In the political colosseum, Cipolla’s taxonomy collapses neatly into just two specimens: the bandits and the idiots. The rare creatures who genuinely benefit society long ago slunk offstage, unwilling to wallow in the drama, the filth, the perpetual theatre of fraud. The few who stayed found themselves outcompeted—not by merit, but by the sheer gravitational pull of corruption.
The bandits, for all their rapacity, are at least predictable. They worship the golden calf, polish it daily, and would preserve it in formaldehyde if possible. Their plunder has a certain consistency to it—like a parasite that knows not to kill its host too quickly.
The idiots, however, are another matter. They destroy for the sake of destruction, dismantling every structure until nothing remains but dust and the self-satisfaction of ruin. And because the bandits fear losing their thrones, they find themselves aligning—begrudgingly but inevitably—with the idiot mob, sanctioning the slow rot of civil society in exchange for another season in power.So when you look at a politician and wonder, bandit or idiot?—save yourself the trouble. The distinction is academic. One will slit the throat with intent; the other will strangle through incompetence. But the corpse on the floor is the same, and it is ours.