Machiavelli's The Prince: The Little Book That Shook The World

Few books have attracted so much controversy, commentary and debate over the last 500 years than Niccolò Machiavelli's The Prince. Written in the vernacular a few months after he was tortured and exiled from Florence in 1513, it is no more than 70 pages long and was never published in his lifetime. Interestingly, the name was given to the book by the publisher posthumously and was originally entitled De Principatibus (About Principalities). The original manuscript, if not a job application, was certainly an attempt to win favour with the Medici family, whom he was wrongly accused of trying to conspire against.

Frustratingly for Machiavelli, he was at the height of his intellectual powers, having spent the last 14 years as secretary to the Second Chancery. To not be permitted to return to Florence and instead forced to live in a farmhouse and in virtual poverty, must have been anguish for a man with boundless nervous energy. There is no evidence that the Medici even read the work and Machiavelli's disappointment must have turned into bitterness as the initial months in isolation turned into years. His letter to his friend Francesco Vettori of the 10 December 1513 gives us an insight into what an ordinary day in his life would have looked like, a mix of mundane daily activities, boredom and contemplation. It is my favourite letter of the Renaissance and various versions are available online.

"...I am living on my farm...I shall tell you about my life. I get up in the morning with the sun and go into one of my woods that I am having cut down; there I spend a couple of hours inspecting the work of the previous day and kill some time with the woodsmen who always have some dispute on their hands either among themselves or with their neighbours...Upon leaving the woods, I go to a spring; from there, to one of the places where I hang my birdnets. I have a book under my arm: Dante, Petrarch, or one of the minor poets like Tibullus, Ovid, or some such...Then I make my way along the road toward the inn, I chat with passersby, I ask news of their regions, I learn about various matters, I observe mankind: the variety of its tastes, the diversity of its fancies. By then it is time to eat; with my household I eat what food this poor farm and my minuscule patrimony yield. When I have finished eating, I return to the inn, where there usually are the innkeeper, a butcher, a miller, and a couple of kilnworkers. I slum around with them for the rest of the day...