24 October, 2026

Stoicism is apparently in fashion. This is not entirely new: the use of some, often misunderstood, Stoic concepts in self-help books seeking legitimacy by referring to a great philosophical tradition has been quite frequent in recent decades. What is new, however, is that reference to Stoicism is becoming relevant in political discourse, especially on the conservative side. Stoicism’s focus on personal responsibility and on the impossibility of changing the world order aligns well with conservative views. In a recent speech at the Economic Club of Canada (February 26, 2026), Pierre Poilievre, the leader of Canada’s Conservative Party, quoted Marcus Aurelius to promote something later described as a “national Stoicism”. The meaning given to this phrase is peculiar: Canada should focus on the issues it can deal with, without worrying about what cannot be changed by Canadian policy. Stoicism, understood as awareness of the extent of one’s ability to control one’s environment, appears as a way of promoting both national energy autonomy and indifference to Trump’s actions. From this point of view, the best Stoic slogan would probably be “Drill, baby, drill”.

Poilievre is of course perfectly free to understand Marcus Aurelius this way (Habent sua fata libelli… [‘books have their own destiny’]). No comprehensive political view survives in the extant texts of the ancient Stoics. Not that they did not write on the topic: Zeno, the founder of the school, wrote a De Republica (On the Commonwealth), which was followed by many writings by Stoics discussing political philosophy. These works, however, are lost, and it may seem that those who now wish to determine how Stoic philosophy might be applied to renewing our understanding of politics are left to their own devices.

They would indeed be in this dire situation if there were not already available attempts to present a coherent view of the Stoic system. Ancient writers such as Diogenes Laertius give us a sketch of the content of Stoic political treatises. However, in this essay, I am interested in the father of the renewal of Stoicism at the end of the sixteenth century: the Flemish philologist and philosopher Justus Lipsius (1547–1606). Lipsius wrote amid the religious struggles of his time. He came from a Catholic background but spent a large part of his life teaching in Leiden, one of the leading Protestant universities, before going back to the Catholic Low Countries.

My goal in this essay is to argue that Poilievre’s interpretation of Stoicism would probably not be fully endorsed by Lipsius. Lipsius provides an alternative political interpretation of Stoicism, which enables this philosophy to address contemporary challenges without making it something for conservatives alone.

Why go back to Lipsius? He is often portrayed as the founder of neo-Stoicism. This descriptioncan be misleading. So described, Lipsius has had, at least since Hegel’s Lectures on the History of Philosophy, the reputation of lacking originality and of being therefore an uninteresting author, who deserves the oblivion into which he has fallen. This view relies on Hegel’s loaded assumptions about the nature of history of philosophy, which he assumed to be in progress in accordance with the Zeitgeist, making it useless to look backwards. This understanding of Lipsius has meant that he is regularly neglected when the history of sixteenth-century philosophy is written. He ends up being considered as deserving study only for his (admittedly considerable) influence on seventeenth-century philosophers: Lipsius maintained a correspondence with pretty much all the elites of all western Europe (the said correspondence contains interesting trivia: the reader may learn for instance how to preserve lemons by burying them under the sand…). After his death, he was still read by influential later philosophers; one of the most famous examples of his influence is Descartes’s metaphor of the tree of philosophy, which closely resembles a metaphor found in Lipsius.

In this essay, however, I am not interested in the reception of Lipsius. There is no reason to remain prisoners of Hegel’s condemnation of those who try to resurrect past philosophies. I believe Justus Lipsius has far more to offer than meets the eye. He cannot be considered a mere imitator. My aim is to show that his ethical and political writings can be fruitful for contemporary readers facing complex political issues. Lipsius’ work could help us challenge Poilievre’s conception of national Stoicism and more broadly the contemporary appropriation of Stoicism by right-wing ideologies. What he provides us is a political philosophy elaborated within a Stoic framework that is quite remote from Poilievre’s national Stoicism, but that affords an interesting way of dealing with the current geopolitical situation.

I focus on Lipsius’ two main works: his De Constantia and his Politicorum libri sex, both available in English. De Constantia was translated into English as early as 1594 by John Stradling. A modernized version of this translation was edited in 2006 by John Sellars. The Politicorum libri sex were also translated as early as in 1594, by William Jones, under the title Sixe Bookes of Politickes or Civil Doctrine. There is also a recent English translation available, in Jan Waszink’s edition (Politica: six books of politics or political instruction, 2004).

The De Constantia is a dialogue aimed at providing a way to attain peace of mind despite the dire situation that the Low Countries were facing at the time. The country had been devastated by civil wars raging since the 1560s and considerably impoverished. The dialogue aims, therefore, to provide a defence of constancy in the face of disasters in the public realm.

It might seem a very unoriginal project. Lipsius foresaw this objection in the preface to the first edition: according to him, the kind of evils that his treatise addresses makes it original compared with the works of consolation written by ancient Stoics. While Seneca calls for constancy against ordeals such as the death of relatives, dedicating a whole treatise to the way we should handle public woes is something new. It makes Lipsius’ general perspective interesting for us, at a time when 24/7 news channels are a source of anxiety.

The core issue of the treatise is determining what one’s relationship should be to the sufferings of one’s country. The dialogue starts with Lipsius trying to flee his country and meeting a friend who reproaches him for that: running away is never a solution as the sufferings that one endures come from one’s lack of wisdom. The wise man understands that the only true evils are those which harm the soul. By considering the way the world is ordered, he sees that all that happens is governed by a superior intelligence. Therefore, the evils that we see should be considered not as evils but as the fruit of necessity. Our ignorance prevents us from seeing how they fit into the world order, but we should nonetheless be confident that they do.

Implicit is an understanding of philosophy as a way of thinking about providence without getting involved in theological discussions. In the preface to the second edition of the work, Lipsius explains this explicitly. He defines himself as a Christian philosopher, but intends by this term to distance himself from theology: as a philosopher, he aims to avoid arguments that require belief in revelation. While he considers his conclusions to be compatible with Christian ethics, the way he reaches them does not make use of revelation. The renewal of Stoic philosophy can therefore be seen as a means of distancing himself from the religious controversies of his time: one can discuss ethics despite religious divides. So, when he speaks of providence, it is from a non-theological perspective. Admittedly, this was already the case in Seneca. However, it is a very conscious move in Lipsius’ work: unlike Seneca, Lipsius lived in a Christian world split in two by religious conflicts. It makes his work appropriate for readers, such as us, who live in pluralistic societies: Lipsius’ understanding of wisdom does not require belonging to a specific religious denomination.

Regarding the way the wise should act, Lipsius’ stance in this book is entirely consistent with the Stoic ideal. Wisdom gives the strength to undertake one’s duty without false hopes. Therefore, the treatise invites us to love, defend and even die for our country, but at the same time forbids tears over its fate: being good citizens does not dispense us from being virtuous men.

In the De Constantia, Lipsius speaks to subjects, not to the prince. Yet, his proposal already provides an answer to some contemporary conservative ideologies. They often rely on a sense of emergency, which Lipsius intends precisely to avert by inviting his readers to a form of indifference. This indifference should not be confused with passivity: the wise man must act according to his duty.

Nonetheless, his attitude may seem open to criticism. Does his insistence on fate, interpreted as divine providence, really lead to an active approach in political matters? And to what end? If my ignorance is such that I am unable to grasp how what I see as evil fits into the world order, my understanding, it seems, will be too limited to be able to determine how I should act politically. If Lipsius’ political view consists in accepting whatever happens to one’s country, then it is perfectly useless, being devoid of any political import. This objection is quite close to a remark that Machiavelli made a few decades earlier, in the Prince. He argued in the opening lines of chapter 25 that belief in fate as governing all human affairs implies a passive attitude in politics; according to him, room must be made for free will.

Lipsius answers this concern in the Politicorum libri sex, which is a work of advice for the prince and his counsellors. What he urges the ruler to do appears completely opposite to what he wrote to subjects in his De Constantia. For he openly invites the prince to act, notwithstanding his defence of providence. There is no contradiction here: the indifference to which he invited the reader in his De Constantia does not preclude action but facilitates it by giving the necessary freedom of mind.

A word of warning is needed before going further: the Politicorum libri sex suffers nowadays from a bad reputation due to passages in which Lipsius violently attacks religious pluralism. Before judging Lipsius on the basis of these passages, one should look at the whole picture. Lipsius was tormented by the fear of the dislocation of the state in civil war, and the goal of the Politicorum libri sex is to provide ways to avoid it. Lipsius’ criticisms of religious pluralism should be understood as stemming from this fear. More fundamentally, the goal of his treatise is to strengthen the state. The treatise relies on a substantive conception of the powers of the prince, who is to be as strong as possible in order to guarantee internal and external peace. In other words, the goal of thetreatise, as shown by its most controverted statements, is to avoid the dire situation with which the De Constantia helped to cope.

The structure of the book demonstrates it clearly. The treatise consists of six books. The first is dedicated to virtue and prudence as the main foundations of civil life. The second examines the nature of principalities. The third examines the prudence that is expected from advisers. The fourth and fifth discuss the prudence of the prince himself: the fourth examines it in civil life, the fifth in military affairs. The treatise ends with a book dedicated to civil wars and how to avoid them. This last book is clear evidence that Lipsius’ goal is to avoid civil war.

A few words on the way the Politicorum libri sex are written may be necessary. Lipsius’ work may at first sight seem very peculiar to contemporary readers because of the way it is written. It belongs to the genre of commonplace-books. In other words, it seems to be nothing more than a patchwork of quotes organized and briefly commented on, Tacitus being the most quoted author. A modern reader might struggle to understand the success of a book whose sole interesting characteristic seems to be the learned virtuosity that it demonstrates.

However, on closer inspection, the originality of his work is more obvious. As Lipsius says in the foreword, at once everything and nothing belongs to him (“omnia nostra esse, et nihil”): he organizes the material in such a way that the positions stated are his own. Nonetheless, the format makes interpretation difficult: his work has been read by some scholars as anti-Machiavellian, by others as Machiavellian in disguise. Some commentators, in particular Jan Waszink, have remarked that Lipsius nowhere defines himself as a Stoic in this work. My purpose here is not to engage in specialist discussions. Lipsius should at any rate be read as post-Machiavellian: he read Machiavelli, who appeared to him important enough to be quoted in his foreword. Furthermore, Seneca is one of the most heavily quoted authors. It is reasonable to read this work as an answer from a Stoic perspective to Machiavelli, and therefore as being in continuity with Lipsius’ previous work. In particular, I believe it not too far-fetched to read Lipsius’ work as an answer, from a Stoic perspective, to Machiavelli’s criticism, outlined above, of a conception of fate that may at first glance seem close to Lipsius’ own view as expressed in the De constantia. Stoicism is not subject to Machiavelli’s criticism of the belief in the omnipotence of fate.

Lipsius’ belief that the ruler has to be strong does not preclude insisting on the need for the ruler to be virtuous. As the title of the first book makes obvious, Lipsius distinguishes two foundations of civil life: virtue and prudence. Prudence, understood as the skill of living (ars vivendi), should go along with goodness.

The reason why prudence is so important is that it provides a flexible tool for helping the prince decide without fixing too precisely how he should act. It is impossible to provide strict rules since how the prince needs to act varies according to circumstances. Therefore, Lipsius does not provide a ready-to-implement roadmap of the policies that a ruler should implement. If he had done so, it is doubtful that his advice would have been directly applicable to our times. The reason why his work is still relevant is precisely that he avoids doing so. What he provides is a general framework for the virtues of the prince.

However, Lipsius’ conception of prudence might seem a clever trick to allow him to dispense with virtue. One of his most controverted theses, both in his time and in our own, is the promotion of what he calls mixed prudence. When addressing the way a prince should deal with neighbouring countries in the fourth book, Lipsius argues that the prince is morally justified in using deceit. The reason that he gives is interesting: it is in the interest of the people that their prince should defend them against enemies. Considering that enemies probably use dishonest methods to reach their ends, the prince has no choice but to act likewise. Lipsius does not allow unlimited freedom in the use of such methods: the prince may only use them as long as his aim is virtuous, and the methods are not too remote from virtue. The examples that he gives can help us understand what he means: he claims that while the prince has to use ‘small deceptions’ such as dissimulation, perfidy (understood in its etymological sense, that is the betrayal of trust) can never be allowed. Politics can therefore allow, within certain boundaries, the use of what he calls an honesta fraus (honourable ruse). These boundaries are strict enough for Lipsius to be no Machiavelli: the prince has to be virtuous and can only engage in ruses as long as they are directed towards a virtuous end.

It is clear that Lipsius would advise passivity neither in internal nor in external affairs. He would advise engaging in international politics in order to be able to resist dangerous neighbours. The goal that he attributes to political action in these contexts is to be able to govern one’s country peacefully, not to conquer. Nonetheless, this requires actively studying foreign countries. What is striking is that, far from thinking that we should treat foreign affairs as something that we cannot do anything about, Lipsius invites the ruler to be active even at the limits of morality.

In conclusion, while it is difficult to guess exactly what Lipsius’ answer to Poilievre would have been, it is clear that he would have rejected any political stance fed by anxiety and a sense of emergency: his De Constantia invites us to placidness. Moreover, it is at the very least doubtful that he would have granted that the fact that one does not have power on outside events should lead to a retreat to internal policies. While he would certainly not have rejected policies aiming to strengthen the state, he would probably not have considered Poilievre’s stance an adequate way to achieve this goal.

Wakil Belhaddad is a doctoral researcher at the Université catholique de Louvain and the École normale supérieure de Lyon. His research focuses on the history of political philosophy in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, especially Suárez’s views about the limits that ought to be placed on the ruler’s power and the reception of those views.