It’s hard to write about books and ideas when the world is hurting all around us, but as a fiction writer, I keep trying to make sense of political power and human behavior. And that reminded me of something I once felt while reading a certain very famous book.
You don’t need to be an immigrant or a minority to know what it feels like to be rejected by a desirable group, or any group for that matter, even a group that didn’t seem to exist until you walked up to it and the circle closed to exclude you. You just need to remember high school, or that sickening feeling you had, walking down the street after a breakup and looking at all those couples holding hands as if they were touched by divine grace and you by plague. I do have this feeling of not belonging now and then, but I didn’t expect to revisit it when I picked up The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli.
In Romania, there’s a saying: “Don’t take a big bag to the praised tree.” Sure, I found all sorts of storytelling nuggets in The Prince, such as “all armed prophets have succeeded and all unarmed prophets have failed,” though “failed” here means merely dying before seeing their doctrine take hold. But most of the ideas in the book have been so thoroughly studied and absorbed into modern culture that we take them for granted in storytelling instead of reading them as revelations—whether it’s the way people resist new ideas that might actually help them, or the prince’s supposed necessity to destroy those in the line of succession for the throne (and their families).
While I wasn’t as impressed as I expected with this bit of research reading, I still had fun thinking I was catching every little trick Machiavelli was laying down. So I decided to lean into it and play along: What would happen if I swapped out “you/the prince” for the names of current politicians? How would his insights look dropped into our modern world?
For instance, when I tried swapping in “Obama,” the text offered a neat explanation for the stalemate around his attempts at post‑partisan outreach—the dynamic that played out during the 2011 push for a so‑called “Grand Bargain.” Machiavelli would’ve warned Obama that some opponents aren’t waiting to be persuaded, and that treating them as potential partners can leave you exposed.
“But when [these nobles] avoid joining you, through cunning or ambition, that is a sign that they have more concern for themselves than for you. As regards these nobles, a prince must be on his guard, and he must fear them as though they were professed enemies, for in time of adversity they will be out to ruin him.” (Chapter XI—Concerning the civil principality)
When I tried the substitution with “Trump” in the discussion about a prince who listens to too many voices—and ends up changing his mind depending on who last spoke to him—it read like an explanation for the constant chaos we find ourselves in as each faction pushes for influence with the US president. Machiavelli would’ve warned Trump not to start a war just because people around him want one.
“Therefore a prudent prince will pursue a third course, choosing the wise men of his state and granting only to them the freedom to tell him the truth, but only concerning those matters about which he asks, and no others. Yet he should question them about all matters, listen to their opinions, and then decide for himself as he wishes. He should treat these councils and individual advisers in such a way as to make it clear that their words will be the more welcome the more freely they are spoken. Except for these men, he should listen to no one, but rather pursue the course agreed upon and do so resolutely. Anyone who does otherwise will fall victim to flatterers or, as a result of the various opinions he hears, will often change his mind and thereby lose reputation.” (Chapter XXII—How to avoid flatterers)
And then I reached the end of “Chapter XXV—Concerning the influence of fortune in human affairs,” and the manner in which it is to be resisted (emphasis added).
“Therefore, since fortune changes while human beings remain constant in their methods of conduct, I conclude that men will succeed so long as method and fortune are in harmony and they will fail when these are no longer in harmony. But I surely think that it is better to be impetuous than to be cautious, for fortune is a woman and in order to be mastered she must be jogged and beaten. And it may be noted that she submits more readily to boldness than to cold calculation. Therefore, like a woman, she always favors young men because they are not so much inclined to caution as to aggressiveness and daring in mastering her.”
Screech!
I read and reread that paragraph.
I mean, what did I expect? This was Florence in the sixteenth century. Sure, Machiavelli once mentions Caterina Sforza—a countess who put up a good fight against Cesare Borgia—then says nothing more about women. Until the part about beating them into submission.
And in that moment, the little game I had been playing—imagining myself clever enough to spar with Machiavelli on his own turf— collapsed. The text made it painfully clear that I was never meant to be in the room at all, that as a woman I was the kind of reader he didn’t even imagine. It was the same old circle closing, the same quiet “you don’t belong here” I’ve known all my life.
So I sat there with that small volume in my hands, contemplating the now-obvious absence of a book never written named The Princess.
