This article explores Francesco Guicciardini’s concept of the imagination and argues that it plays a vital, yet hitherto unexplored, role in his political thought. What are called “imaginary conceptions” determine the effects that different governmental strategies have upon a given society. As these both affective and cognitive conceptions are tied to shared, symbolic representations, understanding informal aspects of political life becomes a crucial aspect of Guicciardini’s construal of effective government. To understand these aspects it is necessary to reconstruct the historical genesis of the communal representations as it determines the specificity of the society under consideration. The historical contingency of a society’s imaginary conceptions forces political theory to “imaginatively construct” the institutional forms it suggests, rather than “discover” them among the exempla of the past. The centrality of contingent, imaginary conceptions to political reality leads Guicciardini to break with former Renaissance conceptions of exemplarity.

Adam Smith argued that human beings naturally desire to dominate others and that they enjoy it. He showed how ancient masters, landlords, and economic actors in some eighteenth-century English and colonial markets were driven by their love of domination against their own economic interests. Recent scholarship argues that to fully understand the role libido dominandi plays in Smith’s thought, love of domination should be associated with the broader concept of vanity and esteem-seeking. This article challenges that interpretation, showing that, for Smith, the love of domination has nothing to do with the love of praise but that most of the pleasure people derive from it is to see their ends promoted by others without the need to persuade them about the utility of those ends. This understanding locates the love of domination outside commercial society where, under certain socio-economic circumstances, mutual persuasion among individuals is the rule.

During the nineteenth century, liberalism played a fundamental role in the newly formed Latin American nation-states. Yet little attention has been paid to how liberal thinkers on the periphery reacted against liberal theories suffused with pro-colonial rhetoric and Eurocentric bias. This study examines the underexplored reaction of José Victorino Lastarria to John Stuart Mill’s liberal project. Lastarria, one of the most influential nineteenth-century Latin American liberals, critically engaged with Mill’s liberalism, discerning there an example of Eurocentrism that missed insights from the republican Latin American experience. This article examines the intellectual connections and disconnections between Mill’s liberalism, representing the imperial metropole, and Lastarria’s thought, a form of liberalism in the newly independent peripheral states. By reconstructing his discussion of Mill, this article presents Lastarria’s main political ideas to a broader audience.

In his recent analysis of digital platforms as a medium for (democratic) political communication, Jürgen Habermas has proclaimed a constitutional imperative to maintain a functioning public sphere—leaving open, however, what this would require. While a growing literature develops ideas for social media reforms, these models put the cart before the horse. To restructure social media in a targeted manner, one first needs to determine the platforms’ desired contribution to democracy—which is far from obvious. Social media have a plurality of democratic affordances and can thus be assigned different, sometimes competing roles. To determine social media’s place in democracy, we need to do what Habermas has failed to do: locate social media in the center–periphery model of political communication in media society. In doing so, I argue that social media reforms should primarily aim to empower agents in the periphery.

This article traces the conceptual history of key terms used to describe and criticize bad political regimes, focusing on the displacement of “tyranny” by “dictatorship” and “authoritarianism.” Classical Greek thought understood tyranny primarily in terms of the character of rulers, whereas the modern idea of dictatorship emerged from a Roman conceptual framework that focused on authority and its legitimation. New problems of legitimation in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries diminished the utility of the character-centric concept of tyranny and increased the fruitfulness of dictatorship for political analysis. The emergence of the modern state in the nineteenth century shaped the conceptual field by increasing the salience of problems concerning the appropriation or usurpation of sovereignty, the distortion of popular legitimation and accountability, and the incentives for submission to illegitimate orders. I conclude that the use of “authoritarianism” is likely to increase in prominence, but that retaining multiple regime concepts enriches analysis.

The two first reflections on the politics of money you will see in Eich’s book, a substantial intervention (indeed, the notes are fully one-third the length of the main text itself), come from the visual arts and poetry. Commented upon at the end of his book, the cover image comes from Otis Kaye’s simultaneously playful and biting memento of the Met’s 1961 purchase of Rembrandt’s shimmering 1653 painting, Aristotle with a Bust of Homer. At some 2.3 million dollars, it was the most expensive museum purchase of all time. And Kaye (who seems to have lost most of his own savings in the great crash of 1929) offers both an homage, recreating the main figure of Aristotle with his hand on the bust of a representation of Homer, and a mordant reflection. The trompe l’oeil qualities of paper money in the painting hark back to earlier inflationary economics with the French revolutionary assignats, whose history found renewed interest among those trying to account for German hyperinflation and the Great Depression. Similarly, around Kaye’s edges, the dark intensity of Rembrandt’s background peels away to reveal utilitarian paneling, into which are fixed and interlaced wodges of cash, alongside other symbols of money making. The Heart of the Matter is more than just a wry reflection on the imbrication of art and commerce, or of Rembrandt interpretation—fleeting worldly fame, or lasting reputation. For while its truth seems superficially obvious—that the art world and the art market are inseparable—it is not entirely clear what sort of lesson we are supposed to learn about money. It is on the surface and under it, the base and the superstructure, form and content, style as well as substance. Is it telling us that a society where money is king is one that cannot see the truth of things, or that money, or at least the having of it, is what allows us not to think about it too much?

Although it is largely overlooked, Thomas Hobbes spent the final years of his life translating Homer’s epic poetry. Despite an overwhelmingly popular extant English edition of the Iliad by George Chapman, Hobbes chose to proffer his own account, often taking great liberties with the source material. Juxtaposed against Chapman’s translation, we see that Hobbes implicitly critiques the political philosophy it commends—a philosophy which disrespects kingly power, misunderstands sovereign authority, and abdicates human virtue. Hobbes sees these elements as corrupting the poetic imagination of England, precipitating much of the unrest we see in the seventeenth century. In correcting and reframing these tales for a new world, Hobbes provides a moral scaffolding for his political philosophy through one of the most widely read classical texts of his time.