, men kept military
training alive and honored whoever was excellent in it. But today this fear is for
the most part lost. Of the conquered, few of them are killed; no one is kept in
prison for long, because they are freed with ease. (aw II.30508)
It seems to Fabrizio that the relatively lenient punishment for losing a

battle or war has made princes neglect the ancient orders. As I argue
earlier, the martial incompetence Fabrizio laments is an effect of
Christianitys discomfort with violence, which is, in turn, due to the re-
jection of the sacrificial distinction. These reflections can lead to the
conclusion that it is Christianity, as much as or more than anything else,
that keeps Fabrizios contemporaries from embracing ancient orders.
In both The Art of War and The Life of Castruccio Castracani there is an
opposition between two ways of life: the life of the priest and the life of
the soldier.
The priest spends his life seeking to conform himself to a super-
sensible and transcendent standard of behaviour. The life of the priest is
one committed to sanctification wherein the priest, to paraphrase the
name of a famous book, imitates Christ (rather than Romulus). The
priesthood, therefore, presupposes a super-mundane standard to which
the individual priest is called to conform himself; likewise, the priest
exists within a community the church that proposes to the world a set
of norms to which his behaviour and beliefs must conform. These norms,
according to the churchs understanding, are derived from a world-tran-
scending God known on the basis of reason and revelation, including
here both the Scriptures and sacred tradition. However, both natural law
and revelation are, in the end, rooted in a world-transcending God. This
God is invisible. As Thomas Aquinas puts it in his great Eucharistic hymn:
praestet fides supplementum, sensuum defectui. Taken together, Machiavellis
eternal world and new doctrine of truth undermines the priesthood by
attacking the claim that the priest conforms himself to a super-mundane
truth: the kingdom of God is an imaginary principality. The Princes rejec-
tion of invisible republics and principalities entails the rejection of the
clerical life; this entailment is dramatized in the life of Castruccio. The
life of the priest presupposes an invisible order and the pursuit of
thetranscendent peace of heaven. The priest performs precisely those
bloodless rites that Machiavelli criticizes in comparison with the blood
and gore of Roman religions (D II.2). The life of the priest points to-
wards the heavenly Jerusalem that Augustine appealed to in his rejection
of the sacrificial distinction. Castruccios choice for a life of soldiering
rather than holy orders is a good choice, from Machiavellis point of
view, because it is a choice for the Roman model of education over the
Christian one (c.f. D II.2). Recall that Machiavelli presents the story of
Castruccio as a story of virtue: the sine qua non of all the virtuous actions
performed by Castruccio is his initial rejection of the clerical state. The
transfiguration of the soldier and captain in Machiavellis thought is in-
separable from the displacement of holy orders.
Castruccios Marginal Philosophy
The particular details of Castruccios rise to power largely mirror the

activities of Agathocles and Cesar Borgia that is, the kind of good vio-
lence that judiciously mixes cruelty and audacity, force and deception,
for the benefit of the community. Let us look closer at the sayings attrib-
uted to him that make up the final portion of the text, most of which are
adapted from Diogenes Laertiuss Lives of the Philosophers the biograph-
ies of Bion, Aristippus, and Diogenes the Cynic, among others. They are,
by and large, marginal figures; in the words of one commentator, they
are not the canonical fathers of ancient philosophy, but rather atheists
philosopher-rascals.5 Aristippus is the founder of the Cyrenaic school,
which held that the chief good is physical pleasure. Unlike the Epicur-
eans, who held a similar account of the highest good but maintained that
the truest form of pleasure is freedom from pain and tranquility of mind,
the Cyrenaics focused on the moment to moment enjoyment of more
straightforward physical pleasures: eating, drinking, sex. This distinction
is subtle but important: while both agree on the primacy of pleasure,
Epicurean pleasure is a far cry from Cyrenaic pleasure in that Epicurean
philosophy suggests that one should postpone or avoid short-term
physical pleasures for the sake of long-term tranquility and freedom
from desire (as Torquatus argues in Ciceros de Finibus).6 In contrast,
Aristippuss sect argued both that we should embrace whatever pleasure
is available to us and that physical pleasures were superior to intellectual
ones.7 Bion garnered a reputation for himself as a great atheist and scoff-
er at the gods and religion until he fell sick, whereupon he gave him-
self over to superstitions and charms.8 Castruccios death-bed discourse
seems to suggest that we should focus on the earlier parts of Bions life
since he Castruccio did not fall back onto superstitions when facing
death. Diogenes the Cynic is a different sort of philosopher; he is taken
5 Schnapp, Machiavellian Foundlings, 666. Schnapps paper is particularly useful on

this point in that he shows the importance of the aphorism to the integrity of the text as a
whole.
6 See Cicero, On Moral Ends, I.5563.
7 Diogenes Laertius, Life of Aristippus, VIII, in Lives of the Philosophers I.
8 Diogenes Laertius, Life of Bion, X, in Lives of the Philosophers.
not only as a representative of moral seriousness but also as a critic of

other philosophers, in particular Plato.9 Diogenes Laertius also tells us
that he responded to a syllogism proving that he had horns by announ-
cing that he does not see them; by arguing against the possibility of mo-
tion by getting up to walk; and, of course, to the definition of a man as a
featherless biped by throwing a plucked chicken at Plato.10 Diogenes the
Cynic, at least in part, elevates the visible or empirical over theoretical
philosophical argumentation, whereby a performance or action serves as
the best refutation of philosophical theory. Machiavellis Diogenes is a
philosopher of the visible, rejecting imaginary republics. The aphorisms
adapted from these three philosophers by Machiavelli defend the pleas-
ures of food and sex, mock marriage and the afterlife, and elevate the
political life over all others. Needless to say, each of these quotes is up-
dated when appropriate to seem less anachronistic; however, the adapta-
tion also merges each of these philosophers into Castruccio. Castruccio
offers a blend of all three: a hedonistic atheism focused on success in the
visible world. Moreover, as Leo Strauss points out, a few of the sayings
taken from the life of Aristippus are heard by Castruccio rather than said
by him; in these aphorisms he takes the place of Aristippuss auditors,
ineach case, the tyrant Dionysius.11 If Machiavelli intends to combine
Aristippus, Bion, and Diogenes in his presentation of Castruccios phil-
osophy, we must conclude that he also intends to include Dionysius the
tyrant. This combination of philosopher-tyrant is further cemented by
another saying of Castruccio instead of claiming, as Aristippus did,
that he wished to die like Socrates, Castruccio wants to die like Caesar
(cc428).
Although Caesar was more concerned with comparing himself to
Alexander than to Socrates, Machiavellis replacement of Socrates with
Caesar in Castruccios statement shows that Machiavelli was interested in
such a comparison. Socrates was killed by the people of Athens for intro-
ducing new gods and corrupting the youth; Caesar was killed by the
Senate of Rome because it suspected his ambition. If Socrates was killed
for being too philosophical, then Caesar was killed for being too polit-
ical. Another way to put it is to say that Socrates dies for an invisible
republic or principality, while Caesar dies for the visible one. It is well
known that part of the Athenian complaint against Socrates was that he
corrupted the youth; if we take his teaching in The Republic as representa-
tive, one can see that Socratic corruption is intimately connected to the
9 Diogenes Laertius, Life of Diogenes, IV, in Lives of the Philosophers.

10 Ibid., VI, in Lives of the Philosophers.
11 Strauss, Thoughts on Machiavelli, 2234.
denial of the eternity of the world. Here we should remind ourselves that
Platonism, as we saw in The Timaeus, explicitly denies the eternity of the
world; but, even before we get there, we can find that same denial in the
analogy of the cave. The escape from the cave to the world of ideas is a
surpassing of the world. It is not surprising that Heideggers criticisms
ofPlatonism focus on the analogy of the cave for it is there that the two
major themes of (a) Platos understanding of truth and (b) the surpass-
ability or non-eternity of the world are united. On the other hand, we
have seen that Machiavelli connects the life of the ancient Romans, espe-
cially ancient Roman soldiers, with the affirmation of the eternity of the
world. Here Julius Caesar can be taken, despite Machiavellis criticisms
in other texts, as representing that tradition. If Socrates is the exemplar
of the belief that the world is not eternal, the life of Caesar can be said to
exemplify the life of one who believes the world is eternal and who, em-
bracing the ancient sacrificial education, uses violence quite effectively.
In seeking a death like that of Caesar, Castruccio indicates that success in
this world, rather than in the next world, is the highest good. The asso-
ciation of this view with the sayings of other philosophers elevates this
above a crass materialism or striving: Castruccios embrace of sacrifice is
not an indifference to, or ignorance of, the highest good but, rather, an
alternate account of the highest good. The Socratic life presuppose a vi-
sion of the truth as orthotes (if we wish to continue with Heideggers ter-
minology), and its dignity and status are in large part based on that vision
of super-sensible and transcendent truth: the philosopher knows about
higher and better things than the non-philosopher, and because of a
radical commitment to these things, the philosopher rejects sacrifice,
harming no one.12 Machiavellis doctrine of truth and the affirmation of
the eternity of the world elevate the life of Caesar above that of Socrates.
Castruccios and Caesars devotion to imperium is a devotion to truth.
Political engagement, rather than contemplation, becomes the highest
philosophical activity.
S w e at a n d L a b o u r i n t h e S u n l i g h t
Surprisingly, it is in the Florentine Histories that we find Machiavellis most

developed reflections on the relationship between philosophy and vir-
tue. Since I discuss the passage at some length, for the readers conve-
nience I quote it in full:
12 Plato, The Republic, 586ad.

Usually provinces go most of the time, in the changes they make, from order to
disorder and then pass again from disorder to order, for worldly things are not
allowed by nature to stand still. As soon as they reach their ultimate perfection,
having no further to rise, they must descend; and similarly, once they have de-
scended and through their disorders arrived at the ultimate depths, since they
cannot descend further, of necessity they must rise. Thus they are always de-
scending from good to bad and rising from bad to good. For virtue gives birth to
quiet, quiet to leisure, leisure to disorder, disorder to ruin; and similarly, from
ruin, order is born; from order, virtue; and from virtue, glory and good fortune.
Whence it has been observed by the prudent that letters come after arms and
that, in provinces and cities, captains arise before philosophers. For as good
and ordered armies give birth to victories, and victories to quiet, the strength of
well-armed spirits [la fortezza degli armati animi] cannot be corrupted by a more
honorable leisure [ozio] than that of letters, nor can leisure enter into well-
instituted cities with a greater and more dangerous deceit than this one. This was
best understood by Cato when the philosophers Diogenes and Carneades, sent
by Athens as a spokesman to the Senate, came to Rome. When he saw how the
Roman youth was beginning to follow them about with admiration, and since he
recognized the evil that could result to his fatherland from this honorable lei-
sure, he saw to it that no philosophers could be accepted in Rome. Thus, prov-
inces come by these means to ruin; when they have arrived there and men have
become wise from their afflictions, they return, as was said, to order unless they
remain suffocated by an extraordinary force. (fh V.1)
In endorsing Catos expulsion of philosophers from Rome, Machiavelli

again returns to the sacrificial distinction between good and bad vio-
lence. Catos expulsion was good violence, because if successful it
would ward off the bad violence courted by philosophy, honourable
leisure. When a city fails to keep philosophy at bay when it fails to
practise the good violence of Cato it inevitably suffers bad violence.
One recent commentator, Mark Jurdjevic, astutely points out that the
passage we are discussing precedes Machiavellis long discussion of the
decline of Florence and rise of the Medici.13 According to Jurdjevic,
Machiavellis preface provides an interpretation of the events narrated
in book V: philosophy had corrupted the city and allowed the Medici to
dominate it. While philosophy as practised in Florence is the proximate
target, it would be a mistake to limit the passage to Florence; Machiavelli
seems to have broader vistas in mind in this passage. He presents phi-
losophy as the product of the leisure time provided by the security and
13 See Jurdjevic, Great and Wretched City, 60.

stability of good arms. The captain, the warrior, comes before the phi-
losopher; in Lacostes terms, philosophy is a vigil that occurs after ones
duties have been discharged (ea 78). If one finds out what something is
by looking to what it is first, then Machiavellis anthropology is simple:
the human being is first a captain and only second, if at all, a philoso-
pher. Philosophy is something we do in our leisure (ozio). Now, at this
point, one might suggest that the view of philosophy as leisure activity is
not altogether novel: after all, in Platos Republic philosophy is intro-
duced with the guardians, entering only into the feverish city awash
with luxuries, not into the city of simple necessity. Likewise, in the
Metaphysics, Aristotle is quite clear that philosophy is only practised after
certain physical needs have been met.14 While Plato and Aristotle admit-
ted that philosophy as a practice has a number of prerequisites, they saw
philosophical leisure as the crowning jewel of civic life, not the begin-
nings of its decline. Philosophy was a good, and it was good because of
the nature of the human being; in fact, it was the essential task of the
human being: Man by nature desires to know. For Machiavelli this is
not the case: philosophy or metaphysics, the search for super-mundane
and transcendent truths, is a deleterious luxury not an essential task.
Machiavelli argues that the spoils of peace and good captainship will
ruin the city itself because the philosophical search for truth distracts
men from the virtuous manufacture of la verit effetuale. Classical phi-
losophy is corruptive for at least three reasons. First, it teaches error in-
sofar as it focuses on invisible imagined republics rather than on the
visible and attempts to draw normative standards and evaluate politics
on the basis of a fantasy. Second, it suggests that philosophical inactivity,
leisure (ozio), is more noble and worthy than the activity of the captain
or founder. These two points lead to a third: philosophical inquiry can
be destabilizing by undermining the modes and orders of the city; when
the philosopher discovers that there is no transcendent basis for the or-
ganization of the city, that it is largely dependent upon the arms of the
founder, these beliefs are undermined. This point parallels the corrup-
tion of the youth argument against Socrates, at least as Aristophanes
understood it when he depicted Socratic teaching as undermining the
old-fashioned virtue of Marathon via his focus on intellectual endeav-
ours. To the extent that the philosopher teaches others, he or she em-
braces the role of unarmed prophet. Since the unarmed prophet always
comes to ruin, a city populated by philosophers too will suffer. In fact, as
the discussions in book I of The Art of War suggests, to be a good citizen
14 See Plato, The Republic, 372a375b; Aristotle, Metaphysics, 981b1030.

is to be a good soldier: solid citizenship requires training and discipline,

which comes from a good captain.15 This mirrors the discussion, in his
Discourses on Livy, of the role of the prince when founding a city (i.e., that
he should force the people to be virtuous). We should keep all this in
mind when evaluating Machiavellis praise for the foresight of Cato. It is
not the pursuit of wisdom that Machiavelli objects to, but the vision of
wisdom offered by philosophers: wisdom as contemplative ozio. The
honourable leisure represented by philosophy is a kind of naivet: it
supposes that one can speculate peaceably without taking concern for
defence against threats. The leisurely philosophers Machiavelli criticizes
do not necessarily reject the sacrificial distinction (as Augustine does),
but they seem to forget it with equally bad consequences. By forgetting
that good violence can be used to chase out bad violence, they let down
their guard and become victims of bad violence. In the same passages
Machiavelli argues that philosophers only truly become wise from their
afflictions. Wisdom comes not from speculation but from experience:
they are wise when they have been ruined and forced to acknowledge the
importance of the security and stability provided by captains. When the
importance of the captains work is acknowledged, the sacrificial distinc-
tion is acknowledged: the violence of the captain is a good violence that
wards off bad violence. For Machiavelli, this is true wisdom.
As noted above, Machiavellis endorsement of Catos expulsion of the
philosophers cannot be interpreted as a rejection of the pursuit of wis-
dom or philosophy, per se, but only of a certain model of philosophy.
That this is the case can be seen in the image of Castruccio and the col-
lection of philosophical sayings Machiavelli attributes to him. Instead,
the kind of philosophy that he rejects is one that is focused on invisible
truths, it is contemplative and inactive. It is through this kind of philoso-
phy, he argues, that leisure, ozio, enters even into well-ordered cities and
seduces its best citizens. This alternative philosophy is a philosophy with-
out ozio, without the invisible truths of imagined republics. It is a kind
ofanti-philosophy that rejects the contemplative leisure of the philoso-
phers that brought so much grief to the city and pursues, instead, the
life of the captain, remembering and endorsing the sacrificial distinc-
tion between good and bad violence. It is through the visible agonistics
of the field, rather than the debates of philosophers, that one finally ar-
rives at truth la verit effetuale. This agrees with the advice offered by
Fabrizio in The Art of War: according to him, modern princes err in imi-
tating the ancients in indoor pursuits of delicate and soft things rather
15 See C. Lynchs interpretive essay accompanying his translation of aw, 2001.

than in rough things done in the sun the life of the soldier. These
pursuits are true and perfect (vera e perfetta), while those other ancient
pursuits brought decay to Rome and are false and corrupt (falsa e corrot-
ta) (awI.17).
When Machiavelli refers to philosophy as an honourable leisure
(onesto ozio) he admits that classical philosophy does have an undeniable
seductive force: even Cato could not keep it from entering Rome.
Imagined republics and invisible truths seduce by presenting themselves
as the highest and best things. If the threat that philosophy represents to
virtue is to be defused, then a mere rejection will not work nearly as well
as a counter-seduction. The honour of philosophy especially Platonism
rests in its claim to surpass the world and offer access to eternal and
divine truths. Machiavellis new doctrine of truth and doctrine of the
eternity of the world serves as an inoculation against classical philosophy
by denying both. Returning to Castruccio, he represents not a thought-
less absence of philosophy but, rather, a new philosophy that marries
Caesar to Socrates, Diogenes to Dionysius. This new philosophy focuses
not on the contemplation and discussion of the transcendent and invis-
ible as did the honourable leisure of the ancient world but rather on
the control and modification of the visible and temporal by means of a
distinction between good and bad violence
M a c h i av e l l i s O l d G o d
We are now in a position to discuss more directly the bush we have been
beating around: the relationship between Machiavelli and religion. In
any discussion of Machiavelli and religion, one should separate two dis-
tinct kinds of questions that are often intertwined:
a) What were Machiavellis personal religious beliefs, practices, and so

forth, and how did they influence his thinking about political life?
b) What are the theological or religious implications of his texts?
No less a thinker than Maurizio Viroli has judged that answering (a) is
perhaps an impossible undertaking.16 Nevertheless, he continues, it is
possible to entertain the hypothesis that Machiavelli was a Christian
ofsome sort, the emphasis falling on some sort. In any case, (b) is the
philosophically more consequential question; indeed, as Viroli has
shown in Machiavellis God, one can quite seriously point to a Machiavellian

theology, a vision of God guided by the Republicanism of Florence and

the writings of the humanists.17 Machiavellis God, Viroli (following de
Grazia) argues persuasively, loves good government, patriotic service, de-
votion to la patria, glory, justice, and peace. But this love of peace and
justice does not exclude friendship with those who use cruelty well.
Machiavellis God understands that, to save the fatherland and create
good governance, one sometimes has to do evil.18 I return to this point
later, but attentive readers will probably already guess where I will go
with it.
The passages and topics under discussion in (b) are some of the most
debated in Machiavelli. Cary Nederman is certainly correct to describe
this as the most contentious area of Machiavelli scholarship, and, in a
moment of frustration, Ada Palmer refers to it as a tired debate.19 For
some scholars (e.g., Leo Strauss or Gennarro Sasso), Machiavelli was
a full-blown apostate who, anticipating the Nietzschean critique of
Christianity by a few centuries, saw Christianity as both false and weaken-
ing. At the other extreme, one finds scholars (e.g., Sebastian de Grazie
or Cary Nederman) arguing that Machiavelli is much closer to tradition-
al Christianity and only a bit anti-clerical. And, of course, there are vari-
ous gradations in between these two views. I should confess that, if forced
to choose between the two extremes, Machiavellis defence of the eter-
nity of the world and the influence of Lucretius pushes me towards the
Strauss/Sasso reading; nevertheless, there are numerous passages that
support the other reading. What does one who reads Machiavelli this
way do with those passages? There are two options. First, one could take
them as feints, illusions, or tricks. This is what Harvey Mansfield, repre-
senting the Straussian faction, suggests in his review of de Grazies
Machiavelli in Hell.20 While sympathetic with this approach if I may
paraphrase the Spanish scholastic Domingo Soto, while not a Straussian
I was raised among them it, too, quickly opens up the door to highly
17 Ibid., 4361. The remarks of Jurdjevic, in the first chapter of Great and Wretched City,
on the importance of Savonarola for the development of Machiavellis thoughts on reli-
gion and politics are certainly relevant here as well. According to Jurdjevic, Machiavelli saw
in Savonarola, despite his failures, evidence that political projects can be invigorated by
appeal theological themes.
19 Nederman, Amazing Grace, 617; Palmer, Reading Lucretius, 86.
20 Mansfield, Review of Machiavelli in Hell, 7645. See also the remarks on de Grazia
in Sullivan, Three Romes, 45.
speculative readings inoculated against all possible counter-examples.21

Second, one could take these passages as evidence of a conflict within
Machiavelli, as showing that he struggled to digest and express his own
deepest insights. Machiavelli, on this reading, was a man of his time and
made use of the religious language and imagery of his day in his writings,
at times even though the fundamental orientation of his thought is to-
wards a more radical critique of that same religion. On this view, the
contentious history of interpreting Machiavellis philosophy of religion
only reflects Machiavellis own ambivalence. If one takes this tack, then
it seems that the most profitable strategy is to focus on his substantive
claims and arguments when directly speaking about religious matters
rather than on asides, ejaculations, and turns of phrases that show up in
other contexts. If Virolis account of Machiavellis writing method is cor-
rect the products of pain distilled into pages of pure power and vitality
[infused] with all the intensity of a life he feels slipping from his
grasp22 then we should expect this ambivalence. Our Florentine sec-
retary is brilliant, but it is not the brilliance of the systematic word-count-
ing professors. In fact, I think that Virolis account of Machiavellis
religious view is convincing precisely because it allows us to recognize
the ambivalence in Machiavellis texts. On Virolis reading, Machiavelli
thought Christianity could have a valuable role to play in civic life, but he
also thought that it wasnt quite up to the task he had in mind. Viroli
summarizes his position as follows: Machiavelli not only asserted that
republican liberty needs a religion that instils and supports devotion to
the common good but also that the Christian religion properly inter-
preted is apt to serve such a task.23 Strangely enough, I think that this
view can be harmonized with my aforementioned sympathy for the more
radical readings of Strauss or Sasso: Machiavelli thought that Christianity
as commonly practised and understood was false and bad for politics but
21 While I find many Straussian readings insightful, I also tend to think that they
over-argue the case, spending too much time reading between the lines for hints of
Machiavellis apostasy when in fact it is right there on the surface. There is no need to
draw strained analogies between the Marius and Maria (as Mansfield does at nmo
46n.39), between Romes militarism and Pauls epistles (as Sullivan does in Three Romes,
545), and so on to show that Machiavelli is not a traditional Christian.
22 Viroli, Niccols Smile, 153.
23 Viroli, Machiavellis God, xi. Virolis position seems to find its contrary in that of
Vicki Sullivan. According to Sullivans reading of Machiavelli, the religious is not only
pernicious, it is wholly superfluous (Three Romes, 7). But Sullivan comes closer to Virolis
position a bit later, when she introduces the idea of a temporal Christianity that can fortify
political life (Three Romes, 10 and 14771).
that some adjustments it could be good for politics. Viroli suggests some-
thing like this in his biography of Machiavelli: He [Machiavelli] recog-
nized that fear of God had beneficial effects on the way people lived and
could be a powerful tool to support the law and authority of a prince or
republic But his god was a political god [sic], a friend to princes who
achieved great things (such as Castracani), or perhaps one should say a
rhetorical god that he used to exhort princes to achieve great things. His
god had very little in common with the Christian God, being neither a
principle of faith nor a source of hope.24
Machiavellis reading of Lucretius might offer more clues to his views
on religion. Lucretius is notoriously unfriendly to religion: it is based on
fear and ignorance, and the sooner the bulk of humanity can be freed
from its spell, the better. In fact, it is precisely this freeing that he hopes
his poem will accomplish (drn I 60135). Machiavelli does not follow
Lucretius on these points. Instead, he argues that religion properly
understood or used is a great boon for societies and cultures. The
claim that religion can be put to good uses is not incompatible with the
claim that it is false, or even that it is rooted in fear and ignorance. While
we can be confident that Lucretiuss critique of religious belief was
understood and digested by Machiavelli, it seems clear that he did not
adopt it entirely; perhaps he saw in the example of Savonarola despite
his failures that false beliefs can make good politics.25
The view that Christianity is false, and as currently practised weak-
ening, is not incompatible with the view that, reinterpreted, it could be
good for political life. In the same way, I might believe that my guitar is
out of tune and bad for playing music, but retuned it could be good for
music. One need not believe a creed to believe that it is useful for other
people to believe it. While on Virolis reading, Machiavelli really and
truly believed in his version of Christianity, it is not clear to me whether
Machiavelli thought this God was real or whether he thought it was sim-
ply good for people to believe these things about God. We should not,
however, distract ourselves with the attempt to peer into Machiavellis
24 Viroli, Niccols Smile, 207. See, too, the similar remarks in his Machiavelli, 234.
There Viroli notes that the Machiavellian vision of God as a friend to founders and states-
men has its roots in Ciceros Dream of Scipio. But even then, there is an important differ-
ence: [Machiavellis] political God is more understanding than the God of Cicero and
the humanists. For them, God is ready to help and reward founders, rulers and redeem-
ers of republics who have practiced the political virtues: justice, fortitude, prudence and
temperance. For Machiavelli, God is willing to excuse also princes who perpetrated well-
committed cruelties, if that were necessary to establish their power, or to redeem king-
doms or republics.
25 See Brown, Return of Lucretius, 80; and Jurdjevic, Great and Wretched City, 1560.
soul. Whatever the case may be, the more important point is that the
God described in Machiavellis major works is an interventionist one that
acts to help the friends of liberty and punish her enemies; rather than
making the rain fall on both the just and the unjust, this God pushes the
tower of Siloam down so as to smite enemies of liberty. God rewards and
befriends those who fight for the fatherland and allows them to commit
any number of evil deeds when prosecuting war on behalf of it. Perhaps
the essential moment of Machiavellis theology is the admission that
the murderous Agathocles was able to restore his relationship with God
not despite but precisely because of his murders, his well-used cruelty
(PVIII). It is a God that accepts, promotes, and rewards the sacrificial
distinction between good and bad violence. This kind of God could be
properly described following Girards taxonomy as an archaic God,
aGod of fertile violence, a God that delights in sacrifices (cruelty well
used) rather than a contrite heart. Machiavellis God is not so much a
new God as it is a very old one. In Machiavellis political theology, the old
gods, the oldest of the old gods, the gods of sacrifice and scapegoating,
reappear. I do not mean here that Machiavelli reverts to a conscious be-
lief in pagan divinities, but that he reproduces the sacrificial structure of
archaic religion: to the extent that he wants to reform Christianity to
make it better suited for political purposes, his reforms seek to make it
more, not less, sacrificial.
As we have already noted, although there are passages in the Discourses
in which Machiavelli describes Christianity as the true religion, he also
describes the practices associated with the followers of the false religion
(i.e., Roman paganism) as more desirable because of their political and
military effects: Neither pomp nor magnificence of ceremony was lack-
ing there, but the action of the sacrifice, full of blood and ferocity, was
added, with a multitude of animals being killed there. This sight, being
terrible, rendered men similar to itself. Besides this, the ancient religion
did not beatify men if they were not full of worldly glory, as were cap-
tains of armies and princes of republics (D II.2). The message seems to
be that the superiority of pagan rites lay in their violence. To be sure,
this was a good violence that served to benefit the public by warding off
bad violence, but it is precisely this sacrificial distinction that Christianity
rejects. If Christianity teaches men to submit to beatings rather than to
avenge them (D II.2), then this is arguably because Christianity refuses
to distinguish between good violence and bad violence. But it is this
distinction that the Roman sacrifices, full of blood and ferocity, taught
with aplomb.
In book I of his Discourses, Machiavelli suggests that the important part
of religion is not the beliefs as much as it is the rites and ceremonies:
Those princes or those republics that wish to maintain themselves uncor-

rupt have above everything else to maintain the ceremonies of their reli-
gion uncorrupt and hold them always in veneration; for one can have no
greater indication of the ruin of a province than to see the divine cult
disdained. This is easy to understand once it is known what the religion
where a man is born is founded upon, for every religion has the founda-
tion of its life on some principle order of its own (D I.12). Now while
Machiavelli is well known for his indifference to matters liturgical he
seemed to disdain the divine cult, rarely, if ever, attending church services
a concern for the proper celebration of rites is hardly the calling card of
one antagonistic to religion. In fact, there is a long-standing tradition in
liturgical Christianity that views the proper celebration of rites as the sine
qua non for proper belief: lex orandi, lex credendi. The first part of the pas-
sage quoted above can be easily squared with that tradition. However, the
departure from that tradition comes in the final sentence, in which
Machiavelli claims that every religion founds itself on a principle of its
own. I take this to mean that the religion is itself the origin of its rites, that
the creation of rites and ceremonies of the religion is equivalent to the
creation of the religion. This claim is not biblical. In biblical religions
Judaism and Christianity liturgy comes not from the religion but from
God: witness the long passages in Deuteronomy and Leviticus describ-
ing the proper sacrifices and form of worship, including vestments and
prayers. Moreover, the religion pre-existed the rites: the Jews are Jews
before passage out of Egypt and before the introduction of rites in
Deuteronomy and Leviticus. According to the Old Testament, the Jewish
religion was born when God introduced the rite of circumcision to
Abraham to seal the covenant. The rites do not give birth to the religion
but, instead, God is the source of both the religion and the rites. We might
say that, while Machiavelli endorses the view encapsulated by lex orandi,
lex credendi, he does so only after decisively sealing prayer and belief off
from the invisible God. Later in the same section he writes: Thus princes
of a republic or of a kingdom should maintain the foundations of the re-
ligion they hold; and if this is done, it will be an easy thing for them to
maintain their republic religious and, in consequence, good and united.
All things that arise in favor of that religion they should favor and magnify,
even though they judge them false; and they should do it so much the more as
they are prudent and more knowing of natural things (D.12, emphasis
mine). The upshot of these two passages is that the rites of a religion are
more important than is the theological explanation of those rites.26
26 An informative and persuasive discussion of Machiavelli along these lines can be

found in Hochner, Ritualist Approach to Machiavelli. For Hochner, the importance of
religion for Machiavelli turns on the effects of its ceremonies and rites rather than on the
Theserites do not refer to something apart from themselves, but, instead,

there is a self-contained circle or feedback loop whereby the rites serve the
foundation and the foundation serves the rites. Finally, (c) it does not
matter whether the prince believes the religion or not, he should do his
best to preserve it so as to reap the political benefits it bestows. Taken to-
gether, (a), (b), and (c) paint a picture of religion reduced to its imma-
nent or worldly aspects: the point of religion is to support the virtues of
the good citizen, in particular by instilling a distinction between good
andbad violence.
M a c h i av e l l i s M y s t e r i o u s G e r m a n s
Machiavellis criticisms of Christian practice, as Viroli points out, are bal-

anced by praise of the German states, which were also Christian.27
Machiavellis persistent and enthusiastic praise of German and, to a less-
er extent, Swiss modes and orders are a nagging problem for readings of
Machiavelli that wish to present him as mainly an enemy of Christian
orders. It is not surprising that Vicki Sullivans Three Romes mentions the
Germans only in passing. Noting that Machiavelli admits that Germany
is uncorrupt in contrast to Spain, Italy, and France because it prevents
the kind of inequality found in the three others, she emphasizes that the
clergy could be considered a source of this problematic inequality.28 But
were there no clergy in Germany? It is also hard to reconcile his praise of
German states with his claim that the harmful effects of Christianity are
due, at least in part, to the Christian repression of ancient orders and
ceremonies (D II.5). Surely they were just as repressed in German as in
Italy. How then could it be that the Germans, equally lacking ancient
pagan rites, maintained the civic virtue that Italy lacked? Maybe there
was an important difference between the German and Italian rites? Prior
to the promulgation of the Missal of Pius V in 1570 (which suppressed
rites and uses less than two hundred years old) there was a great deal of
local variation in Catholic liturgy differing episcopal sees (e.g., Braga,
Milan) and religious orders (e.g., the Dominicans, the Carmelites) each
had their own rites, and these could vary quite a bit one from the other.
beliefs or theology behind the rites (595). Hochner reads Machiavellis preference for
ancient Roman rites over Christian rites in these terms: the bloody violence of the ancient
rites worked more effectively than modern Christian rites at binding the people together
and forming a love of freedom. This can easily be rephrased in Girardian terms that is,
that the rites bind the people together by uniting them against a sacrificial victim that car-
ries the problems and discords of the community on its back (i.e., a scapegoat).
28 Sullivan, Three Romes, 125.
Nevertheless, despite the variety, the basic structure of the Mass was
more or less constant; liturgical historians remind us that, despite the
variations, all the rites are recognizably Western and based largely on the
Roman rite. The rituals of German Catholics in 1513 would not be that
different from those of Italian Catholics.
So, if the Christian rituals tend towards pomp and ozio, why were the
Germans states so much better than the Italian states? The German puz-
zle suggests that Christian rites are in themselves insufficient for pro-
ducing the problems Machiavelli associates with Christianity. But this is
hardly what Machiavelli explicitly states. One possible solution (Virolis)
to this riddle is to argue that it is not so much Christianity that is cor-
ruptive as it is the profoundly bad example of the prelates and princes
associated with the Church of Rome, which taught the Italians not to
esteem religion. The Germans are better off because they are further
from the papacys bad example. This suggests that Christian theology is
less important for Machiavelli than are the scandalous lives of Christian
churchmen. But this solution seems to cut against Machiavellis general
emphasis on the importance of rite: Why contrast ancient and modern
rites at all if the real deciding factor is how close one is to the bad ex-
ample of the papacy? A neater solution is to say that (a) Germany is
superior to Italy but (b) both are inferior to ancient Rome. I take it
that the truth of (a) is fairly well established. We can find evidence for
(b) in book I of the Discourses. Towards the end of the first book,
Machiavelli isdiscussing the importance of an uncorrupted citizenry,
and he points out that Rome, when uncorrupt, was religious, and that
one still sees this goodness and religion in the Germans (I.55). But he
is careful to note that only a good part of that ancient goodness is
present in the Germans, not the totality of it. To explain which part
remains, Machiavellis attention then turns to the German tax-gathering
practice. According to Machiavelli, taxes are paid on an honour system,
whereby each person pays what he thinks he owes, with no witness or
tax-collectors supervising. Despite the opportunity, there is no fraud or
cheating. This strikes him as a great and impressive example of civic
virtue. And surely it is. Machiavelli then turns to possible explanations
for this great virtue. It turns out that the virtue of the Germans rests on
a foundation of murder: Those republics in which a political and un-
corrupt way of life is maintained do not endure that any citizen of theirs
either be or live in the usage of a gentleman; indeed they maintain
among themselves an even quality and to the lords and gentlemen who
are in that province they are very hostile. If by chance some fall into
their hands, they kill them as the beginning of corruption and cause of
every scandal (DI.55).
The killing of gentlemen to ward off corruption is presented as a

good kind of violence; whence the success and virtue of the Germans
rests on an implicit acceptance of the sacrificial distinction between
good and bad violence. This explains their success despite being Christian
because, even if they practise the rites of Christianity, they have ab-
sorbed the lessons of Roman rituals: the sacrificial distinction between
good and bad violence. The example of the Germans gives us clues,
therefore, to how Machiavelli understands the good kind of Christianity:
it will be a Christianity that embraces the sacrificial distinction.
The Recluse and the Wanderer
Place plays a paradoxical role in the work of Lacoste. On the one hand,
place is a central category. To be human is precisely to be in a place. But
on the other hand, liturgy is defined by the non-place. This is not to say
that liturgy takes place in some nowhere but, rather, that liturgical ac-
tions reorder our relationship towards place such that the place itself is
subordinated to what transcends it. Liturgy surpasses the world and, in
so doing, creates a non-place. The church building is enclosed on all
sides (unlike the proverbial Greek temple) precisely because in the litur-
gical actions one is supposed to take leave of the world rather than har-
monize with it (ea 36). The transcending action of liturgy can only be
understood, Lacoste thinks, on the basis of a prior confrontation with
(Heideggers understanding of) world and earth. The world and the
earth occur as two distinct, but related, ways of thinking the reality of
place. The world is articulated in Being and Time; the earth in the later
works as part of the fourfold. Dasein in Being and Time was in a godless
world; with the works of the 1950s the world becomes absorbed into the
fourfold of earth, sky, gods, and mortals. The gods here are not transcen-
dent but, as we noted in chapter 1, a sacred that is entirely immanent (ea
1718). Now, Lacoste continues, we are well served to consider world
and earth not as two mutually exclusive options, but as two points in a
constantly oscillating dialectic rooted in the more fundamental double
secret of place (ea 19). But what is this secret?
The secret of place is one of possibility: both being at home and not
being at home are equally possible. There is no reason, Lacoste contin-
ues, to treat Unzuhause as more fundamental than Zuhaus. Both are
equally possible and legitimate ways of relating to place. At times one will
feel un-at-home in the world, at times one will dwell with the earth. This
possibility is what Heidegger failed to think (ea 19). This understand-
ing of place as the possibility of both world and earth leads Lacoste to the
further point that neither is able to account for the dynamics of liturgy.
This also enables us to explain why liturgy is impossible for Machiavelli.

The impossibility of thinking liturgically in Machiavelli is rooted in the
impossibility of thinking of place. It is impossible to think place in
Machiavelli because his account of nature entails that there is no earth,
only world. That is to say, in Lacostes understanding of the earth, it is a
place of shelter and protection (ea 14); for Machiavelli, it is not the
earth that shelters and protects but the city or, more accurately, the vir-
tue of the prince. We do not dwell on the earth but, if we dwell at all, we
do so in the city. In fact, the Machiavellian person whether citizen or
prince never dwells; he always struggles and worries. There is the con-
stant struggle against nature, against rivals, against internal factions and
disorders. When these are overcome, he must plan for future problems
(P XXIII). This vision entails that there can only be the world, a world we
are thrown into and struggle against.
This denial of earth entails the impossibility of liturgy insofar as the
possibility of liturgy is established on the basis of the discovery of the dia-
lectic between earth and world made possible by the deeper reality of
place. In denying the earth, this argumentative strategy is cut off: for
Machiavelli, Unzuhaus is more fundamental. We can see this a bit more
clearly if we look at the relationship of liturgy and the city or community.
Lacoste points to two figures that he finds exemplify the non-placed na-
ture of liturgical experience: the recluse and the wanderer. The recluse,
in the manner of the desert fathers, hermits, and stylites, leaves the world
behind as much as possible, retreating to his cell so as to subordinate
everything to God (ea 27). The recluse, of course, is in a place, but it is
a place that is a non-place; he wants to be nowhere. He strips his connec-
tion to specific places to the minimum although Lacoste doesnt men-
tion it, it is worth noting that many ceremonies concerned with ones
final entry into cloistered monastic life involve a mock burial so as to
focus on the absolute. In a similar manner, the wanderer leaves behind
his particular city to wander the world not so as to find other places, but
so as to be in no particular place. In so doing the wanderer challenges
the right of place to determine ones identity (ea 30). In both cases, the
wanderer and the recluse refuse to be determined by ones place and,
without ever overcoming it entirely, resist the rights of place. In so doing,
they short circuit the dialectic of world and earth. Neither dwells in the
earth, but nor does either live in a godless world; instead, they point to-
wards a third way, neither world nor earth non-place.
The development of the concept of non-place plays a central role in
Lacostes argument, and it, in turn, works by diving through the opening
made in his analysis of world and earth. And, as we saw, it is precisely this
analysis that Machiavelli would challenge by denying the existence of the
earth of the fourfold. For Machiavelli there can be neither place nor
non-place as Lacoste understands it; instead, one might write of worlds
and cities, cities in world, created through the struggle against the world
and preserved through the judicious use of good violence. One cannot
dwell in the Machiavellian world or, rather, dwelling is a leisure (ozio)
made possible by the virtues of a prince. This entails that for Machiavelli
there can be no liturgy in Lacostes sense. That is to say, there can be no
relation with or experience of a world-transcending absolute because lit-
urgy as vigil relies upon and presupposes the protection afforded by the
prince and his modes and orders. Liturgical actions, as far as Machiavelli
is concerned, are actions in a world and are exhausted by their worldly
elements. In sum, because for Machiavelli we have only a world but not
the earth, liturgy must be interpreted entirely in terms of its worldly ele-
ments, its visible elements, its rites.
M a c h i av e l l i s P r o p h e t s
This reduction of religion to its worldly aspects can be seen clearly in The
Princes account of prophecy and the discussion of the relationship be-
tween religion and obedience in The Art of War. As we saw in The Prince,
Machiavelli divides prophets into two types, the armed and the unarmed.
The armed prophet, according to Machiavelli, is characterized by the
ability to make people who no longer believe in you obey you (i.e., the
ability to force obedience). Machiavelli includes only one canonical
prophet, Moses, in his list of armed prophets, indicating that his under-
standing of prophecy departs from the traditional one (P VI). Interpreting
this difference is difficult. Nathan Tarcov outlines what I take to be the
two main possibilities. After noting the make-up of Machiavellis list,
Tarcov writes: This finding could suggest that Moses was no different
from the others and that he can be understood in purely secular terms,
but it could also suggest that the others were prophets too, that God was
no more friendly to Moses than to them. According to the Bible, Cyrus
was ordered by God to let the Jews return to Judea and rebuild the tem-
ple in Jerusalem.29 Additionally, in a footnote accompanying the quot-
ed passage, Tarcov points out ancient writers (Livy, Plutarch) who
associate the other two founders with gods. However, nobody who ac-
cepts the biblical account as true could also accept the pagan accounts as
true, except perhaps as some kind of metaphor or allegory. The only way
all four figures can be taken as prophets without equivocation is to
29 Tarcov, Belief and Opinion in Machiavelli, 575.

secularize prophecy, eliminating both biblical and pagan pieties. If we

follow the biblical standard, then only Moses (and maybe Cyrus) counts
as a prophet; if we follow the pagans, then only Romulus and Theseus
are prophets (and maybe Cyrus) but certainly not Moses.
Biblically, the prophet reveals the truth to the people in the form of
a message from God or the gods; the prophet announces a world-
transcending truth; he represents the rupture of worldly immanence
byannouncing something that surpasses the world. Moreover, the bibli-
cal prophet typically announces that the favour of God has fallen on
the weak, the victimized, the stranger, widow and orphan. However,
Machiavellis prophets do not announce these things; they are creators,
founders, of new modes and orders in the world. If God is no friendlier
to Moses than to, for example, Theseus, it may be because they both use
violence well in the founding of new modes and orders. Machiavelli
comes close to identifying new modes and orders with new beliefs when
he writes that the principle problem princes proposing them will face is
the incredulity of men, who do not truly believe new things (P VI). The
new modes and orders include new beliefs; a princes regime cannot
survive on force alone, but neither can it rely on beliefs alone. While
force is prior, both are necessary in the long run.30 This is why the new
prince is a prophet. But these prophets do not reveal what God wants
people to believe; instead, they persuade and force the people to believe
what they the princes wants them to believe. According to Machiavelli:
From this arises that all the armed prophets conquered and the un-
armed ones were ruined. For, besides the things that have been said, the
natures of peoples is [sic] variable; and it is easy to persuade them of
something but difficult to keep them in that persuasion. And thus, things
must be ordered in such a mode that when they no longer believe, one
can make them believe by force. Moses, Cyrus, Theseus and Romulus
would not have been able to make their peoples observe their constitu-
tions for long if they had been unarmed, as happened in our times to
Brother Girolamo Savonarola (P VI). A glance at one of his prophets,
Romulus, will clarify Machiavellis point. Romulus, the founder of Rome,
is a prophet insofar as his founding activity included the ordering of
Rome such that the martial virtues were encouraged. The encourage-
ment of martial virtue included not merely laws but also beliefs about
30 There is an insightful discussion of this point in ibid., 5778. There Tarcov argues
quite strongly and persuasively for the mutual interdependence of force and belief in chap-
ter 6 of The Prince. While the founders may begin with force, they nevertheless also rely on
persuasion. The trick, so to speak, is to be in a position to use force to keep people per-
suaded when necessary.
what is fine and noble and that encourage those virtues. Moreover, these
beliefs were, in turn, supported by the ability of Romulus to force obedi-
ence. In another context, Machiavelli points out that it is not enough to
simply have good orders: one must make them be observed with great-
est severity (aw VI.111). This severity, he continues, includes both
harsh punishment and generous rewards for departing from or fulfilling
the orders, respectively. Taken together, the mix of punishment and re-
ward creates a situation in which the citizen both hopes and fears. This
is part of the lesson Machiavelli would have us learn from his murder of
Remus: Romulus had to have sole authority in ordering the city and
could not countenance any rival (D I.9).
The armed prophet is characterized by the ability to force obedience
when the people no longer believe in you. There is a very insightful dis-
cussion of this passage in Machiavellis Prince. According to Benners
reading, the idea that one could force belief is simply ludicrous, and
Machiavelli is only playing with the idea to explain the attitude of impa-
tient and impetuous princes. The centerpiece of her argument is that
belief cant be compelled the idea that physical arms can force belief
sounds unrealistic as well as draconian although she later admits that
one can control behaviour.31 This is probably correct, and I suspect this
is what Machiavelli was trying to get at with the caveat that by controlling
behaviour one can, in the long term, control belief. What did Mosess
modes and orders do if not first control behaviour and, by doing so, be-
lief? One need not, however, appeal to Mosaic heights to see how com-
pelling certain behaviour can, in turn, compel certain beliefs. I strongly
disapprove of men wearing hats indoors. Why is this? The source of my
disapproval, it seems to me, is the fact that during my formative school
years, male students were forbidden from wearing headgear inside the
school. This rule was enforced by the teachers and administrative staff
with great rigour as they assigned detentions and Saturday-school for vio-
lations of the policy. From this I learned (a) to take my hat off upon en-
tering the building and (b) to look with annoyance and disapproval at
classmates who could not or would not manage such a simple task. Now,
nearly twenty years later, the belief stays with me and I still take my hat
off indoors, even though I no longer fear hearing from the vice-principal.
If one takes the long view, the modes and orders of a Romulus or a Moses
may be seen to have been able to control not only the behaviour of his
contemporaries but also the beliefs of his descendants. It seems to me
that something like this dynamic is at work both in Machiavellis claim in

book III of the Discourses that the education one receives as a child in-
cluding what is rewarded and punished, praised and blamed is inter-
nalized and will regulate ones behaviour as an adult (D III.46) and in
The Princes description of ecclesiastical principalities (P XI). One could
plausibly argue, after all, that Israel is as much an ecclesiastical principal-
ity as any other. The unarmed prophet, such as Savonarola, on the other
hand, lacks this ability to compel belief by controlling behaviour in-
stead, he or she is at the mercy of the members of the crowd, who only
obey for as long as they believe the words and promises of the prophet.
Because of this dependency on the goodwill of the populace, unarmed
prophets always come to ruin (P VI). The unarmed prophet relies on
fortune for his or her success, while the armed prophet relies mainly on
virtue (P VI, compare with P I). In either case, if the prophet succeeds in
introducing his new modes and orders, over time he or she will be held
in veneration, and he or she may even seem natural, in the sense that the
hereditary prince in chapter 2 of The Prince seems to be a natural prince.
Romulus and Founding Violence
Romuluss greatness, in Machiavellis Discourses, is inseparable from his

ability to compel obedience. The killing of Remus stands out, for
Machiavelli, as the greatest example of this virt and the lengths to which
one must go to in order to obtain or exercise virtue. Curiously, it is this
act more than any other Romulean act that he focuses upon as consti-
tuting the founding of Rome. In his discussion of the killing of Remus,
the auguries mentioned by Livy are ignored; instead, Machiavelli uses it
as an opportunity to discuss the importance of being alone, un solo,
when founding or reorganizing a regime (D I.28). While Livy describes
Romulus as attending to the rites of the gods prior to giving law to the
Romans, Machiavelli focuses on Remuss death as the founding act.
Killing Remus is a kind of sacrifice, an instance of good violence that
produces order and stability in the community. While not a religious
event per se, one also notes that the Romulean asylum that is, Romuluss
offer of protection to miscreants, criminals, and runaways if they would
move to his city and live under his laws does not figure much into
Machiavellis discussion. In contrast to this, the classical tradition saw the
Romulean asylum as a fundamental event.32 If sacrificial logic distin-
guishes good violence from bad violence by identifying victims towards
32 Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, I.8.47. For more on this, see the fascinating discussion in
Bruggisser, City of Outcasts. Bruggisser shows that early Christian writers, Augustine
among them, read the Romulean Asylum as a shadowy prefiguring of the churchs
whom bad violence can be safely directed, the Romulean asylum can
be interpreted as anti-sacrificial: rather than expelling strangers and
weirdoes from the community, it founds the city by welcoming them.
Founding, according to Machiavelli, is a necessarily sacrificial act, and
something like the Romulean Asylum has no role in it. Sacrifice is called
for because as we saw in the prior discussion of nature it is not natural
for human beings to live peacefully together. The religious elements of
the founding of Rome by Romulus are systematically stripped from
Machiavellis retelling of it. They only reappear as something secondary,
added by Numa, not at all essential to the virtue of the Romans, which is
derived mainly from Romuluss good arms.
Machiavellis discussion of the murder of Remus can be fruitfully con-
trasted with the work of Ren Girard. Like Machiavelli, Girard argues
that founding always requires a murder. There is a Machiavellian tint to
much of Girards writings on foundations, but this tint like all tinting
is superficial. It is worth taking some time to explain the difference
between the Machiavellian and the Girardian conceptions of the found-
ing murder. The most obvious difference has to do with the number of
killers and their motivations. Girards founding murder is always a collec-
tive murder. People, according to Girard, are naturally imitative, and, as
we saw, this imitation gives rise to various crises the resolution of which
takes the form of the violent lynching of a scapegoat, uniting the people
in the mimetic desire to punish. Girard believes that the above dynamic,
in its most general form, is found in all human situations. However, ar-
chaic communities differ from modern ones by the lack of something
like a judicial system, the lack of a system of laws and restraints on both
imitation and the violence to which can give rise (thsfw 1213). The
imitative struggle in archaic communities is therefore a much wider and
potentially more destructive force. The contagion of desire is both the
cause and the cure for this violent struggle: unlike the desire, for exam-
ple, to possess something, the desire to hurt or punish someone can be
shared collectively. We can all get a hit or kick in on the victim. When
someone typically an outsider or weirdo of some sort is blamed for
the conflict, the desire to punish him or her can also spread like a conta-
gion and, in some cases, replace the initial conflict-causing desire for an
object with the unifying desire to hurt this person. This person is the
scapegoat, and this scapegoating functions as a kind of catharsis that
enables the remaining people to coalesce into a community. The inside,
gathering of people from all nations. To the extent that they read it this way, one could see
why Machiavelli if he was aware of this tradition might want to downplay the importance
of this moment in Roman history.
the community, is defined by the expulsion or murder of the scapegoat

who, from the point of view of the insiders, deserved the punishment.
Because of the cathartic and unifying effect of the scapegoating mecha-
nism now what is imitated is the desire to blame and punish this or that
particular individual the community will desire those effects again and
again, imitating the original murder, ritualizing the initial scapegoating
into a kind of ritual scapegoating (vs 269; thsfw 25). This ritual scape-
goating precedes and makes possible religion and politics.
For Girard, then, the city is the child of religion, and religion is the
child of collective violence (thsfw 32). With this formulation we can
pin-point two areas where Machiavelli diverges from Girard. First, for
Machiavelli, as we noted, religion is the child of the city or the prince.
Religious beliefs are counted among those modes and orders that the
new prince introduces. Second, while both Girard and Machiavelli point
towards founding violence, the nature of this violence is different.
Girards is a mob violence, the collective murder of a scapegoat: Only
a group can found something, an individual never can (btte 23).
Machiavellis founding violence is performed by un solo, not the col-
lective. It is not the product of rage or panic but of calculation: This
should be taken as a general rule: that it never or rarely happens that any
republic or kingdom is ordered well from the beginning or reformed
altogether from anew outside its old orders unless it is ordered by one
individual. Indeed, it is necessary that one alone give the mode and that
any ordering depend on his mind. So a prudent orderer of a republic,
who has the intent not to help himself but the common good, not for his
own succession but for the common fatherland, should contrive to have
authority alone (D I.9).
Machiavelli provides two examples to illustrate this rule: Romuluss
murder of Remus and Cleomeness murder of the Spartan ephors. In
both cases, Machiavelli argues that the killers were acting correctly be-
cause they calculated that the bloodshed would enable them to order
(or reorder) the fatherland in a better way.
Beyond noting the differences between Machiavelli and Girard on
founding murders differences we return to shortly we should note
that Machiavellis approval of Romulus was something quite novel. It is
probably not surprising that St Augustine disapproved of the murder of
Remus and saw the story of Romulus and Remus as replaying the killing
of Abel by Cain. Augustine notes that Cain, like Romulus, is the found-
er of a city.33 But the ancient Romans themselves had qualms about
33 Augustine, City of God, XV.5

Romulus. Livy himself suggests that the killing was not justified, and
Cicero is even harsher in his judgment.34 Both the Augustinian and
Ciceronian condemnations of Romulus turned on the idea that there
are considerations higher than those of political expediency in play
when contemplating such deeds. For Augustine, one must consider
the laws of the city of God, for Cicero, the laws of nature, both of
which would prohibit fratricide. And neither one believes, as do both
Machiavelli and Girard, that murder is necessary for the formation of
functioning communities. In the case of Cicero, community naturally
flows from human nature; for Augustine, murder may be a prerequisite
for the city of man, but not for the city of God. Machiavelli justifies the
murder of Remus with many of the same themes used to justify Cesare
Borgias behaviour in the Romagna; Girard, for his part, interprets the
tale of Romulus and Remus as an instance of the more general theme of
mimetic rivals (vs 61) found throughout archaic history and literature.
Nevertheless, our discussion of Machiavellis and Girards respective
takes on Romulus and Remus, founding murders in general, points to-
wards a deeper divide between the two authors. For Girard the founding
murder is the spontaneous act of a mob, while for Machiavelli it is the
calculation of a prince. One could explain this difference by pointing to
Girards greater access to ethnological and anthropological researches,
by saying, in short, that Machiavelli was mistaken. But that would be to
let Machiavelli off the hook too easily: it suggests that his error (if it is
indeed an error) was unavoidable given the information he had at hand.
But against this, one can point out, as Girard does, that Livy offers two
accounts of Remuss death. In the first account, Livys Latin can be inter-
preted as suggesting that a crowd or mob (ibi in turba ictus Remus cecidit)
killed Remus, not merely one man. The word turba suggests not merely a
fight or disturbance, but one involving a number of people (sg 912). It
is only in the second account, an account from which Livy distances him-
self, calling it a vulgatior fama, that Romulus kills Remus in a duel.35 On
the other hand, this sort of approach hides the deeper issues at work
here. Machiavellis focus on the calculation of the prince, as opposed to
the violent spasms of the mob, point towards the largely unheralded ra-
tionalism of Machiavelli. By rationalism, I mean the belief that the basic
structures of our lives are the result of planning or decisions rather than
34 Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, I.6.4; and Cicero, On Duties, III.41.

the upshot of unhappy accidents.36 Even if the founding act is violent, it

is a planned violence, a violence that institutes the modes and orders of
the founder. These modes and orders, as we saw, include religious beliefs
and practices. To provide a variation on a formulation used earlier, for
Machiavelli religion is the child of the city, the city is the child of vio-
lence, and violence is the child of calculation. This, in turn, means that
any and all of these are subject to revision as times and situations change
our calculus and that there is, fundamentally, nothing hidden. Girard,
on the other hand, offers a different ordering: the city is the child of re-
ligion, and religion is the child of a spasm of violence. Here, beyond the
subordination of the city to religion, Girard points towards a kind of ir-
rationalism. It is not calculation that founds states but panic and rage
scapegoating. This panic and rage, as we noted earlier, gets formalized
into ritual practices that eventually give rise to the city and all that goes
with it. The founding mob knows not what it does. There is a mystery,
there is something hidden the scapegoating violence that founded the
city that cannot be seen or understood within the city (thsfw 467; sg
11). The hiddenness of the scapegoating mechanism means, for Girard,
that one rarely understands the city in which one lives.
Numas Nymph and Romuluss Corpse
According to Roman traditions, a nymph revealed the proper religious

rites for the Romans to Numa. However, Livy is incredulous, writing that
Numa only pretended (simulat) to meet with the goddess while in fact he
created the rites of his own accord; a point repeated by Machiavelli.37
Machiavellis praise of the politically salutary effects of religion, which has
been pointed to by numerous recent commentators, is best read in the
context of Machiavellis view that, although Numa told the Roman peo-
ple his rites were revealed to him by a goddess, he knew that they were
made up. Recall that Machiavelli thinks that princes should m aintain
36 Speaking of this kind of rationalism, Ren Girard writes: Our rationalist bent
leads to an innocence of outlook that refuses to concede to collective violence anything
more than a limited and fleeting influence, a cathartic action, similar, in its most extreme
forms, to the catharsis of the sacrificial ritual (vs, 81). This kind of rationalism works by
treating only private or organized acts of violence as productive, while collective acts of
violence are treated as destructive (at worst) or temporary catharsis (at best). Against this,
Girards anti-rationalism contends that it is precisely in the unplanned and spasmodic vio-
lence of the collective, in particular in its attack on the surrogate victim, that violence is
productive. We see later that this rationalism is present not merely in the thought of
Machiavelli but also in that of Heidegger and Derrida.
37 See Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, I.19.5; and Machiavellis D I.11 for some examples.
rites even when he believes they are false (D.12). Prophecy is understood
primarily in terms of inventio rather than revelation; the prophet does
not believe the modes and orders he persuades or forces his people to
believe. There are good reasons for believing that, for Machiavelli, this
applies to revealed Judeo-Christian religion as much as it does to
Roman religion.38 This is mirrored in Machiavellis two subcategories
of prophet: the armed and the unarmed. Romulus is described by
Machiavelli as an armed prophet, and Numa fits his description of an
unarmed prophet and is compared with his unarmed prophet par excel-
lence, Savonarola (D. I.11). This point can be expanded upon with a
reference to Machiavellis discussion of the two in his Discourses on Livy.
There he points out that Numa was forced to depend upon religion be-
cause of his lack of virt. Romulus organized Rome without recourse
toreligion because his strength was enough; Numa, on the other hand,
needed religion so that fear of heaven could supplement the lacking
fear of Numa. Moreover, Romulus is the condition for the possibility of
Numa: his organization of Roman religion presupposed the prior orga-
nization of Rome by Romulus in that Numas arts of peace coasted off
the momentum given to Roman life by Romuluss arts of war (D I.19).
The difference between Romulus and Numa, or the armed and unarmed
prophet more generally, lies not in the nature or source of their mes-
sage, but in their ability to project force and to demand acceptance of
the truths they have made. So, prophecy is not what traditional theology
thinks it is but, rather, the imposition of new modes and orders. The
Machiavellian prophet speaks neither to God nor for God but to human
beings. The new prince is a prophet insofar as he is one who creates new
modes and orders. The new prince imagines a republic or principality
and forces the people to believe in it, even as he refrains from doing so.
The transition from Romulus to Numa is precipitated, in Livy, by the
mysterious death of Romulus. It is striking that, in his discussion of that
transition in his Discourses on Livy, Machiavelli does not address this
strange death. Let us turn to Livy to see what Machiavelli leaves out:
When these deathless deeds had been done, as the king was holding a muster in
the Campus Martius, near the swamp of Capra, for the purpose of reviewing the
army, suddenly a storm came up with loud claps of thunder, and enveloped him
38 See the discussion in Fontana, Love of Country and Love of God, 647:
Machiavellis subversion of pagan religion reveals itself as a veiled attempt to subvert
revealed religion, whether Judaic, Islamic or Christian. Indeed, by unveiling the methods
used by the founders of pagan religion Machiavelli is simultaneously uncovering the nat-
ural and human foundations of revealed religion.
in a cloud so thick as to hide him from the sight of the assembly; and from that
moment Romulus was no more on earth. The Roman soldiers at length recov-
ered from their panic, when this hour of wild confusion had been succeeded by
sunny calm; but when they saw the royal seat was empty, although they readily
believed the assertion of the senators, who had been standing next to Romulus,
that he had been caught up on high in the blast, they nevertheless remained for
some time sorrowful and silent, as if filled with fear of orphanhood. Then when
a few men had taken the initiative, they all with one accord hailed Romulus as a
god and a gods son, the King and Father of the Roman City, and with prayers
besought his favor that he would be graciously pleased forever to protect his
children. There were some, I believe, even then who secretly asserted that the
king had been rent to pieces by the hands of the senators, but in very obscure
terms; the other version obtained currency, owing to mens admiration for the
hero and the intensity of their panic.39
It seems clear, from Livys telling, that the members of the Senate, for
whatever reason, saw the sudden darkness as a chance to kill Romulus,
and then, to cover up their crime, they claimed that he was a god as-
cended to heaven. The bloody senators appeal to the piety of the sol-
diers to hide their regicide. Why doesnt Machiavelli talk about this? It
seems, after all, a supremely Machiavellian moment. Upon closer in-
spection, this event runs counter to Machiavellis thought. First, the mur-
der of Romulus by the senators is precisely the kind of thing that is not
supposed to happen to good and virtuous founders in the Machiavellian
scheme.40 Indeed, reading Machiavelli one gets the impression that
Romulus died in his sleep the strange cause of his death is never ad-
dressed in his major writing. While Machiavelli does discourse at length
on how to kill kings, emperors, and tyrants, this is usually in the context
of conspiracies or assassinations, not a mob beating someone to death. It
is not that Machiavelli is unaware of the violence of mobs the Florentine
Histories is replete with tales of riots and lynching but that he is against
them and wants to discourage them as much as possible. One cause of
the superiority of ancient Rome to Florence, according to Machiavelli, is
that the former was able to solve problems between the estates in the city
by introducing new orders rather than rioting and lynching (D I.4 and

40 This is one reason Benner suggests that Machiavelli isnt as enamoured of Romulus
as most readers take him to be (Machiavellis Prince, 78) and, in fact, doesnt actually think
it would be a good idea to imitate Romulus. I suspect that the resolution of the issues is that
she is quite correct to say that Machiavelli does not want anyone to imitate the historic-
Romulus, but he does recommend imitation of Romulus as redacted in his texts.
I.8). The argument for the superiority of Roman orders requires the
downplaying of precisely those kinds of events, so the vulgatior fama is
preferred in the account of Romulus and Remus, and Romuluss death
is never discussed. This takes us to Machiavellis second reason for ignor-
ing the death of Romulus: the senate covers up its regicide with an appeal
to religion. But in Machiavellis version of ancient Rome this is impossi-
ble. This is because, in his telling, Romulean Rome was largely irreli-
gious, religion only being imported by Numa: One sees that for Romulus
to order the Senate and to make other civil and military orders, the au-
thority of God was not necessary (D I.11). But this does not mean that
Machiavelli thinks that religion is unimportant, only that it is not omni-
present. In any case, if Machiavelli was to dwell on the apotheosis of
Romulus, it would ruin the chronology of his founding narrative: first
Romulean politics and then Numean religion.
Finally, the third reason Machiavelli avoids talking about Romuluss
death, in Livys telling, is that the divinization of Romulus occurs after
his murder by the senators. Machiavellis victims in contrast to the vic-
tims of archaic lynching never become sacred; they are nearly immedi-
ately forgotten. If Girard is correct, the archaic understanding of the
sacred is inseparable from the murder victim: the scapegoat is taken as
both cause and cure of the communities problems and, insofar as that is
the case, is perceived to be a being of great, although ambiguous, power.
One thinks here of Oedipus, who is blamed for bringing a plague to
Thebes and is later seen as a god-like source of blessings. According to
Girard, Christianity undermines this process by asserting (with reference
to the death of Christ) the innocence of the victim and removing that
ambiguous power once attributed to him or her. In Christian education,
the victim is not the cause of the problems, and therefore killing him or
her is not the cure. Recall Augustines argument that even a victorious
prosecution of a just war will not solve our problems. In this much, at
least, Machiavelli remains a kind of Christian: his victims never become
gods. But he also remains pagan insofar as the victims have it coming:
the violence directed against them is good, fertile, and productive vio-
lence. Neither raised to the altars as gods nor exonerated as innocents,
Machiavellis victims are simply buried and forgotten.
The Chicken Men
Machiavelli points out in his Discourses on Livy that Numas ways of peace
are inseparable from, indeed founded upon, the work of Romulus.
Indeed, although Machiavelli will praise the Romans for their use of re-
ligion, this praise is not praise of piety per se, but of the clever political
use of the piety of others. When he first broaches the topic, Machiavelli
remarks that the religion founded by Numa served to make easier what-
ever enterprise the Senate or the great men of Rome might plan to
make (D I.11). So religion may profitably be used to arouse an army or
keep order in the city. But one should note here that this is a political
religion whose aims and goals are derived not from the will of the gods
but from the will of the political leadership:
Among the other auspices they had in their armies certain orders of augers
whom they called chicken-men; and whenever they were ordered to do battle
with the enemy, they wished the chicken-men to take their auspices. If the chick-
ens ate, they engaged in combat with a good augury, if they did not eat, they ab-
stained from the fight. Nonetheless, when reason showed them a thing they
ought to do notwithstanding that the auspices had been adverse they did it in
any mode. But they turned it around with means and modes so aptly that it did
not appear that they had done it with disdain for religion. (D. I.14)
When discussing the sacred chickens again in book III of the Discourses,
Machiavelli hastens to add that virtue must accompany these things [au-
guries and auspices]; otherwise they have no value (D III.33). Religion
is something created by and for the senate and people of Rome; or, as
John Najemy puts it, it is a human and historical phenomenon.41
There is neither theological nor philosophical justification for accepting
or rejecting religious doctrines; instead, such decisions are based on the
utility that they represent, subordinating heaven to the earth, the invisi-
ble to the visible. The integrity of the rites is respected but subject to
varying interpretations as the situation requires. Religion, one might say,
boils down to its rites and the interpretation of those rites.
This returns us to The Art of War, the sixth book of which is ostensibly
about how to order a military camp. Arguably, however, it is about more
than this since the camp is described as a kind of city, a mobile city
(aw VI.84). In this context, the problem of obedience comes up in a
special way: soldiers are, after all, armed. The discussion of the armed
prophet and the unarmed prophet in The Prince seems to operate on the
41 Najemy, Papirius and the Chicken-Men, 665. Particularly pertinent for the theme
of this book is Najemy s discussion of the issue as it appears in the context of Machiavellis
discussion of the eternity of the world: He [Machiavelli] puts change of religion (le variaz-
ioni delle stte), along with changes of language in the first category of the causes of oblitera-
tion of historical memory that come from mankind Here, for Machiavelli, religion is
fundamental to culture and civilization: certainly no mere pack of lies but not exactly a
unique revelation of divine will either (666).
assumption that the people at large are unarmed they are cowed by the
arms of the prince, and the downfall of the unarmed prophet comes
when the people cease to listen to him, not when they take up arms
against him. In short, The Prince largely seems to assume that all violence,
good or bad, comes from the prince. Of course, in a military context, the
people are armed. And, as the rest of The Art of War makes clear,
Machiavelli thinks that the paradigm of the citizen-soldier is a good one
that is, that that people at large should be armed and, thereby, capable
of fairly violent acts. So how then can one get armed people, who out-
number the prince, to obey? In The Prince, Machiavelli says that arming
the people turns them into the princes friends (P XX), but he also re-
minds us that we cannot count on the love of our friends to support us
in all difficulties (P XIX). Friendship needs to be supplemented by fear.
But what kind of fear can hold the fickle nature of humankind in check?
Certainly not fear of the prince whom the armed people outnumber and
outgun. We need fear of something else. In The Art of War Machiavelli
writes: And because to check armed men neither fear of the laws nor
that of men is enough, the ancients added the authority of God. And
therefore with very great ceremony they made their soldiers swear to the
observance of military discipline, so that if they acted against it, they not
only had to fear the laws and men, but God. And they used every industry
to rule them with religion. (aw VI.1256). There are three points to
make about this passage. First, religion is an appendix to the authority of
the laws and of men. It is not the original authority but, rather, some-
thing added as a firewall to stand firm if fear of laws and man decay.
Second, we find an emphasis on ceremony, on the rites performed, rath-
er than on the content of the religion. What is important in religion is
the ceremony, not the theology. This reinforces the points made earlier
in this regard. Finally, we see that religion is used to rule. The point of
religious ceremonies is, in the final analysis, to rule men who are armed
by instilling them with fear of God with fear, one might suggest, of a
supremely powerful armed prophet even in the absence of fear of laws
or other men. This ruling takes the form of the sacrificial distinction
between good and bad violence and the direction of good violence out-
side the community towards its victims and enemies and the prohibi-
tion of bad violence within the community. We should keep in mind his
discourse on the relationship between fear and love in The Prince, where
we see that fear creates a more stable bond between subject and prince
than does love to the extent that the latter is held by a chain of obliga-
tion, which, because men are wicked, is broken at every opportunity for
their own utility, but fear is held by dread of punishment that never for-
sakes you (P XVII). Fear of God, presumably, functions in the same way.
This fear enables the commanders to rule their army without ruling
them, keep their states without defending them, and govern their sub-
jects without governing them (P XI).
T h e P at r i o t G a m e
With the foregoing in mind, let us return to Numa so that we can further
refine our understanding of religion according to Machiavelli. But to set
the stage for Machiavellis discussion, I first look in more detail at what
Titus Livy himself has to say about Numa. As was already mentioned, Livy
credits Numa with establishing numerous Roman religious rites and
priesthoods; this made him the second founder of Rome.42 It is the
religion of Numa that, to a certain extent, tamed the warlike spirit of the
early Romans with the admixture of pietas: Fearing that without external
dangers and cares which fear of enemies and military discipline provide,
luxuriant idleness might occupy their souls, he reckoned the thing to
lead the multitudes and efficiently civilize the rude was to fill them with
fear of the gods.43 According to Livy, the primary goal of Numas reli-
gion is to preserve the people in their virtue during those times rare
inthe history of Rome when there is nobody to fight.44 In this case,
Numas religion is invented for purely political or social reasons: as a
preservative of virtue. Civic virtue, in Livys telling of the history of Rome,
requires metus hostillis, the fear of the enemy, to buttress the modes and
orders of the founders. The brilliance of Numa, in Livys telling, is that
he realized that fear of the gods can substitute for the fear of enemies.
The people should fear something, either an external enemy or vengeful
and powerful gods.45 Numas religion was designed to mould the imagi-
nations of the Romans in such a way that, even in the absence of ene-
mies, civic virtues are preserved. Numa gives his Romans imagined
republics and princes to keep them in line. In all this, Livy seems per-
fectly Machiavellian.
However, the above needs to be supplemented since as it stands it is not
an entirely accurate description of Livys account because it suggests that
there was no religion in Rome prior to the ascension of Numa to the
throne. As noted earlier, this is not the case: although Numa codified,
organized, and encouraged Roman religion, Livy never suggests that
Rome was irreligious prior to Numa. Instead, we find various occasions in
42 See Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, I.18.1I.21.6

43 Ibid., I.19.45.
44 Ibid., I.19.3.
45 Ibid., I.19.45.
his account of the reign of Romulus and the foundation of Rome where
religious beliefs and practices are present. For example, Romulus and
Remus consult auguries when initially building the city; the Sabines
areinvited to Rome as a part of a religious festival; and when Romulus
dies the senate claims he had ascended to the gods.46 Perhaps most
important, Livy tells us that it was only after attending to the worship
ofthe gods that Romulus gathered the multitude (multitudine) to give
them his laws: When Romulus had duly attended to the worship of the
gods, he called the people together and gave them rules of law, since
nothing else but law could unite them into one body (unius corpus).47 In
fact, this passage comes after a long description of the mythic origins of
Romuluss rites. Note the sequence: first Romulus worships, then he gives
laws, and then finally these laws unite the people. Livy emphasizes this
sequence because it is this law giving not killing Remus that truly
united this multitude into one body. When Numa is first crowned by the
Romans, he hearkens back to Romuluss founding of the city and re-
quires that, just as Romulus wove auguries and rites into the founding of
Rome, so they should also be woven into his coronation.48 Roman reli-
gion cannot be said to begin simply with the advent of Numa; rather, Livy
tells us that the very foundation of Rome was, at least in part, religious. To
be sure, Numas reign was characterized by a devotion to religious mat-
ters that outstripped that of Romulus, but it goes too far to suggest that
the founding of Rome was an entirely secular affair in Livys account.
However, this is precisely what Machiavellis discussion of Romulus
and Numa in the Discourses suggests. As we noted, Machiavelli presents
the Rome of Romulus as devoted to military affairs entirely and that of
Numa as devoted to religion. Rome, prior to Numa, is secular. This opens
up an important theme for Machiavelli as he wonders who is more
deserving of praise: his Romulus, who ignores religion to focus on the
development of martial virtue, or his Numa, who introduces religion to
the Romans (D. I.11). While at first seeming to suggest that Numa is
more deserving of praise, Machiavelli concludes by arguing that Romulus
is superior insofar as his martial virtue can stand without religion, but
Numa would not have been able to introduce religion without the foun-
dations laid by the strength of Romulus. In Discourses I.11, Machiavelli
seems to argue that Numas religion is more fundamental in that it intro-
duced good orders into the city and that, where there are good orders,
one can easily introduce good arms. However, in Discourses I.19 he takes
46 Ibid., I.6.4; I.7.23; I.9.6-8; I.16.18.

47 Ibid., I.8.3.
48 Ibid., I.18.610.
this back, saying that Numas Rome was precarious and under the sway
of fortune. Elsewhere he asserts that good arms are the foundation of
good laws (P XII). Romuluss Rome, in contrast to Numas, was more
reliant on its own virtue. Numa relied on the virtue of Romulus rather
than on his own arms: it was the strength of Romuluss rule that allowed
Numa to cultivate religion and peace. If Tullus, the third king, was not
closer to Romulus than to Numa, Machiavelli continues, Rome would
have been crushed by her neighbours (D I.11 and I.19).
Machiavellis (a) emphasis on Numas dependency on the prior ac-
complishments of Romulus and (b) secularized retelling of the found-
ing of Rome by Romulus confirms my claim that religion, for Machiavelli,
is a secondary phenomenon: what is primary is the virt of Romulus, his
ability to use good violence. The eternal world is primarily the world of
Romulus; the morality and theology espoused by various religions only
exists in the space carved out by people like Romulus. They are modes
and orders introduced by the prince, not realities discovered by the
prince. The importance of Machiavellis account of Romulus and Numa
can be seen by contrasting it with the Augustinian claim that human be-
ings naturally seek God: inquietum est cor nostrum, donec requiescat
in te.49 Machiavellis account of the origin of religion denies this: peo-
ple do not naturally seek God; instead, God is introduced only after the
primary political problem of ordering our lives together has been solved.
Indeed, religion is a product of the modes and orders introduced by the
prince rather than vice versa: he who would act politically must love his
city more than his soul. This famous phrase (which Machiavelli uses in
his account of the War of the Eight Saints at fh III.7 and adopts for him-
self in his letter to Francisco Vettori of April 1527 [L #225]) as well as
the juxtaposition of Romulus and Numa in the Discourses can be eluci-
dated with reference to two important points Machiavelli makes in The
Prince: first, that all those who rely on belief as a opposed to force (i.e.,
unarmed prophets) come to ruin and, second, that good laws presup-
pose good arms (P VI and XII). The two claims summarize the view con-
tained in his account of Numa: the priority of good arms to good laws
signifies the priority of force to morality and reason; the weakness of the
unarmed prophet is the weakness of Numa.
Although Numa did not come to ruin, as we saw earlier, he would have
been ruined if he had not had the reputation of Romulus to protect him;
one may recall here Cosimo Medicis assertion in Machiavellis Florentine
49 Augustine, Confessions, I.1.1.

Histories that one does not hold power (stato) with pater nosters (fh VII.6).
This reading is compounded by a crucial text from the Discourses:
Lucius Lentulus, the Roman legate, said that it did not appear to him that any
policy whatever for saving the fatherland was to be avoided the fatherland is
well defended in whatever mode one defends it, whether with ignominy or with
glory That advice deserves to be noted and observed by any citizen who finds
himself counseling his fatherland, for where one deliberates entirely on the safe-
ty of his fatherland, there ought not to enter any consideration of either just or
unjust, merciful or cruel, praiseworthy or ignominious; indeed every other con-
cern put aside, one ought to follow entirely the policy that saves its life and main-
tains its liberty. (D III.41)
The fatherland is so important that no other consideration should limit

what one is willing to do to save it. The fatherland is the one thing that
matters; it is, in a sense, a god deserving of all our labours, work, and
care. We do not limit our deliberation by references to norms derived
from imagined republics but, instead, focus our attention entirely and
completely on what must be done to protect our visible patria. We do
this, in part, because, for Machiavelli, this patria is our only patria; the
Machiavellian is not a wayfaring stranger or pilgrim in this world, build-
ing up his treasures in Heaven and journeying towards the eternal
Jerusalem of the City of God. No: the Machiavellians treasure and
heart lie in his visible patria in the eternal world. He must defend it,
therefore, at all costs for the patria is the entirety of his possession, his
world, and his life. This is why he must love it more than his soul: the
patria functions as a kind of highest good. Any violence that defends
the patria is good violence. The patriotism that Viroli rightly recognizes
in Machiavelli is a function of the apotheosis of the patria. But while
Viroli sees Machiavellian patriotism as a net positive, the Irish writer
Dominic Behan reminds us (in his song The Patriot Game) that the
love ones country is a terrible thing. Why? As the song continues we
find that it is precisely this patriotism that sends OHanlon (the songs
narrator) to kill policemen, deserters, and traitors. OHanlon has no
mercy for the quislings that sell out the patria! He is sure that his vio-
lence is a good violence. The apotheosis of the patria entails the em-
brace of sacrifice.
6
The End of the World
In chapter 56 of book I of his Discourses on Livy, Machiavelli turns

to the subject of auguries and similar signs. The tone here is largely scep-
tical: Machiavelli admits that great signs, such as lightning strikes, voices,
and the like, often appear prior to great events but that whence it arises
I do not know (D I.56). Later in this same section he ventures to specu-
late a bit more:
The cause of this I believe to be discoursed of and interpreted by a man who has
knowledge of things natural and supernatural, which we do not have. Yet it could
be, as some philosophers would have it, that since this air is full of intelligences
that foresee future things by their natural virtues, and they have compassion for
men, they warn them with like signs so that they can prepare themselves for de-
fense. Yet however this may be, one sees it thus to be the truth, and that always
after such accidents extraordinary and new things supervene in provinces.
(DI.56)
This passage should be unpacked sentence by sentence. In the first sen-

tence he says that if a man had knowledge of natural and supernatural
things a knowledge that we dont have then he would know the causes
of these events. The events themselves are visible, but the causes of the
events are invisible. Machiavellis scepticism applies only to our knowl-
edge of the invisible causes of these visible events. In the next sentence
he refers to the position of some philosopher. Mansfield finds it note-
worthy that Machiavelli refers specifically to a philosopher rather than
to a prophet or an ecclesiastic, suggesting that the entire chapter is
a critical response to certain aspects of Savonarolas preaching.1 But
it is equally important that Machiavelli refrains from endorsing the
1 Mansfield, New Modes and Orders, 165.

The End of the World 147
philosophers opinion: he merely admits it as a possibility. After all, in

the first sentence, he disclaims having any kind of knowledge of these
things; hence he has no grounds for either accepting or excluding that
possibility. The entertainment of the philosophical thesis in sentence
two is conditioned by the affirmation of the sceptical thesis in sentence
one. The philosophical or even theological interpretation of the causes
of these events is reduced to mere guesswork. Finally, in the third sen-
tence, Machiavelli tells us that the entire debate about causes is irrele-
vant because the important point is just that these things do happen, not
the causes of these events.
Machiavelli does not care where the voices come from. He is aware
that people perform auguries and that people believe them, but he
knows not what to make of them beyond that. His dismissal of all ques-
tions regarding the source of the voices is more important than one
might initially suspect. These voices subtly suggest that the visible world
might not be eternal, that entities transcending the world may exist and
may in fact interact with us to some small degree. If one investigates too
closely the causes of these voices one may find oneself speculating about
imagined republics. His agnostic statements regarding the voices no
doubt emerge from the same source as does his affirmation of the eter-
nity of the world (i.e., the desire to do away with the transcendent) but it
testifies to the possibility that there is something that transcends the
world. Machiavelli shuts down this possible interpretation by emphasiz-
ing that the only thing that really matters is how the voices operate in
this world. By a sleight of hand rather than force of argument, he man-
ages to focus our attention less on the possibly world-transcending
source of voices than on the management of the voices in this world.
For Machiavelli, the important thing is that the prince learns how to
manage these auguries correctly; the augury is reduced to the effectual
truth. Whatever aspects of the augury there may be beyond the world we
cannot and should not speak of. Indeed, we are prohibited from speak-
ing of the augury in itself: we can only speak of the way we relate to it.
Similarly, when he discusses Savonarola earlier in the Discourses, he re-
marks that he doesnt know whether or not Savonarola actually spoke
with God. But he does know that the people of Florence believed that he
did and that this belief enabled him to do a great many things (D I.11).
What might normally be taken as the crucial question did he or did he
not converse with God? is pushed to the side as less important than the
political benefits that can be accrued.
The parallels with both Heideggers argument that theology as a spec-
ulative science of God (i.e., of the cause of auguries) is impossible and
his argument that the one describing Daseins being-towards-God (the
effect of auguries in this world) is possible and desirable surely announce
themselves here, and I wont belabour the point. One might be justified
in thinking that these parallels are merely superficial and that focusing
on them masks a more general difference of tones, concerns, and what-
not between the two such that these purported parallels are merely ac-
cidental and of no real importance. This would be mistaken: while there
is a gap between Machiavelli and Heidegger, we can only properly under-
stand it by first understanding the deeper agreements between the two.
Theseus versus Heidegger
We can get at the deepest point of agreement between Heidegger

andMachiavelli by returning to the 1930s and looking at Heideggers
1935 text, Introduction to Metaphysics. After we have understood the deep
agreements, we will be able to appreciate their equally important diver-
gences. At a key point in his text, Heidegger turns to Heraclitus and
Parmenides for an understanding of the archaic Greek logos. We learn,
in his analysis, that the logos is intimately related to rank and hierarchy,
the strong can gain access to it and the weak cannot: Because Being is
logos, Harmonia, aletheia, phusis, phainesthai (logos, harmony, unconceal-
ment, phusis, self-showing), it shows itself in a way that is anything but
arbitrary. The true is not for everyone, but only for the strong (im 142).
This position is compounded in his discussion of Parmenides and
Antigone, where Heidegger argues that the logos is intimately connected
with the doing of violence:
Being-human, according to its historical, history-opening essence, is logos, the

gathering and apprehending of the Being of beings: the happening of what is
most uncanny, in which, through doing violence, the overwhelming comes to
appearance and is brought to stand. (im 182)
The connection between logos and violence is the reason that the truth
is only for the strong. In the face of an undifferentiated scattering, one
must be strong enough to force being to be gathered in this or that way.
This point builds on an earlier section of the text, in which Heidegger
claims that the world of the Greeks was the product of the struggle
(Kampf) of statesmen, artists, and writers to wrest being apart from seem-
ing (im 116). Commenting on these and related passages, Hans Sluga
writes: Violence is, for Heidegger, mans basic trait insofar as he uses
force against what is overwhelming.2 The violence of man, for Heidegger,
2 Sluga, Conflict Is the Father of All Things, 211.

consists primarily in his struggle against the seeming (im 1612), which
is to say, in the aforementioned founding struggles of statesmen, artists,
and writers. This founding violence, Sluga cautions, is not to be under-
stood as mere brutality but, rather, as creative, giving birth to the polis, to
culture, to Greece. Paradoxically, Heidegger suggests that these found-
ers are apolis: precisely insofar as they violently found the city, they are
not limited by the laws of the city. So, Heidegger writes:
Rising high in the site of history, they also become apolis, without city and site,
lonesome, un-canny, with no way out amidst beings as a whole, and at the same
time without ordinance and limit, without structure and fittingness [Fug], be-
cause they as creators must first ground all this in each case. (IM 163)
Later, Heidegger tells us that, when decadence has set in and the vi-
brancy of the founding has faded, other violent men will be needed to
return the polis, by force, to the moment of founding.3 We are only a
hop, skip, and a jump from The Prince and the Discourses. Lest I be misun-
derstood, let me make clear that I am not claiming that every aspect of
Heideggers Introduction to Metaphysics finds an analogue in Machiavelli
or vice versa. That would almost certainly be wrong. But I am claiming
that both agree in seeing founding as dependent upon the violent acts of
a few gifted individuals. Likewise, the forceful revivification of the city in
the face of decadence by a few violent men mirrors exactly the recom-
mendation for reform in a corrupt city recommended in the Discourses
and discussed by us in an earlier chapter.
However, it is precisely at this point, the point at which the German
metaphysician and the Italian diplomat seem to agree on fundamentals,
that we discover the deeper chasm separating the two from each other.
Heideggers uncanny violence is quite different from the bloodletting of
Machiavelli. There will be the temptation to conclude that Heidegger
offers us deep ontological structures while Machiavelli stops with a fairly
superficial ontic analysis. According to this temptation, Heideggerian
violence is reflective of the violence of being, a deeper or more primor-
dial and ultimately more important violence that Machiavelli fails to
3 C. Bambach, commenting on Heideggers discussion of Antigone in im, writes:

Genuine political order demands a daring violence-initiating act by a founder either a
state founder or an artist or a poet or a thinker who can lead [fhren] the Volk, who might
dare to become a leader [Fhrer] through the intro-duction [Ein-fhrung] into the meta-
physical truths of the dike/techne conflict. See Bambach, Heideggers Roots, 152. With the
exception of the last part about metaphysical truths, Heidegger is in agreement with
Machiavelli. I address their metaphysical differences shortly.
think. After all, Heidegger tells us clearly that his violence is meant in an
essential sense and that this is a far cry from brutality and arbitrary cru-
elty. Heideggers essential violence, in marked contrast to Machiavellis
founding violence, is primarily directed towards the overwhelming
rather than towards people (im 160). Indeed, the violence of poetry,
thinking, and building does not kill or destroy but, rather, discloses, al-
lowing human beings to enter into being; the peculiarly human form of
violence is techne, the knowing struggle to set Being, which was formerly
closed off, into what appears as being (im 1701). All this seems worlds
away from the bloody daggers of Machiavellis founding violence, and
his account of violence seems shallow compared to Heideggers account
of essential violence. This conclusion is certainly plausible (it is probably
the one that Heidegger would suggest), but it requires that one be a
Heideggerian that is, that one believe that the deeper violence of being
is real and that Heidegger gets at those deeper structures. We can find
the strength to resist this temptation if we avoid presupposing the cor-
rectness of Heideggers account of being. If we succeed, we will see that
Heidegger despite his reputation to the contrary is not as deep a
thinker as is Machiavelli. Heideggers interest in deep ontological struc-
tures prevents him from noticing what Machiavelli discovers. In fact,
Heidegger stops short: his analysis recognizes a few aspects of founding
violence but misses the most crucial parts. Heideggers essential violence
is mainly a metaphysical or ontological violence rather than an ontic vio-
lence: the techniques of founding, the speeches and fights, the dead
bodies and blood-stained weapons are never discussed. Machiavelli is
aware of the extent to which essential violence orders and discloses be-
ing: this is part of what he means when he says that founders are proph-
ets introducing new modes and orders. But he is also aware that one
must force the people to accept these new modes and orders, that good
arms precede good laws or, in other words, that the founding of the polis
always involves coercion. In Heidegger the struggle to found the city is
spiritualized or ontologized into a struggle with being rather than with
beings, with other people, and with nature. Indeed, Heideggers found-
ers are primarily artists and thinkers; even his statesmen seem like theo-
reticians rather than princes.
What Machiavelli sees and Heidegger misses is that new modes and
orders are not introduced in the lecture halls of philosophers and the
theatre of poets. The founding of the city precedes and makes possible
the theatre in which Antigone is performed. As Machiavelli puts it in the
Florentine Histories, letters come after arms and captains arise before
philosophers (fh V.I). Heidegger only thinks the latter half of found-
ing, the introduction of new modes and orders, forgetting the ontic vio-
lence that is prior to and necessary for the introduction of new modes
and orders: all the armed prophets conquered and the unarmed ones
were ruined (P VI). He is distracted and dazzled by great art and great
books, focusing his attentions on the content of the modes and orders
introduced by poets, thinkers, and statesman, and missing the ontic vio-
lence that introduces and enforces those modes and orders. So, while
Heidegger correctly recognizes the relationship between the Greek logos
and founding violence he thinks only one part of that founding violence,
oblivious to the corpses piled at the founders feet. His focus on Heraclitus
and Parmenides leads him to neglect Lycurgus and Theseus. It is not
that Heidegger makes an error in his ontology, it is that his error is ontol-
ogy. From a Machiavellian perspective, Heideggers account of the ori-
gin of the city flounders precisely because he looks for some metaphysical
source that the founders manage to harness rather than studying how
the act of founding itself manufactures metaphysics. At the last moment,
he is distracted by something that has never been seen or touched, an
imaginary republic, being.
In short, Heideggers ontological approach comes very close to the
insights of Machiavelli but ultimately fails and obfuscates the actual ontic
murders and beatings that made the Greek world possible. He reads the
violence required in founding primarily as a kind of metaphysical strug-
gle with the overwhelming rather than as a struggle with, or against, oth-
ers. Heideggers account of founding violence only accounts for the
founding acts of unarmed prophets (who always come to ruin), forget-
ting the more fundamental lesson of the armed prophets: to disclose, to
introduce new modes and orders, requires virtue, requires that one be
able to force others to believe and obey. This applies not only to the ac-
count in the 1930s but even more so to Building, Dwelling, Thinking
and other more bucolic texts from the 1950s. We noted earlier that
Heidegger describes a bridge built over the stream. The bridge creates a
path from rural farm to city market, leading ultimately to a castle (bdt
354). But he neglects the man in the castle who presumably ordered the
bridges and roads to be built in the first place, who employed sheriffs to
clear away highwaymen, ensuring that Heideggers peasants could tarry
and linger in safety. This returns us to chapter 21 of The Prince: the ability
of Heideggers peasants to follow their pursuits quietly, in trade and in
agriculture and in every other pursuit of men presupposes the security
provided by the princes sacrificial violence (P XXI).
Violence and the Logos
If we criticize Heidegger for not being Machiavellian enough this should

not distract us from the equally important point that he is very
Machiavellian: his linking of founding with fertile violence walks the
path blazed by Machiavelli. Moreover, even as Heideggers ontological

preoccupations prevent him from fully digesting the violence of found-
ing, that same preoccupation enables him to give a richer account of
the way the founders new modes and orders disclose the world. Because
of this, his discussion of logos in Introduction to Metaphysics can help us
better understand what Machiavelli implies but leaves unspoken. In the
beginning of his discussion of Heraclitus in Introduction to Metaphysics,
Heidegger laments that the Greek thinker has been subjected to in-
numerable un-Greek misinterpretations. The root of these errors,
it turns out, is the conflation of the Heraclitean logos with that of
Christianity (im 1334). It becomes incumbent upon Heidegger to dis-
entangle Heraclitus from the Gospel. Heidegger goes on to summarize
what, in his view, is the crucial difference between the Christian and the
Heraclitean logos:
But in principle we can say: in the New Testament, from the start, logos does not
mean, as in Heraclitus, the Being of beings, the gatheredness of that which con-
tends, but logos means one particular being, namely the Son of God. Furthermore,
it means Him in the role of mediator between God and humanity. This New
Testament representation of logos is that of the Jewish philosophy of religion
which was developed by Philo, in whose doctrine of creation logos is determined
as the mesites, the mediator. Why is the mediator logos? Because logos in the Greek
translation of the Old Testament (Septuagint) is the term for word, word in the
particular meaning of an order, a commandment; hoi deka logoi are the ten com-
mandments of God (the Decalogue). Thus logos means: the keryx angelos the mes-
senger, the emissary who transmits commandments and orders; logos tou staurou
is the word of the Cross. The announcement of the Cross is Christ Himself; He is
the logos of salvation, of eternal life, logos ziies. A world separates all this from
Heraclitus. (im 143)
Heidegger is correct in his desire to separate the Greek from the

Christian logos, but he misunderstands the difference. Heidegger sug-
gests that the principle difference is that Christianity takes the logos as a
being or a thing rather than as a gathering that contends. This amounts
to another version of a forgetting (on the part of Christianity) of the
ontological difference. But there is a deeper difference between the two
accounts of the logos to which Girard points in his discussion of this sec-
tion of Heideggers Introduction to Metaphysics. Girard begins by noting:
His [Heideggers] essential contribution does not lie in an insistence on the no-
tions of bringing together and reassembling, which he shows to be present in
the term logos. He also states something much more important: the logos brings
together entities that are opposite, and it does not do so without violence.
Heidegger recognizes that the Greek logos is inseparably linked with violence.
(thsfw 265)
Pointing to the passage quoted above, Girard notes that Heidegger like-
wise finds violence in the Christian logos, presenting it as the logos of
commands and commandments, whose only function is to transmit or-
ders of a dictatorial master (thsfw 268). In Heideggers presentation
both versions of the logos are violent. The difference between the Greek
and the Christian logos turns only on (a) the source and (b) the nature
of the violence. Beginning with (a): in Greece, the violence is found in
the creative activity of thinkers, poets, and artists; in Christianity, the vio-
lence is located in the commands of a dictatorial God. Turning to (b), in
Christianity, insofar as the logos is considered as a being or thing (albeit
a very special one), the violence of the Christian logos is only the ontic
violence of commands, threats, and punishments rather that the onto-
logical struggle with the overwhelming that characterizes the violence of
the Greek logos. It is at both these points that Girard demurs, and I think
rightly so. Girard notes that, in the prologue to John, the logos suffers
violence at the hands of human beings; the logos is unknown, rejected,
expelled by the world (thsfw 271). While the Heraclitean logos vio-
lently gathers together opposites, the Johannine logos is expelled: He
was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew
him not. He came unto his own, and his own received him not (John
1:1011). Girard argues that one must distinguish between the violence
enacted by the Greco-Heideggerian logos and the violence suffered by the
Johannine logos. It is not the case that the Johannine logos inflicts vio-
lence upon human beings, free or otherwise, but, rather, that human
beings inflict violence on the logos. This difference is more fundamental
than the difference Heidegger highlights between gathering and a par-
ticular being. The proper contrast is not (as Heidegger would have it)
the contrast between two kinds of violence, but a more fundamental one
between violence and non-violence, between victimizer and victim. The
Christian logos is not for the strong but for the weak because the logos
itself is weak.
Girards criticisms of Heidegger has a bearing on Derridas work as
well: Derridas rejection of logocentrism is predicated on a Heideggerian
understanding of the logos; precisely because the logos is violent and
exclusionary, logocentrism must be rejected (to the extent possible) in
the name of hospitality to the other. Girard suggests that this is too quick:
given the fact that there are two modes of the logos, the Heideggerian
logos of violence and the Johnanine logos of suffering, the rejection of
the first need not entail the rejection of the second. The fact that this is
not often appreciated, for Girard, is testimony to the prophetic quality of
Johns Gospel: the Christian logos is still not recognized and it is still ex-
pelled (thsfw 272). In supposing that the logos of violence is the only
logos (even if only in order to reject it), Heidegger and Derrida both
represent not the dawning of a new way of post-metaphysical thinking
but the return of the oldest way of thinking that of the old gods of sac-
rifice. The dynamic we noted earlier in our discussion of Machiavellis
God plays itself out again here: the purported novelty is actually the re-
turn of something old and forgotten, a repetition of archaic religion;
Heideggers logos is scrubbed clean of blood and gore but it remains a
sacrificial idol.
In the case of Heidegger, we find corroborating evidence in his 1943
postscript to What Is Metaphysics. There we find him, right before he
introduces the idea of originary thinking (Das anfngliche Denken), ap-
pealing to the notion of sacrifice. In a shocking set of sentences John
Sallis calls it one of Heideggers most astonishing4 Heidegger tells us:
The need is for the truth of being to be preserved, whatever may happen to hu-
man beings and to all beings. The sacrifice [Das Opfer] is that of the human
essence expending [Verschwendung] itself in a manner removed from all com-
pulsion because it arises in the abyss of freedom for the preservation of the
truth of being for beings. (pwm 236)
We couldnt ask for a clearer expression of the sacrificial distinction than

this one: human beings are to be sacrificed, or even wasted (one possible
sense of Verschwendung), to preserve the truth of being. The good vio-
lence used to found and preserve communities is called upon here to
preserve the truth of being. We may wish to interpret Heideggers sacri-
ficial language as a kind of philosophical metaphor, as suggesting that
the philosopher must give up certain things in the pursuit of truth, as
Socrates gave up his life rather than stop philosophizing. Certainly, the
above passage suggests that the sacrificial victim is not compelled insofar
as the sacrifice arises in the abyss of freedom. But this does not settle
the issue: nothing in sacrifice requires compulsion, as the Roman devotio
reminds us. Let us read a bit more:
4 Sallis, Echoes, 152.

Sacrifice is the departure from beings on the path to preserving the favor of be-
ing. Sacrifice can indeed be prepared and served by working and achievement
with respect to being, yet never fulfilled by such activities. Its accomplishments
stems from that inherent stance out of which every historical human being
through action and essential thinking is action preserves the Dasein he has
attained for the preservation of the dignity of being. Such a stance is the equa-
nimity that allows nothing to assail to its concealed readiness for the essential
departure that belongs to every sacrifice. Sacrifice is at home in the essence of
the event [Ereignis] whereby being lays claim upon the human being for the
truth of being. (pwm 2367)
At times, it is hard to make heads or tails of Heidegger, and this is one of

those times. The passage abounds with abstractions and convoluted
phrasings. Nevertheless, it seems clear that this sacrifice is offered in the
face of a kind crisis. It occurs when one feels threatened: Thomas
Mautner has suggested that the entire discussion of sacrifice in pwm is
designed to defend German morale in the face of the defeats mounting
as the Second World War drew to a close.5 Even if one does not agree
with Mautners strategy of reading Heideggers texts in the light of the
social and political context of their composition, one can still agree that,
in pmw, there is a close tie between anxiety and the sacrifice of beings in
the name of thinking being. In either case, the sacrifice of beings in-
cluding human beings responds to a kind of crisis, the crisis of a lost
war or the crisis of anxiety. Sacrifice resolves the crisis with the turn to-
wards being, with the violent founding (per Introduction to Metaphysics) of
a new polis. The sequence crisis-sacrifice-resolution that Girard finds in
archaic thought is reproduced here with a shocking degree of exacti-
tude. This shouldnt be surprising. Heidegger, after all, spent a good
part of his philosophical career attempting to return to the thinking of
the archaic Greeks; if Heidegger was truly successful in his attempt to
rethink his pre-Socratic forbears, then he is only another step away from
the archaic world the pre-Socratics inhabited. The pre-Socratic experi-
ence of being that Heidegger points us towards is the same world as the
executed pharmakos and Bacchic frenzy. The great tragedies, among oth-
er witnesses, show us that the pre-Socratic world Heidegger loved is in-
separable from murder: in The Bacchae, Pentheus is torn apart by the
Dionysian crowd. Girard claims that Heideggers thought remains bound
by the scapegoating mechanism. To the extent that Heidegger returns to
5 Mautner, Self-Sacrifice in Heidegger, 39395.

archaic Greek sources he binds himself even more tightly to that mecha-
nism (thsfw 267).
Precisely because he returns to Greek thought with such rigour and
brilliance, Heidegger returns to the archaic belief in the efficacy of sac-
rifice, the belief that the sacrifice of the pharmakos can resolve the crisis,
that Dionysius will be satisfied after the death of Pentheus and order re-
stored or renewed. The structure of sacrificial thought is present in those
passages of pwm in which the preservation of the truth of being is tied
to, and dependent upon, the Verschwendung of human beings. However,
the sacrificial moment in Heidegger is probably meant primarily in spiri-
tual (geistige) terms rather than in practical ones. Just as Heideggers es-
sential violence isnt meant to be the same as ontic violence, in the
essential sacrifice nobody dies. I do not want readers to suspect me of
accusing Heidegger of engaging in human sacrifice during nocturnal
rituals deep in the Black Forest! In fact, there is a kind of obliviousness
to human things in this section of the post-script: the Thinker could
hardly be bothered to kill a man. My point is that, even if this doesnt
involve the actual murder of human beings, Heideggers text repeats the
murderous structure of sacrifice whereby the death or expulsion of the
victim resolves the crisis. In fact, just as we complained earlier that
Heideggers focus on essential violence led him to miss the more funda-
mental importance of Machiavellian violence, we might complain here
that his naive use of sacrificial logic prevented him from taking his own
language seriously enough to think through the implications of his own
words.6 If he had done so, he would have found that the logic of sacrifice
presupposes ontic violence, the actual death or expulsion of a victim.
From there, he might wonder if it makes sense to adopt the language
and structure of sacrifice without also adopting the practice. Is the ap-
peal to sacrificial structures warranted when there is no sacrificial victim?
Is the sacrifice without sacrifice we find in pwm a kind of empty clich or
is something more at work? Whatever the case may be, the important
point for us, for now, is that in both im and pwm we find, in antiseptic
ontological guise, the same structure of violence and sacrifice we identi-
fied in Machiavelli and archaic religion.
6 A similar point is made in Sallis, Echoes, 163: Granted that he [Heidegger] did
broach a thinking of the political, it is surprising that he says so little.
Deconstructing Buridans Ass
Derrida is well aware of sacrifice and its problems, and he certainly goes
far beyond Heideggers understanding.7 This is particularly clear in The
Gift of Death. Although separated by decades, there are good reasons for
reading The Gift of Death (1992) in close connection with his much ear-
lier essay (1967) entitled Violence and Metaphysics.8 Since the latter
takes the form of a long debate with Levinas, and presupposes a fairly
detailed knowledge of his texts, my discussion focuses on the former.
However, it is worth noting some of the general conclusions reached by
Derrida in Violence and Metaphysics. As far as the purposes of this
book are concerned, the most important of these conclusions is that vio-
lence and non-violence cannot be as clearly separated as Levinas is ac-
cused of supposing.9 The Face of the Other both prohibits violence and
makes violence possible because it is only the other whom I can kill:
Only a face can arrest violence, but can do so, in the first place, only
because a face can provoke it (vm 147). The upshot of Violence and
Metaphysics is that there is not a space outside of, or apart from, vio-
lence; rather, it is violence all the way down peace is mixed with vio-
lence. Indeed, Derrida goes even further: when he describes peace as a
telos he can be taken as suggesting that peace only arises from violence
(vm 116). This is, of course, textbook Derrida: first he finds a philoso-
pher making a binary opposition that privileges one of the binary points,
and then he shows that things are not as binary as they seem the two
points are hopelessly entangled and almost indistinguishable (Like
pure violence, pure nonviolence is a contradictory concept), such that
the privileging of one over the other is arbitrary (vm 146). But beyond
this textbook manoeuvre, something much more important (for our
purposes at least) is going on: Derrida begins to argue that, given the
inescapability of violence, the point is to (somehow) use violence to limit
violence, a violence against violence (vm 117). Derridas violence
7 In 1993, Derrida published an essay (in French) entitled Le Sacrifice. It is surprisingly

irrelevant to the discussion that follows: the essay is mainly concerned with the relationship
between theatre and philosophy and only briefly mentions sacrifice as a possible source for
Greek tragedy, without developing the idea in any meaningful way.
8 These reasons are offered in both de Vries, Religion and Violence; and in Hanson,
Returning (to) the Gift of Death.
9 I want to avoid a detailed exegesis of Levinas. For the purposes of this argument, I
am only interested in what Violence and Metaphysics tells us about Derrida. I am stipulat-
ing, for the sake of argument, the general correctness of his reading of Levinas.
against violence calls to mind the sacrificial distinction between a good

violence that preserves the community from destruction and a bad vio-
lence that destroys. Indeed, one might gloss the just quoted phrase as
pointing towards a good violence against a bad violence.
In The Gift of Death Derrida returns to some of the themes that occu-
pied him in Violence and Metaphysics. There he writes (among other
things) of sacrificing ethics (gd 68). My ethical obligation to this other
person, according to Derrida, forces us to sacrifice our obligations to help
the other others. This sacrificial dilemma (which is to be distinguished
from the sacrificial distinction) is such that I am responsible to anyone
(that is to say to any other) only by failing my responsibility to all the oth-
ers, to the ethical or political generality. And I can never justify this sacri-
fice; I must always hold my peace about it (gd 70). This seems like the
reverse of Machiavelli: for Machiavelli, I may sacrifice this other precisely
because of my ethical or political responsibilities. This is good violence in
a nutshell. Derridas sacrificial dilemma is something different: it is the
sacrifice of my political obligations for the sake of this other person hic
etnunc. But beyond the content, there is a formal difference: Derridas
dilemma concerns two (or more) obligations, which is not the case in
Machiavelli. In Derridas sacrificial dilemma, I am given a choice between
two disjuncts, each of which entails the negation of the other. When I
choose the first disjunct, I inevitably sacrifice the second. However, ac-
cording to the posing of the problem, I owe each disjunct that same (in-
finite) loyalty. If one allowed the inability to decide to prevent one from
deciding, one would betray both so one must decide even though the
decision is undecidable. To say that something is undecidable has a spe-
cific meaning for Derrida. It does not mean that one cannot decide, such
as when a decision is taken out of ones hands (as when higher authori-
ties set a policy) or when something is unchangeable (as in Aristotles
Ethics, when he says we do not deliberate about that which is not in our
power).10 Instead, it means that one must decide, even though there are
no firm grounds for deciding. Like the bales of hay set before Buridans
proverbial ass, there is nothing to distinguish the two options; however,
unlike Buridans ass, one must and does choose. In choosing to oblige P,
one betrays Q, or vice versa. It is not to Derridas purpose to cut this
Gordian knot but, rather, to linger with it so as to make his readers aware
of the treacherous ground of obligation, a ground often concealed by
talk of ethics, politics, and social functioning (gd 612; 856). In a sense,
this repeats, in a new register, the claim in Violence and Metaphysics
that there is neither pure violence nor pure non-violence. In choosing
10 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1112a20b.

non-violence with one person, I inevitably treat the second person with
violence; at the very least, I fail in my responsibility to her or him. We are
meant to be aware of both our obligations to the other, and our constant,
inevitable, betrayals. The point of Derridas discussion of this sacrificial
dilemma is to mourn the problem, not to solve it.
The distance between Derridas sacrificial dilemma and the sacrifi-
cial distinction is, however, not as great as one might suppose or wish.
Certainly, although he admits that pure non-violence is impossible,
Derrida would like to minimize the amount of violence in the world. The
problem, as we have already seen, is that the minimization of violence is
accomplished by more violence. The violence that minimizes violence is
implicitly a good violence that is preferable to the bad violence of the
worst. We already saw an implicit appeal to the sacrificial distinction at
work in Violence and Metaphysics, and it is at work again here. That is
to say, Derridas sacrificial dilemma assumes that the choice for one or
the other disjunct is both (a) at the service of the other and (b) to the
detriment of other others. When I choose P, P is benefited and Q sacri-
ficed. But this is exactly what happens in good sacrificial violence: in or-
der to benefit some, violence is directed towards others. The sacrificial
dilemma in The Gift of Death is a homily on the sacrificial distinction, but
not a replacement of it. As far as homilies go, it is a good one; one might
go so far as to call it Augustinian. However, despite the proximity to
Augustine, it is only half-way Augustinian. Derridas analysis calls to mind
Augustines discussion of the sorrows of the just warrior: unlike Augustine,
Derrida does not offer an alternative to it. Derridas point is precisely that
there is no alternative forthcoming. This is our situation. It is inevitable
and sad. While Derridas emphasis on the unhappiness of all of this may
seem to prove his distance from the sacrificial distinction, there is noth-
ing in the sacrificial distinction per se that precludes sadness. Augustine
was well aware that Brutus cried while the execution of his children was
carried out under his orders and supervision (cg III.16) for the uniniti-
ated, Iunius Brutus, after the expulsion of Tarquin and the founding of
the Roman Republic, discovered that his own children were conspiring
to return the ousted tyrant to the throne. As consul, Brutus had no choice
but to order the execution of his offspring. The duelling obligations of
Brutus can be readily interpreted as an instance of the kind of sacrificial
dilemma described by Derrida, and the unhappiness of poor Brutus is
precisely Derridas point. Certainly, Brutus had an infinite obligation to
his sons, but he also had an infinite obligation to the other others in
Rome, and by fulfilling one, he necessarily betrayed the other. In a way,
whichever decision he made would have been the wrong one. Describing
precisely this same incident, Machiavelli unhesitatingly describes Brutus
as unhappy. He, too, is aware of Brutuss competing obligations to his
sons and his city. However, Machiavelli nonetheless maintains that, de-
spite this unhappiness, the violence of Brutus was of the good kind: when
it comes to communal strife and conflict, there is no remedy more pow-
erful, nor more valid, more secure, and more necessary, than to kill the
sons of Brutus (D I.16). This is why Brutus would have betrayed his obli-
gations to the city had he not punished his traitorous sons so severely.11
The sacrificial distinction simply states that there are good and bad
forms of violence: the good violence is fertile, it founds and preserves
communities, while the bad violence is destructive, threatening, and un-
dermines communities. Derridas sacrificial dilemma in The Gift of Death
runs alongside the sacrificial distinction but never challenges it. In fact,
in Force of Law and Faith and Knowledge, Derridas discussion of
founding violence replicates the logic of the sacrificial distinction. Let us
know turn our attention to those essays.
However, before we can discuss these two essays in any detail, a few
words regarding Derridas vocabulary are in order. It is undeniable that
Derrida often exhibits a fairly idiosyncratic vocabulary; not only is he
well known for introducing neologisms, but he often uses older words in
unique ways. It serves our purposes well, therefore, to note the idiosyn-
cratic meanings he gives to two key terms the sacred and sacrifice.
Derridas take on the word sacred is at variance with most other uses of
the term: not just that of Girard but also that of scholars of archaic reli-
gion like Benveniste, Otto, and van der Leeuw among others. Derridas
usage of the word emphasizes the association of the sacred with a kind of
purity, of being unscathed or undefiled, saintly, sacred, safe and sound,
heilig, holy (fk 84). Derridas gloss on the sacred emphasizes the fasci-
nans, forgetting or downplaying the tremendens part, even as a long foot-
note cites Benveniste to the opposite effect (fk 84n30). The sacred
figures of the archaic world are ambiguous and unpredictable; capable
of both great blessing and cursing, they are often scarred or deformed.
So Zeus is a rapist and protector of guests, Hephaestus is deformed,
Odin is missing an eye, Loki both assists and frustrates the gods, and on
and on. This is why the archaic sacred is both tremendens and fascinans,
11 Interestingly, Kierkegaard alludes to this incident early in Fear and Trembling, a text
Derrida comments on at length in The Gift of Death, but Derrida doesnt mention Brutus in
his commentary. Kierkegaards point is to distinguish Abrahams sacrifice from that of
Brutus: Brutuss actions can be understood because, in applying Romes laws, he preserves
the republic from the bad violence of a royalist counter-revolution. Kierkegaards point, in
our terms, seems to be that Abrahams sacrifice cannot be understood in terms of the sac-
rificial distinction: there is no bad violence being avoided by killing Isaac. See Kierkegaard,
Fear and Trembling, 58.
scary and fascinating. Moreover, Derridas idiosyncratic understanding

of the sacred leads to an equally odd use of the world sacrifice. Insofar
as his usage of sacred strips it of its negative connotations, he associates
sacrifice with a making safe or a purifying of oneself or another. In
Derridas usage, sacred and sacrifice both rest on the quest for an
illusory purity illusory because, just as there is no pure non-violence,
so there is no pure sacrifice.12 Nothing, Derrida argues, can be made
entirely pure, entirely safe, and entirely sacred; so the so-called pure sac-
rifice is always already, unbeknownst to the believers in sacrifice, com-
promised and impure.
Whatever one thinks of Derridas argument, the fact is that Derridas
sacrifice is only half a sacrifice in the usual sense of the term. Sacrifice,
in the usual sense, always mixes safety and danger: no one ever thought
that the safe pure sacrifice Derrida critiques was possible. The near
obsessive/compulsive concern with the proper celebration of rites typi-
cal of sacrificial acts is not rooted in a prudish desire for purity. Instead,
one is concerned that everything be done right, because sacrifice is dan-
gerous and all hell will break loose if things go wrong. Likewise, the sa-
cred must be set off from the masses not merely because it is very good
but also because it is very bad, or at least very dangerous. Sacrifice and
the sacred are like guns, which are safe when handled correctly but can
be deadly when mishandled (and so best kept out of the reach of un-
trained hands); Derrida presents them as porcelain dolls best kept high
on a shelf, lest the children break it. In a sense, Derridas work on these
points is devoted to untying his own knots: the mix of impurity and pu-
rity, safety and danger, that Derrida labours to discover in sacrifice was,
in fact, there all the time.13 In any case, the point here is not to dispute
Derridas definition of the sacred but to avoid confusion by emphasizing
that, in Derridas writing, the analogue to the ambiguous archaic sacred
is not the sacred but the mystical. Whence, in what follows, my em-
phasis is on the mystical rather than the sacred.
Derridas approach to the question of religion, in his famous Faith
and Knowledge, bears unmistakable similarities to Machiavelli on at
least two points: (a) the subordination of religious belief to ethics
and politics and (b) the sacrificial distinction between good and bad
12 For a brief discussion of the association between safety and sacrifice in Derrida, see
Caputo, Prayers and Tears of Jacques Derrida, 434.
13 However, it is arguable that Derridas forgetfulness of the tremendens leads him to a
fairly simplistic and one-sided understanding of religion in terms of the safe and sound,
the unscathed, the immune (fk 423) rather than in terms of the dangerous, the scarred,
and the diseased.
violence. To (a) we note that, very early in the essay, when Derrida is
describing how he and his interlocutors will address the question of reli-
gion, he writes of his commitment to the binding of philosophy to the
city: But we also share, it seems to me, something else let us designate
it cautiously an unreserved taste, if not an unconditional preference,
for what, in politics, is called republican democracy as a universaliz-
able model, binding philosophy to the public cause to the res publica,
to public-ness (fk 47, emphasis removed). Derridas philosophy is not
to be a philosophy of ozio even if the paper is being delivered in Capri
but a philosophy at the service of city; this understanding of philoso-
phy, in turn, guides his approach to religion. To the extent that philoso-
phy is a public servant, when it approaches religion, it must approach it
in terms of the city, of ethics and politics. This paragraph anticipates the
key move of Derridas essay, the introduction of the messianic without a
messiah. Rather than awaiting one anointed by God, messianism without
a messiah awaits justice (fk 56). Justice is a way of being towards the text
one inhabits, a way that deconstructs the violence of the tradition, open-
ing up alternative interpretations that are less oppressive. Derrida takes
the messianic as that other which interrupts and surprises us by entering
into our moral and ethical traditions and disrupting them. Despite the
difference in tone, this is not far from what Machiavellis prince does
when introducing new modes and orders. Of course, one might object
that Derridas messiah is far from Machiavellis prince, but Derrida
knows better, admitting that the arrival of the messianic can bring about
the worst just as easily as it can the best (fk 56). There is no guarantee
that the interruption of history by the messianic will lead the lion to lay
down with the lamb: the lion might just as easily eat the lamb. Cesare
Borgia lurks as an implicit possibility within Derridian messianism pre-
cisely because it is, as Derrida insists, purely formal, without content. The
formality of Derridas messiah is precisely the source of the danger he
calls the worst; if there was more content to messianism, we might be
able to explain how the coming of the messiah precludes the worst. We
might say that Isaiah tells us that the messiah will suffer rather than cause
suffering, or that John the Baptist tells us that the messiah is concerned
with the forgiveness of sins rather than with extracting vengeance. But
the general structure of experience that Derrida is interested in tells us
nothing of the sort. Derrida is sober enough to know that, shorn of con-
tent, we are left with a pure interruption that is, in principle, capable of
going either way. Derridas messianic other can come peacefully or with
war, introducing the best or the worst; the messianic can be, we might
say, armed or unarmed.
These Machiavellian elements are even more pronounced as Derrida

turns to the origins of laws, and it is here that we find him employing
the sacrificial distinction between good and bad violence. Echoing
Heideggers discussion of the apolis condition of the founder, Derrida
notes that, in a certain sense, the initial promulgation of law is illegal:
The foundation of law is a performative event that cannot belong
to the set it founds, inaugurates or justifies (fk 57). With no law to
guide the promulgation of law, the promulgation is a decision in the face
of what cannot be decided; in some, if not all, cases, the source of unde-
cidability is the sacrificial dilemma. This point is developed at greater
length in his essay entitled The Force of Law, in which he describes the
founding act as violence without ground (fl 242). Because it founds
the law, there is no law to justify it; as in Machiavelli, good arms precede
good laws (P XII). Here we have the fertile, good violence of sacrificial
systems: the violence that founds and preserves the community. As
Derrida continues, we see that the sacrificial system is here in all its glory:
not only is the founding a good kind of violence, it is through the violent
founding of law that one hits upon the mystical. Founding violence is
mystical not to the extent that it points towards something mystical in
the sense given by mystical theology (i.e., something transcending or
surpassing the world) but only to the extent that it is un-reasonable, be-
yond or before reason. It is mystical because there is no reason, natural
or supernatural, for laying down this or that set of laws that would justify
it. It consists merely of a coup de force, of a performative and therefore
interpretive violence (fl 241). The mystical appears in the apparently
arbitrary choice for one set of modes and orders over another that rea-
son cannot justify or negate, and it is precisely because of this quickly
covered over and imbued with a kind of mystical authority that gives
birth to religion.
By now the reader should hear echoes of Machiavellis discussion of
the new prince all through Derridas discussion: the armed prophets
imposition of new modes and orders is echoed in the founding violence
of which Derrida speaks; the use of loaded religious language, like
prophet and mystical, as a way of getting at the elusive nature of this
founding act echoes Machiavellis practice; even the focus on founders
rather than on mobs echoes Machiavelli. Derrida, arguably, goes beyond
Machiavelli insofar as he maintains that the modes and orders of the
prince can be and ought to be deconstructed in the name of justice (fl
2423). However, Im not entirely convinced that this move does not
find analogues in Machiavellis praise of various statesmen and leaders
who thrived precisely by knowing when to subordinate the law to the
demands of the singular and, indeed, when to create new laws to re-
spond to new singularities. Something like this is present in his compari-
sons of Venice, Florence, and ancient Rome (D. I.4 and I.6; fhs preface
and section III.1). But we must leave things at the purely suggestive level
since to dig too deeply into this would take us too far afield.14
It is more pertinent to note that, for Derrida, both the foundation
oflaw and the messianic disruption of law rest on decisions taken in the
face of the undecidable. The undecidable approaches when we are
tasked with deciding regarding something that is foreign to rules and law
but that must be decided with a view to rules and laws (fl 2523). The
undecidable returns to the mystical foundation of authority already dis-
cussed, repeating in a new context the initial founding violence. Similarly,
Machiavelli notes that it is necessary to return to the founding violence
periodically to address needed reforms in the regime (D III.1). In both
cases, one acts in a way that cannot be justified with reference to the law
in the case of founding because one is creating the law, in other cases
because one is departing from it in the face of that which is radically
heterogeneous. Derrida himself points us towards the connection be-
tween the undecidable and the mystical, referring to Pascal and mysti-
cism precisely at this point in his essay on law (fl 254). This reference to
Pascal and the mystical take us directly to a discussion of a formal messi-
anic structure that precedes the particular messianic beliefs of world re-
ligions. We already noted the role of decision in the foundation of law.
Returning to the messianic, Derrida writes that the messianic interrupts
history by deciding to let the other come, although he comes without
grounds, without a horizon of expectation (fk 56). So, when the mes-
siah comes nobody will expect it there will be no Isaiah, no John the
Baptist, preparing the way and, as such, one will have no reason to ac-
cept the messiah, so that accepting or rejecting will be undecidable. In
fact, one could argue that Derridas formalization of messianism is in-
separable from this undecidability: if there was some determinant con-
tent to guide our expectations and reception of the messianic, it would
be decidable. As things stand, the messianic introduces possibilities we
have no means of adjudicating between while nonetheless forcing us to
choose. The decision made in favour of welcoming the messiah is the
mirror image of the decision that founds the law. Law is founded by a
decision in the face of the undecidable and religion is the child of this
14 A more detailed discussion of these questions, however, can be found in Saralegui,

Maquiavelo y la Partitocracia.
law. Later this law is interrupted by another decision in the face of an-
other undecidable.
As noted, Derrida insists on interpreting religion formally; he is inter-
ested in an abstract messianicity that precedes all particular messianic
beliefs (fk 56). As such, although he admits that at times it will prove
difficult to do so, he will as much as possible avoid immersing himself in
the details of a particular religious tradition. He emphasizes the Latinity
of his discourse and the dependency on Abraham as problems to be
dealt with rather than as a good to be embraced. The interest in formal
structures apart from any detailed study of any particular religious texts
separates him sharply from Girards reliance on ethnological and an-
thropological reports. Nevertheless, in Violence and the Sacred (1972)
Girard comes close to Derridas formalism in that he believed himself to
have by means of ethnology and anthropology rather than formal anal-
ysis isolated a structure common to all religions the scapegoat mecha-
nism (vs 306). Indeed, he is quite enthusiastic about Derridas work (vs
2967). However, in Things Hidden (1978), we find that Girards early
enthusiasm for Derrida has waned; he now worries that Derrida is not
radical enough in his analysis to the extent that he refuses to go beyond
Greek philosophy to ask about Greek religion; he adds that the discovery
of the scapegoat at the root of Greek religion both justifies and com-
pletes deconstruction (thsfw 624). We can deconstruct traditional
discourses because they are lies designed to obscure the founding mur-
der. Of course, one could defend Derrida on that score by pointing to
precisely the texts we have been discussing, texts not yet written at the
time when Things Hidden was being composed (197477).15 But that will
not do enough to bridge the gap since Things Hidden is concerned with
arguing for the uniqueness of the Judeo-Christian scriptures insofar as in
them and them alone, among all ancient texts, the innocence of the
scapegoat is constantly asserted. So, Girard notes that the innocence of
the victim is asserted again and again in the Bible, from Abel to Jesus,
while in the other archaic myths there is always a belief that the scape-
goat really is polluted Oedipus did kill his father and marry his mother,
15 For more on the relationship between Derrida and Girard, see the works of
McKenna, notably Ends of Violence, and Violence and Difference. Also of interest are
Girards comments in an interview with Thomas Bertonneau (see Bertonneau, Logic of
the Undecidable). One key point that has to be kept in mind in any discussion of the two
is that, while Girard, in thsfw, suggests that Christian revelation offers a way out of sacri-
fice, this position is revised in subsequent works. He now admits that there is no way out of
sacrifice, so to speak, but that, instead, Christian revelation enables one to recognizes one-
self as a persecutor. On this point, see btte 35 and 82.
even if unintentionally (thsfw 149; owsc 35). In biblical texts, victims

are innocent and collective violence is to blame. In myth, the victims are
to blame and communities are always innocent (owsc 35). This point
only emerges for him via a careful study of Christian and non-Christian
texts (thsfw 1768). In the case of Girard, an interest in the concrete
details of scapegoating eventually led him to argue for the uniqueness of
the Judeo-Christian scriptures.
So, Girards emphasis on particulars leads him, ultimately, to distin-
guish between religions, while Derridas formalism prevents him from
seeing what makes each religion unique. Derridas faith without dog-
ma (fk 567) leads him to a cloudy religion where the important dif-
ferences are hidden in a fog. If the reader will allow me a bad joke at
Derridas expense, it is passing strange that a man so interested in differ-
ence ends up wanting to treat all religions as more or less the same.
Without delving into the complex relationship between Derrida and
Girard, we should note that Derridas mystical has precisely the same
ambiguous quality that Girard discerned in the archaic sacred: it engen-
ders, organizes observes or perpetuates it [the social structure], or, on
the contrary, mishandles, dissolves, transforms and on a whim destroys
it (vs 242). More fundamentally, just as Girard argues the archaic sa-
cred emerges from violence and is inseparable from it, so, too, does the
mystical in Derridas essays. The mystical is nothing but archaic sacred
violence translated to a philosophy conference at a hotel in Capri. As I
note earlier, when Derrida is talking about the mystical he is talking
about the same phenomenon Girard calls the sacred, but when Derrida
is talking about the sacred he is talking about something entirely dif-
ferent. However, Girards interest in the sacred/mystical is nearly the
opposite of that of Derrida. For Girard, the point is a critique of the sa-
cred/mystical on the basis of the Gospel; for Derrida, the point is to use
the ambiguity of the sacred/mystical to further the deconstructive proj-
ect. What Girard questions how and why did the sacrificial distinction
develop? Derrida takes for granted, as a kind of inescapable necessity.
Although Derrida relies on the sacrificial distinction, he arguably does so
in order to problematize the results of violence. Derridas treatment of
violence accepts that there is a kind of fertile, good, founding violence
but also that it is possible for any particular act of violence to be of the
bad kind. In fact, more to the point, he suggests that any instance of the
good kind could be reinterpreted as an instance of the bad kind; this is,
in fact, one way of understanding what deconstruction seeks to do.
Likewise, it would seem to follow that any instance of the bad kind could
be reinterpreted as an instance of the good kind. Derrida would have us
accelerate the dance between these two poles such that one can never
say for certain with which kind of violence one is dealing, whence a need
for constant vigilance. Despite these revisions and caveats, it is neverthe-
less the case that Derrida, in principle, recognizes the sacrificial distinc-
tion and presents it as both lamentable and unavoidable.
Heidegger and Derrida both point towards the fundamental impor-
tance of violence, but each fails to think it through with the clarity of
Machiavelli. Machiavelli recognizes that violence, in its most fundamen-
tal form, is not the violence of thought but, rather, the actual violence of
people killing other people. Violence is murder, or at least attempted
murder. Because of the clear-sightedness of Machiavellis account of vio-
lence, because of its emphasis on what Heidegger might call merely on-
tic violence, he is able to think the meaning of violence more deeply
than Heidegger. Indeed, it is his understanding of violence that enables
Machiavelli to see the importance of founding as a way of managing vio-
lence, as a way of minimizing violence. Recall that the Machiavellian
defence of cruelty, as seen in his discussion of Cesare Borgia among
other places, requires that cruelty, to be defensible, must be oriented
towards securing stability. At the same time, however, the necessity of
cruelty and violence for the achievement of stability requires eschato-
logical hopelessness in Machiavellis thought: violence is justified as the
only way to peace. The most hopeful passages he ever wrote the final
chapter of The Prince and the call to liberate Italy from the barbarian oc-
cupiers are inseparable from violence. Machiavellis hope is in war, in
more violence. It is the sacrificial hope that the right kind of killing will
solve our problems.
The violence of the liberator counters the violence of the occupier. We
have a cycle of violence rather than an end to violence. The inevitability
and inescapability of violence, in Machiavelli, is linked to his understand-
ing of the world as eternal. Recall that, because the world is eternal, his-
tory is more or less cyclical: the only thing that stops the cycle of regimes
is that, in their weaker stages, they are conquered by stronger ones
(DI.2). Since history is ineluctably violent, we have an eternal cycle of
violence. This cycle of violence cannot be stopped, for what would stop
it? Everything in the world is in history, in violence. And since the world
is eternal, we cannot appeal to an imagined republic or imagined prince
who would come from on high to put an end to the violence. The best
we can hope for, according to Machiavelli, is the management of vio-
lence by carving out spaces where we can live in relative peace under the
protection of strong princes. These peaceful situations are made possi-
ble by violence, or at least the threat of violence, and are always complicit
in that violence. This is why, as Derrida correctly observes, they are un-
just and can always be deconstructed. But again, as Derrida correctly
observes, this deconstruction will not produce new non-violent struc-

tures but only different forms of injustice. This is why deconstruction is
a never-ending task; like the world, deconstruction is eternal.
El Chupacabra and Democracy-to-Come
If the world is basically violent as Machiavelli, Heidegger, and Derrida

all agree is not hoping and working for peace testimony to a yearning
for something beyond the world? If so, this hope has to be separated
from Derridas hope for something like a democracy-to-come. In
Violence and Metaphysics Derrida adduced pure peace as a kind of
unachieved and unachievable telos; arguably, the later Derridas hope
for a democracy-to-come develops this concept in such a way as to
both highlight and obscure the impossibility of peace. First, the high-
lighting: nothing in history or experience suggests that the demos will
ever renounce violence. How could it? The demos is constituted by vio-
lence: to renounce violence would require the renunciation of the dem-
os. Indeed, one could go so far as to say that the very idea is contradictory.
Second, because of Derridas association of deconstruction with various
left-wing movements there is a tendency to think of his emphasis on
democracy-to-come as a kind of promissory note for progressive poli-
tics, whereby if we just had the right policies and reforms (if we just
deconstructed the right things) the democracy-to-come could someday
get here. On my reading, the first of these two poles is the more funda-
mental one, and this is why the deconstructionist can only hope for a
democracy-to-come.
In an important sense, Derridas democracy-to-come can be compared
to el Chupacabra, the legendary beast that stalks Texas and Northern
Mexico sucking the blood from goats and other small livestock. The
interest in el Chupacabra stems from the fact that it does not fit into
any zoological taxonomy; we do not know what it is or when it will ap-
pear. Whenever we think we have caught el Chupacabra it turns out to
be, upon closer inspection, something else, for example, a coyote with
mange. Nevertheless, the legend of el Chupacabra lives on. Likewise, the
democracy-to-come can never arrive; if it was to arrive it would turn out
to be something else, some particular kind of democracy, and as open to
deconstruction as any other regime. Just as el Chupacabra can only exist
as something absent, as el Chupacabra-to-come, the democracy-to-come
can never actually arrive. Nevertheless, Derrida would insist that the com-
parison with el Chupacabra is misleading: we use the democracy-to-come
not to tell stories around campfires but to critique existing regimes.
Precisely because it has not yet arrived, it is capable of avoiding the
historical and non-universal aspects of particular regimes and of decon-

structing them.16 In this sense, Derridas democracy-to-come functions
less like el Chupacabra and more like the Platonic kallipolis of The Republic.
The point of Socratess description of the city in speech is not, he re-
minds his interlocutors a number of times, to build the city, but to ac-
quire a standard by which to judge and criticize existing cities.17 Indeed,
there are good reasons to believe that Socrates took the city in speech to
be physically or practically impossible. Needless to say, associating Plato
and Derrida in this way is a striking claim to make: it suggests that
Derridas later work returns to precisely the kind of metaphysics he was
always attempting to avoid. And there are numerous differences between
Platos kallipolis and Derridas democracy that will be obvious to anyone
familiar with the two thinkers; one might begin by pointing to the speci-
ficity with which Plato describes his city in contrast to the vagueness of
Derridas democracy. Derridas vagueness, however, is not accidental, nor
is it the result of laziness; rather, it follows directly from his understand-
ing of the democracy-to-come: insofar as it is not to be identified with any
particular regimes, it must remain open-ended and vague. Indeed, it can-
not even be identified with democracy as we know it except to the extent
that it is oriented towards the future and exhibits an openness to change
and possibility not found in other forms of government.18
The vagueness of democracy-to-come is mirrored in the vagueness of
the messianic without a messiah. This is, in part, why John Caputo reacts
so forcibly to the suggestion that determinate religious beliefs be taken
seriously by deconstruction; he correctly perceives that this would be the
end of deconstruction: Once you have an identifiable Big Being like
that, once you know it, you have undermined the experiential structure
(the possible/impossible) under analysis. I take Caputos point to be
that (a) insofar as determinate religious beliefs (e.g., creedal Christianity)
would claim to identify and know the Big Being it is (b) incompatible
with deconstructions interest in the possible/impossible.19 Once we
trap el Chupacabra it ceases to be a mysterious beast that troubles our
zoology and ontology (because we dont even know if it is real) and be-
comes just another creature in the books. As long as we are looking for
el Chupacabra we will be frustrated at not finding it, but when we do find
it (if we do) we will be disappointed. It may be the case that we are
16 See the discussion in Nass, Miracle and the Machine, 1846.

17 For example, see Plato, The Republic (369a; 420b21c; 472bc; 497b592ab). See,
too, Glaucons summary at 543c44b.
18 See Plato, The Republic, 422a.
19 Caputo, Return of Anti-Religion, 36.
destined to be frustrated and unhappy; a great deal of commentary

onDerrida emphasizes the playful, ironic, and irreverent aspects of
this thought this trend probably reached its nadir in the unfortunate
scene in the Derrida documentary in which he is asked if deconstruction
is like Seinfeld and not nearly enough attention is paid to the sadness
that permeates his work. Caputos reference to the Prayers and Tears of
Jacques Derrida is an obvious exception to this comment, but Caputo
sometimes undermines his own title by emphasizing the Viens of decon-
struction, the hope for the impossible. Sometimes there is too much em-
phasis on the hope and not enough on the impossible. The hope will
not be fulfilled; el Chupacabra is never caught. That is why it is so sad.
However, there is another way of looking at these same issues. Earlier
I note the structural similarities between the Platonic kallipolis and the
Derridean democracy-to-come insofar as despite differences in details
both function as non-existing or non-actual grounds for criticisms
ofexisting or actual regimes. If that is the case, then one can develop a
Machiavellian critique of Derrida. Just as we saw that Machiavelli under-
stands founding better than Heidegger does, we might wonder if de-
spite the numerous affinities between Machiavelli and Derrida to which
I have pointed his criticisms of imagined republics apply to the democ-
racy-to-come. Machiavelli writes: And many have imagined republics
and principalities that have never been seen or known to exist in truth
(P XV). This applies to the democracy-to-come: like el Chupacabra, it
has never been seen nor has it been known to exist. Indeed, as we saw, it
is in principle not known to exist. Machiavelli might argue that, when
dealing with political problems, an appeal to this imagined democracy-
to-come would not be any more helpful than would an appeal to the
Platonic kallipolis. It makes much more sense for ranchers to equip them-
selves to handle really existing coyotes than imagined chupacabras. But,
one might object that there is more at issue in Derridas democracy-to-
come than merely pragmatic concerns with the caveat that to dismiss
entirely the reformist politics it is meant to ground would be to do a
disservice to Derridas moral seriousness in that the democracy-to-
come reflects the quite real (and not imagined) possibility of interrup-
tion, of surprise, and so forth.
One of Derridas most astute commentators, Jack Caputo, repeatedly
affirms that deconstruction is on the side of the losers: Deconstruction
is on the watch for exclusion, the victims, the injustice produced by the
law, which even the best laid laws inevitably produce. Laws always silence,
coerce, squeeze or level someone, somewhere, however small. Decon-
structions justice does not aim at disinterested impartiality but at a pref-
erential option for the disadvantaged, the differends, the losers, the
leftovers, the little bits and fragments.20 This theme is an important one
for Caputo; his readers can almost hear the pounding hooves of his high
horse at full gallop when he turns from textual exegesis to issues of so-
cial justice, of protecting the losers. This is to his credit. But he some-
times forgets, or under-emphasizes, a point emphasized by Machiavelli:
while it is true that the strong wish to oppress while the weak simply wish
not to be oppressed, when those oppressive structures are deconstruct-
ed and replaced with new ones, we will not be free of disadvantage but
merely have disadvantaged and advantaged different people. In other
words, the deconstruction of social structures always makes new losers.
There is no guarantee that the new winners will not be just as morally
blameworthy in their treatment of the losers as was the case in the previ-
ous dispensation. Indeed, it is highly likely in that the deconstruction
of modes and orders entails the introduction of new ones, which re-
quires that one offend partisans of the old orders so severely that they
cannot threaten the new ones (P III). Of course, it would then be the
task of deconstructive justice to minister to those people, the new losers.
The deconstructive quest for justice is an infinite task, but it is always at
exactly the same time, for reasons Caputo adduces above but doesnt
dwell upon a creation of injustice: even the best laid laws inevitably
produce it. In a strange paradox, the passion for doing justice that
Caputo lauds and identifies with deconstruction is inseparable from acts
of injustice. This is why Machiavelli, despite aforementioned similarities,
is more clear-sighted and more incisive than deconstruction
One might point to the final chapter of The Prince, in which Machiavelli
imagines the coming of a liberator for Italy, as his own experiment in
imagining a democracy-to-come. Nevertheless, there is a crucial differ-
ence: Machiavelli never would have accepted the idea that the liberation
of Italy is inevitably deferred. He has a plan he seeks to execute, and this
is a far cry from imagined republics that are in principle deferred. Finally,
one can wonder if this deferral of democracy-to-come doesnt transpose
the lost origin, which Derrida began his career rejecting, into a lost telos;
instead of a pristine beginning to which we cannot return, Derrida sub-
stitutes a pristine end that we cannot attain. To fully explore this point
would require a more careful reading of Derrida than I am inclined to
give here; instead, I will satisfy myself with the claim that, whatever may
be the case regarding the last point, Machiavellis rejection of imagined
republics entails the rejection of the democracy-to-come as much as it
does the rejection of the classical imagined republics. The vagueness of
20 Caputo, Against Ethics, 87 (emphasis mine).

Derridas imagined republic doesnt make it any less imagined. In sum,

Machiavelli saw the consequences of sacrifice further and deeper than
did either Heidegger or Derrida.
L i t u r g y a n d D e f e n e s t r at i n g B i s h o p s
In his Experience and the Absolute, Lacoste attempts to develop an account

that begins with Heidegger but goes beyond it, an account that shows
how being-towards-the-absolute is a legitimate phenomenological cate-
gory. This is, as he puts it, a liturgical critique of Heideggerian phenom-
enology. The liturgical, for Lacoste, signifies this way of being towards
the absolute; it is the resolute deliberate gesture made by those who
ordain their being-in-the-world as a being-before-God (ea 39). We dis-
cuss some of his ideas earlier in the text. One of the key points I made
about Lacoste earlier is that his admission that the liturgical critique
of phenomenology is not verifiable in history gives too much to the
Machiavellian account of history; an account that we see can encompass
the work of Heidegger and Derrida.
We should take a closer look at Lacostes understanding of liturgy.
Recall Lacostes argument that the dialectic of world and earth he finds
in Heidegger indicates that neither can be originary but that both rest
on the deeper principle of place. Liturgys modification of being-in-the-
world reminds us of this that is, that being-in-the-world is the initial
and not the originary (ea 92). The distinction between the initial and
the originary is important. By means of this distinction, Lacoste is grant-
ing the phenomenological primacy of the world, of history, and, there-
fore, of violence. But, at the same time, he is indicating that, while this
is the first thing that we experience, it is not the ultimate or founda-
tional principle. The distinction on the one hand acknowledges the ap-
propriateness of the analysis offered by Heidegger, Derrida, and others,
but it also indicates that, despite the appropriateness of these descrip-
tions, they do not get at the deepest truths. Nevertheless, Lacoste is at
pains to remind the reader, throughout Experience and the Absolute, that
liturgy is an interruption supervening upon the atheism of the world.
There is nothing in the world, in history, which compels one to enter
upon liturgy. The non-eternity of the world cannot be apodictically
proven. The dialectic between world and earth can continue uninter-
rupted for as long as one wishes. The liturgical might point towards
something originary, but it is an origin hidden from experience. And
while in framing the question this way Lacoste avoids the accusation of
holding a Pollyanna view of history, he does this at the price of appealing
to a lost origin. The appeal to the lost origin could easily be objected to
on deconstructionist grounds that is, as reintroducing a transcendental

signifier that is both beyond our ordinary experience and also the ulti-
mate explanation of it. Lacoste would then be offering metaphysics of
the most traditional sort. Whatever one thinks of this critique, I will not
dwell on it except to nod in its direction as we pass by. I do this not be-
cause I think it is unimportant, but because the modifications of Lacostes
argument that I am going to suggest will remove the threat of this par-
ticular objection.
The liturgical experience, Lacoste continues, is not dependent upon
history but, rather, upon a vigil or nocturnal event that occurs outside
of the daylight business of history. When the sun has set, and the violent
work of the day is over, one has the luxury of escaping from the dialec-
tic of world and earth and entering into an experience of the absolute.
The liturgical night is not, of course, to be identified with a time of the
day. After all, most church goers still go on Sunday morning. The point
is that the night is a time of mystery and shadow set apart from the
working day. Liturgy is both a kind of ozio that, like philosophy in the
Florentine Histories, comes after the work of captains and princes is ac-
complished and the peace-as-telos that Derrida alludes to in Violence
and Metaphysics. Moreover, one need not stay up praying at night; lit-
urgy is a decision (ea 22). To enter upon the liturgical vigil requires one
to resist ones natural diurnal rhythms. There is nothing in the world or
on the earth that compels one towards liturgy but, instead, one enters
upon it as a sort of gamble or bet the bet that one can, within the world,
orient oneself towards the absolute. Nevertheless, and this is a crucial
point for Lacoste, whatever one thinks of the odds, the fact is that people
do make this bet. Making this bet, in turn, dramatically transforms our
being in the world. For example, Lacoste argues that, for one who has
made the liturgical bet, death ceases to be the final reality to which we
can reconcile ourselves by making it our highest possibility, as Heidegger
believes (ea 60).21 In transforming our relationship with death, liturgy
transforms our relationship with the world as such, the Absolutes es-
chatological claims over us are substituted for the worlds historical
claims (ea 61). One way of reading Lacoste is as describing the trans-
formation that occurs whenever one makes the liturgical bet and as
showing that traditional phenomenology including especially that of
Heidegger is incapable of describing this transformation. Since, as a
21 E. Falque has made a similar argument to the effect that belief in the resurrection
of the body has determinant and important effects on our phenomenal experience of the
living body, such that a phenomenology of the resurrection is both possible and desirable.
See Falque, Metamorphosis of Finitude.
matter of fact, people do make this bet, this entails that traditional phe-
nomenology is inadequate as a description of how the world is experi-
enced by these people.
Nevertheless, as Lacoste admits, the liturgical experience that he seeks
to describe is always describable in other forms; a critique of liturgy is
just as possible as a liturgical critique. Derrida or Heidegger can always
claim that the liturgical gambler is betting on a losing horse, deluding
himself. Indeed, one way of reading Machiavelli is as saying precisely
this: the liturgical experience that Lacoste describes does indeed get at
something of how many people experience the world, but these people
are deluded followers of imagined republics. It is interesting to note
that, so far as I know, the only time Machiavelli describes liturgical action
in any detail is in his description of an assassination attempt:
And thus they decided to kill the Medici in the cathedral church of Santa
Reparata; since the cardinal would be there, the two brothers would attend in
accordance with custom. They wanted Giovan Battista to assume the task of kill-
ing Lorenzo, and Francesco de Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini to kill Giuliano.
Giovan Battista refused to consider doing it, either because the familiarity he had
with Lorenzo had softened his spirit or because some other cause moved him; he
said he would never have enough spirit to commit such an excess in church and
accompany betrayal with sacrilege. This was the beginning of the ruin of their
enterprise, because, since time was pressing, of necessity they had to give the task
to Messer Antonio da Volterra and to the priest Stefano, two men who by practice
and nature were very inept for so great an undertaking. For if ever any deed re-
quires a great and firm spirit made resolute in both life and death through much
experience, it is necessary to have it in this, where it has been seen many times
that men skilled in arms and soaked in blood have lacked spirit. The decision
thus made, they determined that the signal for action should be the taking of
communion by the priest who celebrated High Mass in the church. (fh VIII.5)
For those not familiar with the order of a High Mass, the priests commu-
nion takes place immediately prior to the distribution of communion to
the faithful. If Italian practice, then, is anything like contemporary prac-
tices, there is a disorganized movement towards the altar rail. Attendees
do not, in contrast to contemporary American practice, wait quietly for
the usher to come to their pew. The moments following the priests com-
munion is the best time to kill someone at mass insofar as it is then when
one can move about without calling much attention to oneself. In any
case, Machiavellis discussion of the entire conspiracy can be taken as a
historical critique of liturgy. The sacred moments of the liturgy are trans-
formed into signals and opportunities for violence. Battistas respect for
the absolute is the beginning of failure for the Pazzi conspiracy. The de-
scription of the conspiracy has two effects. First, through the person of
Battista it reminds us that the rites of a religion can be useful for keeping
people in line. Battistas hesitancy recalls the discussion of religion in The
Art of War, which we analyzed earlier (i.e., that religion can be used to
rule those who are armed). Second, it shows how an undue respect for
the absolute leads to failure. The conspirators failed because they had
more respect for religion than did the Medici. The violence that fol-
lowed upon the assassination attempt led to more bloodshed than would
have happened if it had succeeded. And even worse for liturgy, the fail-
ure of the conspiracy made possible the Medicis further consolidation
of power. If Battista had understood that the assassination was a kind of
good violence even good enough to perpetrate at mass then the plot
would not have been ruined. The source of the plots failure was, ulti-
mately, Battistas formation by Christian education. It was his inability to
distinguish between good and bad violence that led to the deaths of his
allies and co-conspirators, and the tightening of the Medicis grip on the
city. In the aftermath of the failed conspiracy, Archbishop de Salviati,
who collaborated with the failed assassins, was thrown out the palace
windows and his naked corpse hung for all to see (fh VIII.8). Here, in
de Salviatis defenestration, is the Machiavellian critique of liturgy.
Liturgy is good for timing assassinations and keeping people in line; but
to take liturgy as an opening towards the absolute is delusional in so
doing one is only opening oneself to imagined republics and principali-
ties and, thereby, inviting failure and misery. The partisans of the Medici,
in throwing Archbishop de Salviati out a window, showed exactly how
much history respects liturgical experience.
Liturgy Is for Losers
So, we seem to have fought to a draw: the liturgical critique of history is

countered by a historical critique of liturgy, just as Lacoste said it would
be. The old gods and God find themselves equally unable to vanquish
each other. This, however, would not be a draw. If the choice between
the old gods of violence and the new God of peace, between Machiavelli
and the Absolute is undecidable, then Derrida wins. The choice for one
or the other will be undecidable in his sense, and, therefore, whatever
one chooses, the resulting structures could be deconstructed. Heads he
wins, tails you lose. If this is the case, then the loss will be doubled. If the
choice for the Absolute could be deconstructed it would have been
shown to be a mere illusion or delusion, wishful thinking, on the part
of those who bet on liturgy. Lacostes claim that the decision to live
liturgically fundamentally alters ones being-in-the-world would turn out

to be merely the mapping of ontic illusions with no importance for deep-
er ontological questions. These questions would still be answered via the
traditional atheism Lacoste locates in Heidegger. Heideggers analysis,
in turn, leads us back to the bloodiness of Machiavellis analysis of found-
ing. It is not simply to say that if the liturgical critique fails, we can still
hope, within history, for a democracy-to-come, but, rather, that if the li-
turgical critique fails, then there is no democracy-to-come.
On the other hand, if the historical critique of liturgy can itself be
subjected to a historical critique, a historical critique that points towards
liturgy, then the choice for the absolute can be justified. The standard of
justification here has to be specified, however. To say that it is justified is
not to say that is admits of apodictic proof, but only that there are enough
reasons for choosing the absolute that it is decidable rather than unde-
cidable. I note at the outset that Machiavelli offers something like a mor-
al argument for sacrifice, asserting that there are certain goods that can
only be achieved if one accepts the sacrificial distinction between good
and bad violence. I now propose the reverse of that: there are certain
goods that can only be achieved by resisting sacrifice.
If we return to the fifteenth chapter of The Prince, in which Machiavelli
expounds on the effectual truth, we will notice that the rejection of
imagined republics and principalities is concomitant with the recom-
mendation that a man who wants to make a profession of good in all
regards must come to ruin among so many who are not good. Hence it
is necessary to a prince, if he wants to maintain himself, to learn to be
able not to be good, and to use this and not use it according to necessity
(P XV). To succeed among those who are not good, it is necessary to
learn to be like them, to learn how to imitate the non-good. This recom-
mendation of imitation of the non-good builds upon his prior recom-
mendation, earlier in The Prince, that one imitate the founders of new
regimes, the four armed prophets Romulus, Theseus, Cyrus, and Moses:
For since men almost always walk on the paths beaten by others and
proceed in their actions by imitation a prudent man should always
enter upon the paths beaten by great men and imitate those who have
been most excellent, so that if his own virtue does not reach that far, it is
at least in the odor of it (P VI). The connection between imitation and
the rejection of imagined republics is not accidental. Machiavelli places
a high premium on imitation imitation of the ancient Romans, of the
non-good, of the founders, and so on. We imitate those things we see in
this world rather than orienting our lives towards a supersensible and
transcendent good. This imitation, however, inevitably leads to conflict.
If more than one person takes his advice to imitate Romulus, one of
them will end up suffering the fate of Remus. Romulus and Remus came
into conflict not despite their similarities but precisely because of them:
because they both desired the same thing, rule over the new city they
were founding.22 The imitation of those who are not good leads directly
into competition with others who are not good. Christian education
resists competitive imitation by turning towards a world-transcending
imaginary republic. Since the Machiavellian does not accept the reality
of imaginary republics, he thinks this move is guaranteed to fail: they will
never get what they want because what they want does not exist. To be-
lieve in an imagined republic is to condemn oneself as a loser. It is a delu-
sion, an illusion, a hallucination, an ideology or false consciousness; it is
anything but what the one so oriented thinks it is. In other words, within
the eternal world, to orient oneself towards something transcending the
world can only be to swallow the illusions of imagined republics and the
inevitable failure that comes with chasing illusions.
Perhaps the best illustration of this point is found in the sign that
Pontius Pilate surely a product of the Roman education lauded by
Machiavelli affixed to the Cross of Christ. It reads in Latin, Greek, and
Hebrew: Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews or in its common Latin
abbreviation inri (Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum).23 There is good rea-
son to interpret this signage as a continuation of the mockery to which
Jesus had been subjected since the beginning of the Passion, part and
parcel with the crown of thorns (John 19:13). There is no indication
that Pilate took the sign seriously: it was probably one last joke at the
expense of another crucified loser. However, from a different perspec-
tive, it takes on a radically different meaning: for the believer, the cruci-
fied man really is the King of the Jews, the Davidic King who fulfills the
Old Testament prophecies, the Messiah, the Son of God. The Roman
centurion at Golgotha is the flip side of Pilate: while Pilate mocks the
loser on the cross, the soldier recognizes this same loser as the Son of
God (Matthew 27:54). The crucial point here is that what appears as a
typical sacrifice the good violence that executes one trouble maker to
avoid the bad violence of riots or revolution motivates others to be-
come suspicious of sacrifice. Returning to Pilates sign and the jokes of
the soldiers during the scourging at the pillar, we should recognize these
as references to Pilates prior conversation with Jesus at the Praetorium:
22 Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, I.6.

23 John 19:19 (cf. Luke 23:38).
Pilate therefore went into the hall again and called Jesus and said to him: Art
thou the king of the Jews? Jesus answered: Sayest thou this thing of thyself, or
have others told it thee of me? Pilate answered: Am I a Jew? Thy own nation and
the chief priests have delivered thee up to me. What hast thou done? Jesus an-
swered: My kingdom is not of this world. If my kingdom were of this world, my
servants would certainly strive that I should not be delivered to the Jews: but
now my kingdom is not from hence. Pilate therefore said to him: Art thou a
king then? Jesus answered: Thou sayest that I am a king. For this was I born, and
for this came I into the world; that I should give testimony to the truth. Every
one that is of the truth heareth my voice. Pilate saith to him: What is truth?
(John 18:338)
So, in the biblical account the kingship of Jesus is irreducible to the sac-
rificial violence of kingship as understood in the world. Whatever kind of
kingship Jesus possesses, it is one without the power to defend him; it is
a kingdom that refused to use violence to resist violence, rejecting the
sacrificial distinction. But the non-violence of this kingdom seems in-
separable from its not being of this world if it were, Jesus tells Pilate, his
servants would defend him. His kingdom surpasses the world and pre-
cisely because it does, it is an invisible principality. But this answer con-
fuses Pilate, who asks Jesus again, more directly, if he is a king. At this
point Jesus begins to discuss his mission to testify to the truth. Now this
might seem like a poor answer to Pilates question, but, in fact, it further
describes the kind of king and the kind of kingdom about which Pilate
was asking. The kingship of Christ is (in Lacostes terms) a liturgical
kingship such that his visible presence in the world points towards the
absolute. This kingdom of truth is not in this world, whence Jesus came
to testify to it; but because it is not in this world, Pilate doesnt care about
it. He doesnt stay to hear the answer to his quid est veritas; indeed, once
he finds out that Jesus does not claim to be a worldly king, Pilate seems
to lose interest in the entire proceedings. After all, if it is only an invisible
kingdom (a principality imagined by a weirdo preacher in a backwater of
the empire), then it is not the kind of kingdom Pilate cares about: he
cares about real kingdoms with real armies, real swords, real horses, ef-
fectual truths. While it is a commonplace to mock those one beats, it is
the preposterousness of an invisible kingdom to the students of Roman
education that motivates the soldiers particular choices of insult. The
Passion of the Christ encapsulates the historical critique of liturgy in its
most radical form.
But the centurion at Golgotha testifies to the subversive power of the
Passion. Just when the historical critique should be triumphant, his
words suggest that there is another power in the blood. In Lukes Gospel,
the centurion remarks, Indeed, this was a just man (Luke 24:47), and
in Matthews, he remarks, Indeed, this was the son of God (Matthew
27:54). How could he recognize that the crucified man is the son of God
despite all the mockery, torture, and humiliation inflicted upon him?
Luke suggests that it is precisely because of his proximity to those pains
that recognition is possible. It is significant that, in Luke 24:478, every-
one present for the crucifixion responds to the death of Christ with signs
of either respect (the centurion) or by beating their breasts, a sign of
regret and repentance for the event in which they, at least passively,
participated.
The centurion was no doubt aware, however dimly, of the controversy
surrounding the arrest, trial, and torture of this man; he may have sus-
pected that the charges were trumped up, but within the Roman educa-
tion one would not have thought much of it. Perhaps he thought that
killing potential trouble-makers is the kind of good violence necessary
for keeping peace in the colonies. But, with the shattering of that totality,
our centurion is face to face with the innocence of the victim. And it is
this awareness of innocence that motivates the centurions confession; it
is not merely that the crucified man is innocent of the crimes of which
he was accused but that he is innocent of everything. Hamlet remarks to
Polonius, Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whip-
ping? But according to the Gospel narrative it precisely this scourged
man that should not have been scourged. It is at this point that we can
rejoin the argument Girard develops in Things Hidden. The complete in-
nocence of Christ emphasized by the Gospel accounts requires tradi-
tional Christology: The theology of the Incarnation is not just a fantastic
and irrelevant invention of the theologians; it adheres rigorously to the
logic implicit in the [Gospel] text If Jesus is the only one who can fully
reveal the way in which the founding murder has broadened its hold
upon mankind, this is because at no point did it take hold upon him
(thsfw 216). And later: To recognize Christ as God is to recognize him
as the only being capable of rising above the violence that had, up to that
point, absolutely transcended mankind. Violence is the controlling
agent in every form of mythic or cultural structure and Christ is the only
agent who is capable of escaping from these structures and freeing us
from their dominance (thsfw 219). If Things Hidden fails to develop
the implications of this point that is, if it sometimes leaves the reader
wondering if the salvific events save us merely from bad sociology this
is only because of the self-imposed limits of Girards anthropological ap-
proach (thsfw 216; owsc 435). But more to our point, the passion,
or perhaps more carefully, Girards interpretation of the Passion, can be
read as staging a confrontation between sacrifice and its victims.
Exhuming some Corpses
The pages of Machiavellis texts are strewn with victims: victims of mur-
der, of conspiracy, of riotous mobs, of scheming rulers, of invading
armies, and on and on. For the most part, the presence of these victims
is overlooked by both Machiavelli and Machiavelli scholars insofar as
both are more interested in Machiavellis princes, the leaders of repub-
lics and principalities who stand at the centre of his work.24 Indeed, the
parade of victims passes by almost unnoticed, as a kind of sad back-
ground procession obscured by the front-and-centre analysis of princes
and captains. Nevertheless, the victims are, in fact, the most important
element of this pair. If the action of a prince requires good violence
then the prince requires someone to receive that violence. The princes
good violence requires victims. But, since the prince requires victims,
his principality depends upon them: in the final analysis, the victim,
not the princely founder, is the foundation of the regime. Machiavellis
use of the sacrificial distinction shows us that the foundation of a new
state is always laid on the backs of victims, even as his interest in the vir-
tues of founders obscures this fact. Both The Prince and Discourses on Livy
as well as Heidegger and Derrida in their own ways oscillate between
revealing the importance of victims and covering them up.
I cannot hope to catalogue and investigate all of the dead and abused
bodies fertilizing Machiavellis texts. Ive mentioned many of them al-
ready, and in what follows (as a kind of summation) I return to two
particularly well known victims. My famous victims are Remus (the vic-
tim of Romulus, as discussed in Discourses on Livy) and Remirro de Orco
(the victim of Cesare Borgia, as discussed in The Prince). In the Discourses
Romuluss murder of his brother Remus is presented as a necessary
precondition for the foundation of Rome. In order to order the new city,
it was necessary that Romulus have complete authority; if Remus were to
be allowed to live on as Romuluss equal, as co-ruler of Rome, the kingly
authority needed to found the state would be divided. If Remus had ced-
ed his place to Romulus, he would still be a threat since he would always
remain a possible rallying point for those offended by Romuluss new
modes and orders. The only way to order the city is for Romulus to be
alone, un solo. Killing Remus was good violence. The upshot is that
Rome could only be founded over the corpse of Remus. We find a similar
situation, although perhaps a bit more sordid and without the classical
lustre of the Romulus story, in The Princes account of Cesare Borgias
24 One notable exception to this tendency is found in the work of V. Sullivan.

actions in the Romagna. Upon his conquest of that region, Borgia found
it to be a lawless wild place and set upon reducing it to good govern-
ment. To that end he ordered his lieutenant, Remirro de Orco, to enter
the Romagna and lay down the law. De Orco did this with alacrity and
cruelty. The first victims were the victims of de Orcos mission. One can
assume that de Orcos wrath fell upon not merely the lords of the
Romagna who despoiled their subjects but also on any who resisted his
new orders. In this way, law and order was introduced to the region, cul-
minating with the construction of courts and a system of civil conflict
resolution. The violence of de Orco was good violence. Unfortunately
for de Orco, there was one last piece of good violence on order: the mur-
der of de Orco himself. We can imagine his surprise when agents of
Cesare Borgia take him by night and murder him in a spectacular man-
ner; although we cant be sure, it is reasonable to assume that he was at
least as surprised as the people of the Romagna were when they found his
butchered remains in the piazza.
In both cases, the introduction of new modes and orders is linked to a
murder. Romuluss killing of Remus precedes his ordering of Rome;
while Borgias murder of de Orco is the capstone to the (re)ordering of
the Romagna. The difference between the murder-as-beginning and the
murder-as-capstone is important, but it is less important than the more
fundamental idea of the murder-as-required. The episodes of Borgia and
Romulus both suggest that a victim is a necessary condition for the intro-
duction or reform of modes and orders. We can find confirmation of this
suggestion in the early chapters of The Prince. In chapter 3, Machiavelli
reminds his reader that new princes (here he is focusing on mixed prin-
cipalities [i.e., one in which a prince of territory A has acquired territo-
ryB]) will find it necessary to offend when he introduces new orders and
that these offences must be such that the victim cannot revenge himself:
Men must be either caressed or eliminated (P III) . Call this point (a).
Further on, in chapter 6s discussion of the new prince, we find that (b)
the new prince must be armed when he introduces new modes and or-
ders because (c) he must be able to force the people to obey. Whence,
Moses was forced to kill innumerable people to introduce his modes and
orders to the Israelites. Implicit in (a), (b), and (c) is the further point
(d) that the princes founding or ordering of a state requires victims.
We can find other examples that circle the same point without stating
it in The Prince. For example, Hannibals virtues (P XVIII) require that
he be cruel; his cruelty requires victims. If the good prince thinks of
nothing but war (P XIV), if the prince desires to make himself feared
(PXVIII), he will require victims. Indeed, even if he seeks to be merci-
ful in the sense recommended by Machiavelli, he will require carefully
selected victims (P XVIII and XIX). We can find other examples in the
Discourses. Early in the Discourses, Machiavelli discusses where a founder
should locate the city to be founded. Examining the options, he con-
cludes that one should pick a good, healthy, fertile location. Even though
this will reduce the immediate need for discipline on the part of citizens,
one can overcome this problem by forcing them to cultivate the virtue of
good citizenship (D I.1). The passages alluded to from The Prince will
suffice to conjure up what this forcing consists in: offence, crushing, and
victimization.
So far, the reader might consider that the foregoing is a kind of smear
on Machiavelli, cherry-picking particularly colourful and bloody passag-
es but ignoring his larger concerns with good government. There is
something to this criticism in that I havent really addressed good gov-
ernment in Machiavelli; to remedy this defect and assuage those critics,
I will do so now. Despite Machiavellis rather bloody reputation (in popu-
lar culture, if not so much among scholars anymore), it is fair to say that
his overarching vision of the goals of political life is fairly attractive. All
these instances of violence are good violence that is meant to protect
the community. Late in The Prince, Machiavelli describes a city ruled by a
prince who follows his advice. It sounds like a really nice place to live.
The city and its citizens are secure in their possessions, fearing neither
neighbour nor foreign threat; the prince rewards excellence in the arts
and sciences; people are able to live their lives with little interference
from the government. Occasionally, the prince visits different constitu-
encies in the city and throws a party. One thinks of Ambrogio Lorenzettis
1339 fresco cycle The Allegory of Good and Bad Government, in particular
The Effects of Good Government in the City. This vision of civic life is as im-
portant to Machiavellis thought as are the visions of death and murder
recounted above.
But, to this we have to add another point: Machiavellis peaceful city
isbuilt on the corpses of victims. In Lorenzettis collection of frescos, The
Effects of Good Government in the City is paired with another work, The
Allegory of Good Government. This fresco presents the prince (standing for
the ruling council of Sienna) as guided by the theological virtues of
faith, hope, and charity. In Lorenzettis presentation, the effects of good
government are derived from these virtues. In Lorenzettis cycle, we
only find victims in the frescos concerned with bad government. Good
government is basically good all the way down.
Returning to Machiavellis vision, we can describe it as a demythologiz-
ing of Lorenzettis (this is just a heuristic device; it is not to say that
Machiavelli had Lorenzetti in mind when he wrote). Machiavellis texts
show us that even good government and good cities are built over the
bodies of victims. Machiavellis revivication of the sacrificial distinction

can be taken as a kind of demythologizing of politics in precisely the
sense that Girard gives to the term. For Girard, myth is the story of per-
secution, of victimization, told from the perspective of the victimizer.
This is clearest in the oldest versions of myths; but one also sees a devel-
opment in the myths as the stories are told and retold, each time in a
slightly more sanitized form than the previous version. The most archaic
versions of myths are the most violent: they recount the murder or per-
secution of the victim by the victimizers. In this telling, the victim is
guilty, the victim somehow has it coming at least as far as the victimizers
are concerned. Over time, the violence is scrubbed out and the myth
takes on a less disturbing shape, until initial murder is only a distant
memory and perhaps ultimately forgotten. The reasons Girard gives for
the process of forgetting at work in myth are not germane to our pur-
poses; for now, it suffices to explain that, in his usage, demythologizing
means to recall to mind, to rediscover, the hidden and forgotten victims
both delivered and obscured by the myth. One unintentional effect of
Machiavellis focus on the founding violence of princes and captains is to
demythologize politics by reminding his readers of the victim at the
foundation of new modes and orders
Nevertheless, Machiavelli does not intentionally exhume the victims
corpse; rather, he does so inadvertently when he tells us about the virtues
of the killers. The return to the Roman education he promotes is a re-
turn to the idea that founding or ordering requires victims. There is no
way around it; the only trick is to pick someone whom you can victimize
without blowback. Whence, in his discussion of avoiding hatred in chap-
ter 19 of The Prince, Machiavelli gives criteria for determining a good
victim: one should only proceed when there is manifest cause that is,
when everyone, or at least a majority, agrees that the proposed victim has
it coming. In this way, one avoids the threat of vengeance. Seen in this
perspective, Remus is a good choice for Romulus: in killing his brother,
he ensures that no one will rise up to avenge Remus. Why? Romulus is
Remuss only family; in killing his own family member, rather than some-
one elses family member, Romulus does not have to worry about ven-
geance. Similarly, Remirro de Orco was not from the Romagna and had
no family or friends to speak of in the region: he was from Spain. In both
cases, Remus and Remirro make good victims: one because he was so
close to Romulus that no one else would avenge him, the other because
he was so far from home he had no one to avenge him. Both could be
safely killed.
The ability to be safely killed if such a thing can be called an ability
is, returning to Girard, one of the key marks of the victim, one of what
he calls the stereotypes of persecution (sg 12ff). In any social group,

one can find people at the margins the stranger from abroad, the resi-
dent minority, the widow or orphan, and so on who, precisely because
of their marginal status, make good victims. Remirro and Remus, each in
his own way, were outsiders. Remus was above a hero and potential
king while Remirro was a foreigner. The liminal status of Remirro is
perhaps less confusing than that of Remus. But it should not be: history
and anthropology reveal that victims can be taken from the top as easily
as from the bottom. Indeed, the pairing of Remirro and Remus can be
seen in figures as diverse as Oedipus and Marie Antoinette both com-
bine royalty with foreignness (sg 20). With this in mind, let us return to
Machiavellis advice just cited: that one should not proceed against a
potential victim without causa manifesta. When I paraphrased the phrase
in the previous paragraph I interpreted it as requiring that a majority
agree that the proposed victim is deserving of punishment. Nothing in
this interpretation requires the actual guilt of the victim. What is re-
quired is only the acquiescence of the people to the accusation against
the victim. As we saw in our earlier discussion of calumny and accusation,
the actual guilt or innocence is of less importance here than the belief in
the guilt or innocence of the victim. When the victim is an outsider it is
easier to acquire this belief.25 We are more likely to believe that the out-
sider is deserving of punishment than we are one of our own.
Let us turn briefly to Machiavellis Florentine Histories. In the second
book of his history of Florence, Machiavelli describes the rise and fall
of the Duke of Athens. Having tyrannized the people, they rose up
against him with the aim of throwing off his yoke; the duke was forced
to hide in his palace and negotiate. The people have been meeting in
the church of Santa Reparata to organize a new government and choose
25 In a fascinating analysis that I believe complements my own, John McCormick

argues for the connection between the religious elements of Remirros murder and the
importance of the acquiescence of the people for ruling. McCormick notes that Borgias
murder of Remirro has religious elements (e.g., it happened on St Stephens Day) and that
these elements are essential for the ordering of the Romagna. Particularly important is the
following: Formally rational institutions are not sufficient for either Machiavelli or Cesare
at this point in the latters mission to establish a state in north-central Italy. Routinized
administration is not all that he provides the people; he also brings them food for their
souls. Machiavelli suggests that Cesare wishes to purge the peoples spirit of their hatred
more fully (emphasis in original). The resonances of this reading with the sacrificial one
that I am proposing should be apparent. See McCormick, Prophetic Statebuilding, 9. On
the other hand, I am less persuaded by McCormicks claim that it is a Christian tenet
that one individual be sacrificed for the sake of the people (7), if only because the Gospel
texts attribute that claim to Caiaphas and can be read as, at least, pointing out the injustice
of such a plan.
representatives to negotiate with the duke. As part of these proceedings,

the people demand that Guiglielmo dAssisi and his son be put in their
power (fh II.37). The scene that follows is horrifying:
Messer Guiglielmo and his son were placed among thousands of enemies, and
the son was not yet eighteen years old; nonetheless, his age, his form, and his
innocence could not save him from the fury of the multitude. Those whom they
could not wound living, they wounded when dead, and not satisfied with cutting
them to pieces with their swords, they tore them apart with their hands and their
teeth. And so that all their senses might be satisfied in revenge, having first heard
their wails, seen their wounds, and handled their torn flesh, they still wanted
their taste to relish them; so as all the parts outside were sated with them, they
also sated the parts within The multitude having purged itself with the blood
of these two, an accord was concluded. (FH II.37)
We find much to chew on here. The key element is the resolution of the
tension via what could only be described as a kind of collective murder.
The battles in the piazza are replaced by the murder of defenceless vic-
tims; in a fashion sure to interest readers of Girard, the people also eat
their victims. Girard notes that communal eating of the victim often
functions as a way of indicating unanimity in those situations in which
not everyone is able to participate in killing the victim: in eating the
victim, one indicates approval of what has transpired (vs 27480).
Machiavellis emphasis on the youth and innocence of the son suggests a
kind of scapegoating in the Girardian sense. The society that follows the
scapegoating, Machiavelli continues, had prosperous results for a time,
although dissension inevitably crept back in (fh II.38).
It is interesting to distinguish between the different kinds of violence
we find in Machiavelli. There is the violence of war and battle; the vio-
lence of conspiracies and assassinations, the violence of riots and mobs;
the list is not meant to be exhaustive. But the kind of violence we see in
the case of Remus, de Orco, and, especially, Guiglielmos son, is of a dif-
ferent order. In both cases, the victim is neither a soldier on the field of
battle nor a hated tyrant targeted for assassination but an individual in-
tentionally chosen for death who does not seem to deserve it. In the story
of Guiglielmos son, the tyrannical duke of Athens leaves the city in
peace after the public murder of this young man. Remus did not con-
spire against Romulus in Machiavellis telling, it was merely necessary
that Romulus be alone; nor is there any reason to think that Remirro de
Orco was anything less than a loyal lieutenant of Borgia. Remus and de
Orco, whatever their failings might be, did not deserve to die, or at least
deserved it no more than Romulus or Cesare Borgia deserved it. And
Machiavelli himself emphasizes the youth and innocence of Guiglielmos

unnamed son. It is not merely the case that foundations require vio-
lence: they require persecution. Persecutory violence entails (a) an indif-
ference to truth, to guilt, and innocence in the selection of victims but
(b) an interest in choosing victims that can safely be killed. Here it is
worthwhile to recall Machiavellis Germans. They maintained civic har-
mony and virtue, we saw earlier, by killing any gentleman upon whom
they could lay their hands. These gentlemen are killed because they are
the beginning of corruption, which is to say that they are killed before
they have done anything in particular (D I.55). These gentlemen are
killed on principle because of whom or what they are, not because
of what they have done. They are, like Remus, Remirro de Orco, and
Guiglielmos son, sufficiently different from the rest of the population
that they can be safely killed.
The Problem of Ferdinand
Founding requires persecution. This is the harsh claim that Machiavelli

leaves us with, going beyond both Heidegger and Derrida: to introduce
new modes and orders requires not merely violence, but the violence of
a persecution. In short, the good violence of the sacrificial distinction is
persecution. If this is the case, we might expect to find Machiavelli dis-
cussing modern examples of persecution somewhere. And we would ex-
pect him to tolerate the persecutions, such that, even if he finds them
distasteful, he recognizes their necessity in founding a new state. And
when we look to his discussion of Ferdinand the Catholic in chapter 21
of The Prince, we find exactly what we would expect. Machiavelli tells us
that Ferdinand can be called an almost new Prince because, while he
inherited a weak kingdom, he very quickly transformed it into a great
one. As part of this transformation, he turned to an act of pious cruelty,
expelling the Marranos from his kingdom and despoiling it of them.
But does Machiavelli really approve of this? He describes Ferdinands
expulsion as wretched (miserabile) and as a kind of pious cruelty.
Nathan Tarcov points out that the Italian pietosa crudelt is ambiguous
and could also be translated as merciful cruelty.26 Tarcov doesnt
explore the ambiguity: in his view, the context clearly decides in favour
of pious cruelty. But his brief comments on the alternate reading are
nevertheless instructive. Tarcov takes the second possible reading as
26 Tarcov, Machiavellis Critique of Religion, 209. Also noteworthy is the interpreta-

tion of the phrase offered by Parsons, Machiavellis Gospel, 148: a cruel action, undertaken
to secure oneself, but justified by religious pretense.
indicating the kind of mercy accomplished by cruelty well used, which

Machiavelli discusses elsewhere in The Prince. It seems obvious to many
readers that pietosa crudelt cant be taken in this sense insofar as it is hard
to see how exiling the Marranos contributes to the common good. But
things arent that obvious: given our discussion of the sacrificial distinc-
tion in Machiavellis thought, it seems possible to read Ferdinands pi-
etosa crudelt as a kind of sacrifice that, by victimizing the Marranos,
solidified his young state: in expelling some, he constituted those who
remained as Spanish. We note, too, that the Marranos fit many of the
aforementioned stereotypes of persecution. On this reading it is possi-
ble to take Machiavellis tolerating Ferdinands cruelty as an instance of
founding violence even as he mourns the sufferings of the kings victims.
Which is to say, it is plausible to read Machiavelli as including persecu-
tion among the great actions of Ferdinand. This is not, or at least should
not be, entirely surprising since, earlier in the same book, Machiavelli
praises cruelty well-used.
But does Machiavelli really approve of Ferdinands activities? Erica
Benner argues that, despite appearances, Machiavelli does not com-
mend Ferdinand. In support of this view, one finds letters sent to Vettori
in 1513 and 1514 that describe Ferdinands policies as short-sighted,
producing only confusion rather than lasting benefits.27 The contrast
between the evaluations of Ferdinand in the letter and in The Prince is
fairly stark and suggests that the presentation in the latter is insincere.28
In the letter sent in April of 1513, Machiavelli gives a long, and largely
negative, evaluation of Ferdinands actions in Italy. As Benner notes, he
describes Ferdinand as crafty and fortunate rather than prudent.29
This seems to be because of the great risks that he takes, but, as the letter
continues, Machiavelli suggests that there might be a method to his mad-
ness: This king from a slight and weak position has come to his present
greatness, and has had always to struggle with new states and doubtful
subjects. And one of the ways with which new states are held and doubt-
ful minds are either made firm or are kept uncertain and unresolved, is
to rouse about oneself great expectations such a necessity this king
has recognized and used well (L 128). So, Ferdinand is not always
wrong. In fact, most of the errors Machiavelli points to in the letters are
errors in his foreign policy; his successes, on the other hand, are found
27 See Machiavelli, L 128 and 145. It is only fair to mention that, whatever Machiavelli
might have thought, Ferdinand did seem to lay the foundations of a secure and stable state,
at least in Spain and the Americas, if not in Italy.
29 Machiavelli, L 128.
domestically in founding and preserving his state in Spain.30 Although

Machiavelli criticizes Ferdinand for risking all his territories in L 128,
the context shows that he means only his territory in Italy, not Castile,
Aragon, and other lands in Spain. Although it must pain Machiavelli to
admit this, Italy is a sideshow: the point of Ferdinands actions is to so-
lidify his control over Spain.
In general, one may say of the letters that Machiavelli disagrees with
Ferdinands policy in Italy but finds merit in his management of domes-
tic affairs.31 Domestic affairs are the topic at hand in P 21. It is possible,
therefore, to disengage his criticisms of Ferdinands foreign affairs in the
letters from his discussion of his domestic affairs in The Prince. Moreover,
even if one prefers to read the letters without distinguishing between
discussions of foreign policy and of domestic policy, it remains the case
that the expulsion of the Marranos from Spain is not listed as one of
Ferdinands mistakes or miscalculations in either letter. If we are to take
the largely negative evaluation of Ferdinand in the letters as our guide in
interpreting P 21, we must take into account the fact that the mistreat-
ment of the Marranos does not appear in the long catalogues of errors
in the letters. Since The Prince doesnt list it as an error either, it seems
to me that we have no textual evidence for attributing such a view to
Machiavelli. This is not to suggest that Machiavelli rejoiced in the expul-
sion of the Marranos, but only that he recognized it as an act of founding
sacrificial violence on the part of Ferdinand.
A c c u s at i o n a n d C a l u m n y
Despite the importance of victims, Machiavelli is more interested in

princes. Ferdinand gets a paragraph in The Prince and a few letters; the
poor Marranos only merit one sentence. This role that victimization
and persecution plays, while pointed out by Machiavellis texts, is also
quickly covered over by his emphasis on the prince. Machiavelli doesnt
efface the memory of violence, but he does efface the faces of the vic-
tims. Despite his own suggestions regarding the importance of victims,
Machiavelli continually turns his gaze towards the opposite and places
the overwhelming emphasis of his texts on the virtues of the prince.
30 Viroli, Machiavelli, 679. Viroli notes that that the Kings strategy has been gener-
ally effective in holding on to new states; the apparent randomness of the rest of his actions
can be explained this way.
31 But this is not to say Machiavelli entirely approves of them either. In L 128 he notes
a rumour that Ferdinand has been draining the treasury to pay for his armies of disobedi-
ent conscripts.
Either he cannot bear his own insights and intentionally turns away, or
he is so bedazzled by princely success he forgets his own insights into the
importance of victims; he praises the cruelty of Hannibal without sparing
a thought to those to whom he was cruel. The tension between the two
poles is never entirely resolved in Machiavellis thought; he continually
oscillates between bedazzled admiration of successful princes and the
sense that this success rests on persecution. Overall, however, it is prob-
ably fair to say that the admiration of princely success ultimately over-
whelms the insight into the importance of victims.
With this in mind, let us revisit our discussion of accusation and calum-
ny.32 In chapter 7 of book I of the Discourses, Machiavelli addresses the
importance of accusation in a republic. According to Machiavelli, it is
important that republics are ordered such that a system of public accusa-
tion is in place. There are two chief benefits acquired by accusations:
first, citizens will be afraid of attempting things against the state and
second, an outlet is given by which to vent the humors that grow up
in cities (D 7). Note that the first benefit assumes that, or so it seems to
me, accusations are made against the guilty. Those citizens crushed sub-
sequent to this accusation presumably deserve it. But the second benefit
is more ominous: it nowhere suggests that the accused is guilty. The ac-
cused in this case is merely the unfortunate outlet for the built-up hu-
mours. When this accused is crushed, he may very well not deserve it. In
short, the second benefit of accusation points to a kind of persecution,
carried out not by a single prince but by the people as a whole, indiffer-
ent to the guilt or innocence of the victim. The point is to purge the
humours in a kind of civic catharsis, not to punish the guilty. In chapter
8, Machiavelli oscillates again, contrasting calumny with accusation and
arguing that, while calumny occurs in private without evidence, accusa-
tions have need of true corroborations and of circumstances that show
the truth of the accusation (D 8). Machiavelli notes that Rome in her
glory had systems of accusation, while Florence flounders in unregulated
calumnies. Dazzled by Romes example, Machiavelli forgets the persecu-
tory elements of accusations. The emphasis falls on the first kind, where-
by standards of evidence and legal procedures are called upon: men are
accused to magistrates, to peoples, to councils (D 8). When these pro-
cedures are followed, one wants to rest easy in the view that the accusa-
tion was of the first forensic kind rather than of the second persecuting
kind. But, stepping aside from Machiavellis texts, we all know of cases in
which magistrates, peoples, and councils have acted to vent humours
32 The previous discussion can be found in section 5 of chapter 4.

rather than to pursue justice. We readily speak of show trials, of defen-

dants who are railroaded by the system, of witch-hunts, and so on.
Despite what Machiavelli might wish, there is nothing in the contrast
between calumny and accusation that excludes the possibility of persecu-
tory accusation. Persecution is hidden, but not gone. In the transition
from chapter 7 to chapter 8, we see the two sides of Machiavelli, the
awareness of persecutory violence and the reassuring turn away from it
towards more palatable forms of violence (e.g., violence against the
guilty). This oscillation perhaps undermines the true knowledge of his-
tories that he promises his readers; from time to time, Machiavelli shows
himself to be as credulous as his contemporaries, forgetting the victims
and persecutions he points out to us.
N o t E v e n a G o d C a n S av e U s N o w
The title of this book, as is already apparent to many readers, is a play on

Heideggers famous line: Only a god can save us now. In the 1966 in-
terview with Der Speigel in which this appears, Heidegger introduces the
line as a lament; the postSecond World War world, so dominated by
the twin powers of communism and Americanism, each threatening the
other with nuclear destruction, seems hopeless. There is nothing any-
one can do to escape the pervasive and baleful influence of these phe-
nomena on our lives: Philosophy will be unable to effect any immediate
change in the current state of the world. This is true not only of philoso-
phy but of all purely human reflection and endeavor. Only a god can
save us (dsp 57). Heidegger seems to be holding out, on first glance, a
kind of eschatological hope, whereby something from outside the mod-
ern enframing enters it, interrupts it, and rescues us. But, as with so
many Heideggerian sayings, it isnt so simple or straightforward. He goes
on, in the following paragraphs, to link this hope with the thinking that
comes after philosophy: Philosophy is at an end (dsp 58). If we turn
from this interview to his 1964 essay The End of Philosophy and the
Task of Thinking, his meaning becomes clearer: philosophy, by which
he means the great metaphysical tradition he imbibed as a student and
returned to repeatedly as a scholar in the Der Speigel interview he char-
acterizes his lifes work as only an interpretation of Western philosophy
(dsp 59) has ended by dissolving into the various special sciences.
What remains for philosophy is not to attempt to put Humpty-Dumpty
together again, but to think, to be open, to let go, and to experience the
mysteriousness of being. More precisely, it is to become aware of the
strange mix of concealment and un-concealment, presence and absence,
light and dark, that characterizes being. Here, Heidegger philosophizes
as an old man; gone is the destruktion of his younger days, the dazzling
critiques and attempts at overcoming metaphysics, the Sisyphean effort
to reawaken the question of being or reform the university.33 To the
frustration of his interviewers, Heidegger repeatedly disclaims having
any practical advice, or plan, or concrete recommendation for dealing
with the problems to which he points; he seems unsure of himself. The
long war against metaphysics, it seems, is over: it has all been in vain.
Metaphysics in the form of technology seems triumphant. A sense of
failure is intimated but never frankly admitted by Heidegger in the ap-
peal to a god to save us; he and his work cannot save us. According to
the Der Spiegel interview, the most one can do is to prepare for the com-
ing of the god. Heidegger doesnt think that we can summon a god by
means of thought but, rather, that in thinking (as opposed to phi-
losophizing) one can prepare oneself to receive the god if and when it
comes. All this sounds quite weird, but looking, once again, at The End
of Philosophy and the Task of Thinking can eliminate some of the
weirdness.34 Here Heidegger describes the task of thinking, at least in
part, as the cultivation of a kind of sensitivity to the interplay of lichtung
and dickung (eptt 384) in which beings appear and, ultimately, to the
weirdness of appearance altogether. It is this sensitivity, or something
similar to it, that Heidegger has in mind in the Der Speigel interview. In
short, Heideggers appeal to a god to save us is not an appeal to anything
outside or apart from the world that could enter into it and transform
either us or the world but, rather, an appeal to his readers to cultivate a
certain kind of attitude, an attitude wherein the future appearance of a
god not a divinity in any traditional sense, but merely something that
could transform the world will be noticed rather than obscured in tech-
nological business.
In a certain sense, Derrida could be described as continuing and
refining this task, of attempting to notice what is not ordinarily no-
ticed, and as trying to articulate the interplay between light and dark,
33 Describing the time leading up to the writing and publishing of Being and Time, van
Buren writes: Heidegger was at this time a great skeptic, destroyer and demythologizer
of western metaphysics, and this flurry of criticism and innovation remains perhaps
unmatched in his entire corpus. See van Buren, Young Heidegger, 136. Caputo helpfully
divides Heideggers thought into three stages (at least as it relates to religion): first, the
move from Catholicism to Protestantism around 191719; second, the Promethean
Neopaganism of the 1930s and National Socialism; third, the mytho-poetic meditation on
the holy in the later writings. See Caputo, Demythologizing Heidegger, 1789.
34 One can never eliminate all the weirdness from the late Heidegger, and, indeed,
one should not since the weirdness is part of the point of it insofar as what we take as nor-
mal is due to the technological Gestell characteristic of modernity.
revealing and concealing, that makes appearance possible. In Derridas

case, rather than waiting for a god to save us, we wait for the much more
respectable sounding democracy-to-come. Despite the differences be-
tween Heidegger and Derrida, the basic thrust is the same: things are a
mess, we are unable to fix them ourselves, so let us hope for something
(impossible) to come and save us. But what does any of this have to do
with Machiavelli: Why cant a god save us now? Machiavelli shows us that,
in contrast to both Heidegger and Derrida, there is nothing coming
from the future: no god, no messiah, and no democracy-to-come that
could or would save us. El Chupacabra isnt real. This is not to say that we
cant be saved but that we cant be saved now and that there is nothing
coming from the future to save us. Instead of looking for a god to save us
now, or a democracy-to-come, we ought to turn around, looking back at
the past the invisible principalities of the past that Heidegger and
Derrida, each in his own way following Machiavellis advice, rejected. We
were already saved; but we didnt and dont want to be saved. We want to
wait on the god to come rather than deal with the one that already has.
If Girards reading of the Passion narrative is correct, then God tried
to save us a long time ago; God tried to reveal to us the secret of our vio-
lent world and, with this knowledge, the world could have been trans-
formed. But we never managed to embrace it entirely. Machiavelli holds
that the Christian education rejected sacrifice but that violence still
sparked up as a kind of ineffective temper tantrum, leading him to
choose sacrifice as a more effective use of violence. Derridas work sug-
gests that there is no way of avoiding sacrifice as we noted, as far back
as Violence and Metaphysics he was warning us that there can be no
pure peace except as an interminably deferred telos. Machiavelli shows
us the vacuity of this telos. The failure of Christian education to either
successfully reject violence or sacrificially manage it that Machiavelli la-
ments is perhaps the best we can hope for: sporadic violence that is re-
pented of rather than carefully planned persecutions that are not.
I have attempted to show that Heidegger and Derrida can be illumi-
nated by dialogue with Machiavelli, and vice versa. Easy historical nar-
ratives that pick one moment or thinker to describe as decisive for
everything that comes after often tempt so-called continental philoso-
phers; Heidegger is the champion of this sort of work (Metaphysics is
Platonism), but he is far from alone. Truth be told, we would be wrong
to look for the decisive moment when it all went wrong, to seek a figure
or epoch to blame, and correct, and condemn as at fault and surpass.
Despite my focus on Machiavelli, I do not intend to blame him for rein-
troducing sacrifice and persecution into the world; nowhere in the text
do I claim that he said these things first, although I do believe that he
said these things best, and, in so doing, he enables us to better under-

stand ourselves and our situation. We should notice both tendencies
sacrificial and non-sacrificial at work, not only in others people, places,
and times, but in ourselves. I am no stranger to sacrificial violence; I
havent done anything as dramatic as killing Remus, but I have fought
with my brother over nothing. Sometimes we embrace the sacrificial
distinction and sometimes we dont. Sometimes the good violence of
sacrifice seems the only response to the pressures and depredations of
the world. Sometimes we resist the temptation of sacrifice; sometimes
the terror of bad violence is so unendurable that it is hard to blame any-
one for embracing a good violence that promises to stop it. One may re-
gret the violence, but one should refrain from judging too harshly those
who perform sacrifices. Martin Buber, in a slightly different context,
once commented: my heart, which is acquainted with the weakness of
men, refuses to condemn my neighbor for not prevailing upon himself
to become a martyr.35 It may be better to interpret resistance to the sac-
rificial distinction as a kind of supererogatory act and to look with under-
standing on people who, under intense pressure, embraced sacrifice.
Not everyone can be a moral hero; one ought not to judge too harshly or
to congratulate too quickly. If one has not embraced sacrifice, one might
be more lucky than good. Perhaps the best one can do is muddle through,
trying ones best not to kill anyone, being aware of ones own predilec-
tions both culturally and personally for embracing the sacrificial dis-
tinction, and attempting to resist that predilection as much as possible.
The texts of Machiavelli and the others teach us whether intentionally
or not is unimportant both the desirability of sacrifice and the necessity
of resisting it, with the full knowledge that we will fail. Perhaps this
knowledge will make us more understanding and forgiving of others
when they fail. But the doomed attempt to resist sacrifice rather than
to embrace it returns us to the incompetent violence nurtured by the
Christian education.
35 Buber, Genuine Dialogue and the Possibilities of Peace, 2345, quoted in

Mendes-Flor, Martin Buber and Martin Heidegger in Dialogue.
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Index
Abraham, 77, 124, 160n11, 165 cannibalism, 185

accusation, 1017, 184, 1889 Capri, 162, 163
Adriani, Marcello, 256 Captain America, 41
Agathocles, 8, 835, 109, 123 Caputo, John, 45, 757, 100, 16971
alterity (the other), 4850 Castracani, Castruccio, 12, 10815,
Althusser, 910, 89 11819
anticlericalism, 120 chicken-men, 140
Aristotle, 25, 8990, 117, 158 Christianity, 27, 29, 337, 41, 5960,
Augustine, 14, 2933, 3741, 69, 734, 112, 1207, 139, 1524. See
1023, 112, 1345, 139, 159 also education: Christian
auspice/auguries, 132, 140, 143, 1468 Cicero, 1112, 55, 115, 122n24,
1345
banshees, 58 City of God/Man, 39, 40, 55, 69, 135,
Behan, Dominic, 145 145
Benner, Erica, 52, 83n34, 85n38, Colish, Marsha, 36
88n1, 89, 110n4 Colonna, Fabrizio, 356, 41, 98, 111
Benson, Bruce, 34 12, 118
Bernasconi, Robert, 412 court, 85, 181
Boethius, 915 cruelty, 5, 8, 71, 86, 105, 109, 113,
Borgia, Cesare, 76, 85, 102, 113, 135, 150, 167, 181, 1867, 189; pious,
162, 167, 1801, 1845 1867; poorly used, 84; well used,
brains, 667 8, 83, 845, 1035, 120, 123
Bronx, the, xiii, 55 Cyrus, 64, 823, 94, 12930, 176.
Brown, Alison, 257, 40 See also prophets: armed
Brutus, Iunius, 15960
Brutus, Marcus, 20 deconstruction. See Derrida
Buber, Martin, 193 Del Nero, Francisco, 25
de Orco, Remirro, 102, 10886
Caesar, Julius, 20, 84, 11415, 119 Derrida, Jacques, 18, 4550, 62, 66,
calumny, 1017, 184, 18890 748, 1534, 15772
204 Index
desire, 21, 54, 69, 103; mimetic de- imitation, 14, 212, 278, 90, 109,
sire, 5, 133, 177 133, 1767
Diogenes, Laertius, 108, 11314 immurement, 100
Diogenes the Cynic, 11314, 119 Ireland, 58
Dominic, St, 724
Jesus Christ, 165, 1779
education, 1922, 27, 34, 40, 53, 69, Jonas, Hans, 445
73, 84, 132; ancient/Roman, 29,
33, 35, 73, 90, 110, 112, 115, 177 Kallipolis, 16970. See also Plato
9, 183; Christian, 27, 2930, 56,
60, 68, 73, 110, 139, 175, 177, 192 Lacoste, Jean-Yves, 445, 93, 967,
El Chupacabra, 16872, 192 99101, 117, 1279, 1726, 178
Epicureanism. See Lucretius leisure/ozio, 35, 37, 978, 11619,
Etruscans/Tuscans, 23, 122 126, 129, 162, 173
liturgy, 34, 967, 1245, 1279, 1726
Ferdinand the Catholic, 1868 Livy, Ab urbe condita, 1314, 70, 81,
floods, 313, 82 97, 1325, 1379, 142, 143
Florence, 11, 245, 76, 106, 116, 138, logos, 148154
147, 164, 184, 189 losers, 1701, 175
fortune, 22, 63, 7883, 907, 104, Lucretius, 259, 40, 478, 545,
1089, 132, 144 67n21, 80, 8990, 120, 122
France/French, 23, 125
Francis, St, 724 Mansfield, Harvey, 24, 53, 62, 88,
fratricide, 1315, 139, 177, 1806 120, 146
Marranos, 1868
gentlemen, 1267, 186. See also mercy, 35, 69, 846, 111, 145, 187.
leisure/ozio See also piety
Germany/Germans, 1257, 186 Messianism, 177, 192; without
Girard, 45, 18, 5961, 713, 1036, a messiah, 162, 164, 169, 192
123, 1336, 1389, 1525, 1656, Moses, 645, 825, 94, 12931, 176,
179, 183, 185, 192 181
murder, 45, 8, 60, 102, 104, 123,
Hadot, Pierre, 1416 126, 1315, 1389, 151, 1556,
Hgglund, Martin, 45 165, 167, 17985
Hannibal, 835, 181, 189 Mysterium tremendens et fascinans, 104,
hats, 1312 1601
Heidegger, Martin, 18, 414, 48, 558, mystical, the, 1614, 166
614, 6972, 87, 89, 98101, 107,
115, 127, 14757, 167, 1726, 1903 natural law, 53, 889, 99, 112, 135
Heraclitus, 148, 1512 nature, 567, 615, 8790, 97100,
Holy Orders/priesthood, 10913 128, 150
hospitality, 4950, 748, 153 Nederman, Cary, 94n14, 120
humanism, 13, 24, 108 night, 173
Index 205
Njamy, John, 22, 140 Saussure, Ferdinand de, 46

Numa, 65, 87, 133, 1369, 140, 1424 Savonarola, 10, 58, 645, 83, 120n17,
122, 130, 132, 137, 1467
Palmer, Ada, 28, 67n21, 89, 120 scapegoat, 45, 5961, 713, 1015,
Passion, the, 73, 1779, 192 123, 1339, 155, 1656, 185
patria, 27, 2930, 98, 101, 120, 145 Simmons, J. Aaron, 34
patriotism, 120, 140 Skinner, Quentin, 10
Pazzi conspiracy, 1745 Sluga, Hans, 1489
pharmakos, 1556 Socrates, 11, 11415, 117, 119, 154,
phenomenology, 44, 96, 1724; 169
new phenomenology, 34 Sodom, 78
Piercey, Robert, 67 state/stato, 789, 145
piety, 13840. See also mercy Strauss, Leo, 910, 24, 107, 114, 1201
Plato/Platonism, 10, 32, 47, 52, 558, Sullivan, Vicki, 61n17, 71, 125
62, 11417, 119, 16970
pleasure, 11314 Tarcov, Nathan, 9n11, 1920, 12930,
Pontius Pilate, 1778 186
Pope/papacy, 12, 61, 126 Tarquin, 81, 159
prophets: armed, 81, 83, 10910, 129, telos/teleology, 8890, 157, 168, 171,
130, 132, 144, 151, 176; unarmed, 173, 192
83, 117, 132, 137, 1401, 144, 151 Texas, 168
Theseus, 64, 823, 94, 101, 130, 148
recluse, 1279 51, 176
religion, 22, 3341, 53, 65, 72, 110, transcendental signified, 467, 49, 62,
11927, 12937, 13944, 1656, 66, 74. See also Derrida
175; archaic religion, 1038, 154 truth: as alethea, 568, 61; as effectual
5, 160; without religion, 45, 49, truth, 514, 58, 629, 79, 147, 176,
1613, 1656. See also education 178; as orthotes, 568, 61, 115
Remus, 1315, 139, 143, 177, 1806,
193 vineyards, 101
ritual, 5 Viroli, 1011, 16, 534, 62, 86, 95,
Romulus, 64, 823, 94, 101, 112, 11922, 1256, 145, 188
1309, 1434, 1767, 1805
wanderer, 1278
sacred, the, 72, 104, 139, 1601, 166 war, 356, 389, 100, 112, 123, 137,
sacrifice, 45, 1718, 3442, 51, 60, 155, 162, 167, 181, 185, 190
69, 713, 87, 1005, 107, 110, 115, world, eternity of, 1933, 401, 59,
1234, 1323, 145, 1547, 1601, 601, 90, 936, 98, 103, 110, 114
172, 1767, 179, 187, 1923 15, 119, 120, 147, 172
Sasso, Gennaro, 29, 32, 1201 wormwood simile, 28

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NOT EVEN A GOD C A N SAVE US NOW

M c Gill-Queens Studies in the History of Ideas

1 Problems of Cartesianism 10 Consent, Coercion, and Limit:

24 Kierkegaard as Theologian: 32 Orthodoxy and

39 The Recovery of Wonder: 48 Media, Memory, and the First

45 Finding Freedom: 54 Public Passion:

56 Materialist Ethics and 65 Imprinting Britain:

Reading Machiavelli after Heidegger

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(McGill-Queens studies in the history of ideas; 70)

1. Machiavelli, Niccol, 14691527 Criticism and interpretation.

JC143.M4H37 2017 320.01 C2016-907952-X

This book was typeset by Marquis Interscript in 10/12 New Baskerville.

1 Reading Machiavelli with Post-Heideggerian Philosophy 3

In the opening chapter of his Some Lessons on Metaphysics, the Spanish

1 Ortega y Gasset, Some Lessons in Metaphysics, 14.

2 Marenbon, Abelard in Four Dimensions.

A word about the structure and organization of this book is in order.

Reading Machiavelli with

With a few notable exceptions, Machiavelli is rarely discussed in

Post-Heideggerian is an ugly word; in fact, the hyphen is probably the

phenomenology. Simmons and Benson use this term to designate

1 Simmons and Benson, New Phenomenology, 1.

There is a certain amount of decontextualizing at play: rather than

theory: by seeing how these pictures are formulated, developed, chal-

Machiavelli.9 Let us focus on those important and influential books:

second group approaches Machiavelli largely in terms of Machiavelli

revolutionary sermons of Savonarola; but also the entire tradition of Christian

While numerous objections have been raised to the Straussian or

13 Ibid., 78 (emphasis in original).

Furious with orlando furioso

Another interpretive wrinkle, especially for the more philosophical read-

mean that he did not consider himself a professional rhetorician (i.e.,

Let us return to that wrinkle I mentioned earlier: while Machiavelli did

would have recognized. Renaissance historians had a rather different

Occasions for Writing

While the precise nature of his writings philosophy, history, or rheto-

Augustine, whose major works were largely interventions in controver-

By systematic I do not think Hadot has in mind solely the Hegelianism

20 Hadot, La philosophie antique, 21112.

According to Hadot, ancient philosophers were not systematic be-

developed, is nevertheless (in my view) profound and worthy of consid-

Sacrifice is not essentially propitiatory, but it is prophylactic: it protects

Sacrifice and the Eternity of the World

It is not readily apparent that the sacrificial distinction between

The discussion of the eternity of the world occurs in chapter 5 of book II

1 Tarcov, Machiavellis Critique of Religion, 199. Tarcovs discussion of the argu-

Machiavellis closing remarks in the preface allude to precisely this point

The exhortation to imitate Tuscan glory leads Machiavelli to wonder why