The Palantir "Manifesto".

“The psychologisation of modern politics is leading us astray. Those who look to the political arena to nourish their soul and their sense of self, who rely too heavily on their inner life finding expression in people they may never meet, will be disappointed.”

It is not as mysterious as it sounds, once you strip away the somewhat oracular tone.

When they speak of the “psychologization of politics”, they are criticizing a fairly evident tendency: the one whereby politics ceases to be a tool for organizing society and instead becomes an extension of people’s inner lives. That is, a place where one seeks identity, recognition, moral meaning, even a kind of personal salvation.

Translated: instead of asking “does this policy work?”, one asks “does this policy represent me emotionally?”, “does it make me feel I am on the right side?”, “does it say something about who I am?”. It is a shift from politics as action to politics as a psychological mirror.

When they then add that those who use politics to “nourish their soul and their sense of self” will be disappointed, they are making a rather cynical but straightforward point: politicians are not there to complete you as an individual. They are distant figures, whom you will never meet, operating within a system of compromises, interests, and constraints. If you expect them to embody your identity or resolve your need for personal meaning, you will inevitably end up frustrated.

In essence, the message is: stop using politics as therapy or as a secular religion. It should return to being a tool—imperfect and often messy—for managing power and making collective decisions.

It is not a particularly new position, but it is consistent with the rest of the manifesto: less abstract moralism, less self-narration, more concrete results. Whether they are actually capable of achieving that is another matter.

I do not quite see why this should be a corporate concern, but we remain within the realm of entirely legitimate political opinions, not necessarily malign ones.

“Our society has become too eager to hasten, and often even to celebrate, the downfall of its enemies. The defeat of an opponent is a moment to pause, not to rejoice.”

This is phrased in a somewhat pompous way to express, in my view, something rather simple.

They are criticizing the dynamic whereby, in politics and public debate, it is no longer enough to defeat an opponent; instead, there is an active effort to pursue their complete destruction—reputational, social, professional—and, once achieved, to take satisfaction in it.

When they say that “society has become too eager to hasten the downfall of its enemies”, they are referring precisely to this: the rush to “take someone out”, even over minor faults, without any sense of proportion or distance.

And the second part clarifies the point: “the defeat of an opponent is a moment to pause, not to rejoice”. That is, victory should lead to restraint—to stopping, reflecting, consolidating, perhaps even avoiding unnecessary escalation—not to celebrating as though it were an act of vengeance fulfilled.

The subtext, quite evidently, is a critique of the culture of total demolition of one’s opponent—the kind that today manifests itself through call-outs, public shaming, symbolic erasure—and an invitation to a cooler, less emotional, more… strategic approach, if you will.

It is not particularly original, but it is consistent with the rest: less moral theatrics, less permanent psychological warfare, more control and less hysteria. That it should be said by those who sell software for security and defence systems is, at the very least, ironic.

“The atomic age is ending. An era of deterrence—the atomic age—is coming to an end, and a new era of deterrence built on AI is about to begin.”

Hmm… here the hand is a little heavy.

When they say that “the atomic age is ending” and will be replaced by a form of deterrence based on AI, they are clearly pushing the argument further than necessary. It is a typical rhetorical move: in order to give centrality to what you sell, you have to declare that what came before is now obsolete.

But if we take it seriously, the claim begins to creak. The nuclear age is not ending at all: atomic weapons remain the ultimate foundation of deterrence among great powers, and no one—not even remotely—has found a substitute capable of guaranteeing the same level of “balance of terror”. The fact that new technologies exist does not eliminate the previous ones; it layers over them.

What is more realistic is this: a new level is being added. AI enters deterrence as a multiplier—intelligence, targeting, cyber warfare, decision automation—but it does not replace nuclear capability. It complements it.

So yes, they are somewhat overestimating themselves, or at the very least selling a narrative in which their domain becomes the new center of the strategic world. Which is understandable: it is marketing, more than analysis.

That said, the point is not entirely unfounded. AI is indeed changing the way power is exercised, especially in non-nuclear domains. But to say that it will replace the atomic age is, for now, more ambition than reality.

“No other country in the history of the world has advanced progressive values more than this one. The United States is far from perfect. But it is easy to forget how many more opportunities exist in this country for those who do not belong to hereditary elites compared to any other nation on the planet.”

Hmm… put like that, it does raise a slight smile, especially because of the absolute tone.

“No other country in the history of the world…” is already, in itself, a rhetorical exaggeration: when you begin like that, you are engaging more in propaganda than in analysis. It is a sentence designed to reinforce an identity, not to withstand serious historical comparison.

And yet, if you break it down, the core of the argument is less unfounded than it may appear. The United States has indeed had—particularly in certain periods—a remarkable capacity to offer social mobility and opportunities to people who did not come from hereditary elites, far more than in rigidly stratified European systems or in societies with formal or informal caste structures.

The problem is that they are conflating two distinct things: on the one hand “progressive values”, and on the other social mobility and access to opportunity. They are not the same, and historically they have not always gone hand in hand. Moreover, they are implicitly taking the most favorable moment and generalizing it, while ignoring the periods in which that promise was far more limited or contradictory—slavery being the most obvious example.

So yes: as a sentence, it is inflated, self-congratulatory, and somewhat textbook. But it is not entirely empty. It is a very optimistic—and selective—version of a real dynamic.

In other words: more slogan than falsehood, but a slogan nonetheless.

“American power has made possible an extraordinarily long peace. Too many have forgotten, or perhaps take for granted, that nearly a century of some version of peace has prevailed in the world without a military conflict between great powers. At least three generations—billions of people and their children and now grandchildren—have never known a world war.”

If we translate this into an American key, the message becomes more or less this: the power of the United States—military, economic, technological—has guaranteed a global order which, for all its flaws, has prevented wars between great powers for decades. And therefore, implicitly, the actions required to maintain that power (even when questionable) are justified by the final outcome: a long phase of relative peace on a global scale.

It is a form of ex post justification: the argument is not “we do questionable things because we can”, but rather “we have done them, and look at the result”. Which is a more elegant version, but still the same underlying logic.

Naturally, this reading has at least two obvious weaknesses. The first is that this “peace” has not been universal at all: it has been a peace among great powers, while local conflicts, proxy wars, and widespread instability have never been absent. The second is that attributing the merit almost exclusively to a single actor is a rather convenient simplification. Not even the USSR, after all, ever initiated a nuclear war.

That said, as a rhetorical argument it works: it takes a real fact—the absence of world wars over a long period—and uses it to construct a broader justification of the system that produced it.

So yes: it is not stated explicitly, but the structure is clearly that of “the end justifies the means”, only with a more refined narrative polish.

Nothing new.

“The postwar castration of Germany and Japan must be undone. Stripping Germany of its teeth was an over-correction for which Europe is now paying a high price. A similar and highly theatrical commitment to Japanese pacifism, if maintained, will also threaten to shift the balance of power in Asia.”

Yes, here it is quite clear that they are not merely philosophizing: they are engaging in geopolitics, and in a very concrete way.

Translated into less theatrical terms, the message is this: Germany and Japan are two enormous economic powers which, for historical reasons, have been kept in a limited military position after the Second World War. According to the authors, this arrangement has now become an imbalance, because the world has changed while those constraints have, at least in part, remained.

When they speak of “postwar castration”, they are using deliberately provocative language to say that these countries should return to having a more active military role. Not out of nostalgia for the past, but because—in their view—a stable international system requires more “capable” actors, not fewer.

The point about Europe is fairly clear: a Germany that is economically dominant but militarily restrained creates a structural dependence on others (primarily the United States) for security. And this, in their view, is a problem, because it makes the entire system less resilient.

On Japan, the argument is similar, but with a more evident shadow: the rise of China. If Japan remains bound to a very rigid pacifism, it risks—in their reading—being unable to balance regional dynamics.

Now, beyond the narrative, there is obviously also a more down-to-earth level, which you will already have noticed: more relevant military actors means greater demand for military technology, and therefore a larger market for those, like Palantir Technologies, who sell software for defense and security. This is not necessarily a conspiracy; it is simply an alignment of interests.

But it is not only that. There is also a vision that is fairly consistent with the rest of the manifesto: fewer pacifist illusions, less soft power, more hard power distributed among allies. In other words, a world in which security is not delegated to a single actor, but shared—provided that everyone is strong enough to participate meaningfully.

Whether this is a good idea or not is another matter. But as a position, it is intelligible: fewer postwar taboos, more rearmament among allies, more balance grounded in strength. They certainly did not invent this stance; if anything, it feels rather dated. And once again, I do not smell any brimstone.

“We should applaud those who attempt to build where the market has failed to act. The culture almost snickers at Elon Musk’s interest in grand narratives, as though billionaires ought simply to stay in their lane and grow richer… Any curiosity or genuine interest in the value of what he has created is essentially dismissed, or perhaps concealed beneath barely veiled contempt.”

Here the point is less “mysterious” than it appears, but it is poorly expressed: Musk seems nothing other than a product of the market. It sounds contradictory.

When they speak of “building where the market has failed”, they are not claiming that Elon Musk is not a product of the market. He clearly is. They are saying something else: that, in their view, there are areas in which the market does not invest enough, or does not invest at all, because they are too risky, too long-term, or insufficiently profitable in the short run.

And here they introduce Musk as an example of someone who, having already accumulated capital, sets out to pursue projects that the “normal” market tends to avoid or to fund inadequately: space, infrastructure, electric cars when they were not yet mainstream, and so on. Not because the market does not exist, but because—within their narrative—it does not move sufficiently in those directions on its own.

The second part is more cultural than economic. When they speak of a “snickering culture”, they are criticizing the attitude according to which a billionaire should simply make money in his sector and nothing more, without “presuming” to have a vision, a narrative, or a broader interest in what is being built and why.

In other words, they are saying: when someone attempts to do something that goes beyond immediate economic return—or at least what they perceive as such—he is not taken seriously, or is treated with sarcasm.

Whether this reading is convincing is another matter. One could just as well argue that Musk is not operating “outside the market” at all, but rather exploiting incentives, capital, and market dynamics like anyone else, only on a larger scale. But the meaning of the statement is clear: to praise those who use their capital to push in directions that the market, left to itself, would take more slowly—or not at all.

Here too, I do not detect any brimstone. It may be nonsense, certainly, but nonsense alone is not enough to warrant a pact with the devil.

“Silicon Valley must play a role in addressing violent crime. Many politicians across the United States have essentially shrugged their shoulders when it comes to violent crime, abandoning any serious effort to confront the problem or to take any risk with their voters or donors in proposing solutions and experiments in what ought to be a desperate attempt to save lives.”

Ah yes: here they wade straight into domestic politics, with very little filtering.

Translated without the rhetorical gloss, the message is this: Silicon Valley should stop merely producing apps and start intervening directly in “hard” problems such as violent crime, because—according to them—politics in the United States is not addressing it effectively.

When they accuse politicians of “shrugging their shoulders”, they are saying that the issue is avoided out of convenience: too risky electorally, too divisive, too easy to lose support or donors. Thus, in their view, the political system paralyses itself precisely on the most serious problems.

And here comes the real point: if politics does not act, someone must. And that “someone”, unsurprisingly, ought also to be the technological world.

Which is interesting for two reasons. The first is obvious: it legitimizes the idea that private companies—such as Palantir Technologies—can have a direct role in managing internal security, through predictive analysis, surveillance, data integration, prevention. Not exactly neutral territory.

The second is more subtle: they are redefining the boundary between public and private. No longer “the state manages security, companies sell tools”, but rather “companies actively participate in solving critical social problems”, because the state alone is either insufficient or unwilling.

Whether this is a good thing or a problem depends on how much one trusts that such tools will be used proportionately. But as a line of thought, it is consistent with the rest of the manifesto: less waiting, less endless debate, more concrete intervention—even if the actor doing it is not exactly the one who, in theory, should.

One can certainly see in this an ideal of privatizing or outsourcing public order, and it does not take much to understand which company they believe should take on that role. But again, the brand must prosper. I do not see it as surpassing in malignity a company that, for instance, may not produce weapons but fills your food with sugar and leaves you with a fine case of diabetes.

“The ruthless exposure of the private lives of public figures drives far too much talent away from government service. The public arena—and the shallow and petty assaults against those who dare to do something other than enrich themselves—has become so relentless that the republic is left with a significant roster of empty and ineffective vessels whose ambition might be forgiven if there were an authentic structure of belief lurking within.”

Granted, it is rather baroque, and these are arguments we have been hearing for years.

The first part is straightforward: the ruthless exposure of private life drives capable people away from public service. That is, if every aspect of your life is scrutinised, attacked, and ridiculed, many will simply decide that it is not worth the cost.

The second part raises the tone: the public arena—made up of shallow and petty attacks, especially against those who attempt to do something other than merely enrich themselves—has become so toxic that it produces a selection effect. The best do not arrive; those who can endure that kind of environment do.

And here comes the final thrust: “empty and ineffective vessels”. That is, individuals who may possess ambition, but little substance, little depth, few real ideas. And they add something interesting: that ambition might even be forgivable, if there were a genuine structure of belief behind it, a coherent vision. But often, in their view, there is not even that.

Translated more bluntly: the political-media system discourages competent individuals and selects for mediocre figures—resilient but hollow—better at surviving public shaming than at governing.

It is not a new idea, but it is consistent with the rest of the manifesto: less performative moralism, less personal demolition, more substance. That it should be voiced by those who thrive quite comfortably within rather aggressive power dynamics remains, let us say, ironic.

“The caution in public life that we inadvertently encourage is corrosive. Those who say nothing wrong often say nothing at all.”

They are arguing that the current climate—where every word can be used against you—encourages an overly cautious form of behaviour in public life. And this caution, in their view, is “corrosive” because it empties out the debate: in order to avoid saying anything that might be attacked, many end up saying nothing of any substance.

The second sentence makes the point in stark terms: those who say nothing wrong often say nothing at all. In other words, the absence of mistakes is not a sign of quality, but often of irrelevance.

It is the same line of reasoning as before: an environment that is too punitive selects for figures who minimise risk, not those who take positions. And so you end up with people who pass every filter… but produce nothing of value.

Once again, the target is public puritanism and the culture of immediate punishment, which—in their view—ends up sterilising the ruling class. No scent of brimstone here, and it is not even particularly original; it reads like a “we can’t say anything anymore” elevated into an ideology.

On the limits of free expression, after all, the debate could be long and complex.

“We must resist the empty temptation of a hollow and vacuous pluralism. We, in America and more broadly in the West, over the past half-century have resisted defining national cultures in the name of inclusivity. But inclusion into what?”

It appears entirely consistent with the previous point, only expressed more directly.

When they speak of “hollow and vacuous pluralism”, they are attacking the idea of inclusivity understood as a container without content. That is: including everything and everyone, without clarifying what it is that people are being included into. A form of pluralism that never defines its own boundaries, its values, or its center.

The final question—“inclusion into what?”—is the key point. What they are saying is this: if you do not define a culture, a set of values, a minimum shared identity, then inclusion becomes an empty word. Because you are not including people into something defined, but into an undefined container that shifts constantly.

When they add that, in the West, there has been a reluctance to “define national cultures” in recent decades, they are criticizing precisely this: the attempt to be so inclusive as to avoid stating what one is. And in their view, this produces weakness, confusion, and an inability to cohere.

It is the same pattern as before: a rejection of excess (here, pluralism without substance), and a call for greater definition, even at the cost of excluding something.

Naturally, the problem remains the same: the moment you define what is “inside”, you are automatically deciding what is “outside”. And so one immediately returns to the terrain of political choices—non-neutral, and often highly contentious.

But the meaning of the passage is clear: less abstract inclusivity, more concrete definition of what is being preserved or built.

That’s it? What is there to say—Filippo Tommaso Marinetti at least had style, and when he wrote a manifesto it crackled with energy, whereas here the tone remains surprisingly flat. And I must admit I am almost surprised they did not slip in a reference to feminism somewhere, just to complete the ideological bingo card.

It is slightly better than the book by the Italian general Roberto Vannacci, with his Il mondo al contrario: we are not at the level of “long live pussy and other pearls from the walls of men’s bathrooms”—fortunately—but neither are we at Mein Kampf. Let us say it sits comfortably in the middle, in that grey zone where nothing is really at stake, in either direction.

Taken as a whole, I find it mediocre, predictable, devoid of originality, at times rather whiny. But precisely for that reason, if these are the “values” of Palantir Technologies, I do not see anything particularly malign in them. The military industry has always existed, war has always been a business for someone, and the political ideas that emerge here are, shall we say, dated, banal, and decidedly lacking in innovation.

Honestly, Palantir strikes me as a military company like many others: neither particularly evil nor particularly good. A multinational like so many, seemingly amoral, with political ideas that carry a whiff of anarcho-capitalism and, above all, with very little that is genuinely new to offer.

Perhaps they would have done better to have their manifesto written by an AI.

I am not asking for Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, but one must admit he had far more style.

This, by contrast, is simply dull.