Pragmatism
The convergence of pragmatism and Machiavellian political theory is the most brilliant manifestation of the desperate attempts of the human will to impose order on the basis of an essentially chaotic existence. Where pragmatism seeks to achieve function, and Machiavelli demands strategic manipulation, we find ourselves before the deepest expression of the tragic illusion of humanity in its quest for control.
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The convergence of pragmatism and Machiavellian political theory is the most brilliant manifestation of the desperate attempts of the human will to impose order on the basis of an essentially chaotic existence. Where pragmatism seeks to achieve function, and Machiavelli demands strategic manipulation, we find ourselves before the deepest expression of the tragic illusion of humanity in its quest for control.
Machiavelli, the supreme architect of political pragmatism, understood what later philosophers whispered: that power is not a moral construct, but a raw expression of the universal will. His book “The Prince” is not a treatise on government, but a brutal phenomenology of human manipulation, in which pragmatic action transcends moral contemplation.
Let us consider the pragmatic principle: “what works.” But what really “works” in a world governed by blind, unconscious struggle? Machiavelli would have ridiculed the naive idealism of those who believe that effectiveness can be measured by rational standards. For him, effectiveness is the ability to perpetuate one’s momentary creation of power—a fleeting triumph against a backdrop of universal indifference.
The pragmatist believes in adaptive solutions; Machiavelli exposes the fundamental lie underlying such beliefs. Adaptation is not progress, but merely another form of survival—a temporary negotiation involving endless possibilities of suffering. The prince does not solve problems; he suspends them temporarily through strategic violence, through the sheer will to power that Nietzsche later formulated.
Where William James sees faith as a creative force, Machiavelli sees faith as a weapon—a tool that can be used, manipulated, and destroyed. The pragmatist believes that ideas can be verified by action; the Machiavellian strategist knows that actions create their own terrible logic, independent of human intention.
John Dewey’s educational reforms? A childish attempt to believe that human systems can transcend the fundamental irrationality of existence. Machiavelli sees such efforts as the most delightful of human comedies—elaborate displays of meaning-making that collapse the moment they encounter the brutal randomness of power.
Pragmatists seek solutions; Machiavelli exposes the futility of such pursuits. Solutions are momentary configurations, brief respites in the endless war of existence. Power is not created; it is borrowed briefly from the universal will, only to be inevitably dissipated.
Consider the political leader—that most pragmatic of creatures. He believes himself to be an agent of change, unaware that he is merely implementing predetermined configurations of power. His “practical” decisions are nothing more than the trembling manifestations of a will that knows neither satisfaction nor rest.
Pragmatism and Machiavellianism are two sides of the same existential coin—attempts to create meaning through action, through strategic manipulation, and through the belief that human agency can somehow transcend the fundamental meaninglessness that underpins all experience.
But behind these philosophical concepts lies a terrifying truth: we are not masters of our own destinies, but temporary expressions of a blind, unconscious will—performing elaborate rituals of domination, unaware of our fundamental insignificance. “What works?” the pragmatist asks. “Force works. Temporarily,” Machiavelli replies. “Nothing works. Everything suffers,” Schopenhauer laughs.
