In 1590, the Spanish port of Seville was the epicenter of the first global economy—a city drowning in silver, haunted by plagues, and inventing the anxieties we now know all too well. Its story is a warning.
Before there was Wall Street, London, or Shanghai, there was Seville. We live today in a world defined by intricate global supply chains, where fortunes are made on the abstract flow of capital and data, and where a single ship stuck in a canal can trigger worldwide anxiety. We know the feeling of living in a hyper-connected age, with all its dizzying wealth and its profound fragility. We talk of unicorn companies, bubbles, and systemic risk, sensing that the towering edifice of our prosperity rests on foundations we don’t fully understand. But what did the very first version of that world feel like, before the risks were modeled and the consequences were known?
To understand the unnerving vertigo of our own time, you have to go back to a muddy river in southern Spain, four centuries ago, when the modern world was being born in a flash of silver and blood. You have to imagine a spring morning in 1590.
At first light, the galleon Nuestra Señora de la Merced drifts slowly up the Guadalquivir River. Its sails, slack after the long Atlantic crossing from Panama, are stained with salt and sea-spray. Its sturdy Iberian oak hull, scarred by shipworms and storms, creaks under the registered weight of 500 tons. On the bustling Arenal waterfront, a dockworker named Mateo shields his eyes against the rising sun. He sees not a symbol of imperial glory, but the promise of a day’s wage, the chance to buy bread for his family at a price that seems to climb higher every month. His ropes are coiled in calloused hands, the air thick around him with the smell of pitch, citrus, and the river’s brackish breath.
Further back, shielded from the morning sun in the arcaded loggias of the Calle de las Gradas, men of a different class watch the same ship with a far more specific terror. A Genoese banker in sober black silk mentally calculates the interest on the massive loan he extended to King Philip II, a loan secured against this very shipment. Beside him, a Castilian merchant, having mortgaged his ancestral lands to finance a speculative cargo of wine and olive oil on the outgoing voyage, feels a tremor of hope and fear. Was the voyage profitable? Did pirates strike? Did the storms claim his fortune?
In a dusty office nearby, a scribe from the Casa de la Contratación—the formidable House of Trade—readies his quills and ledgers. He will spend the day recording every ingot, every barrel, every notarized claim, his neat columns tracking the quinto real, the “royal fifth,” the 20% tax on all precious metals that funds Spain’s sprawling wars in Flanders and the Mediterranean. In this moment, a city of nearly 150,000 souls—the largest and most important in Castile—holds its breath. The Guadalquivir carries not only treasure but the very lifeblood of an empire. And with it, a new kind of global pulse.
For nearly a century, Seville held the absolute monopoly on all trade with the Americas. Granted by the crown in 1503, this privilege meant every ounce of silver from the great mountain-mine of Potosí, every barrel of cochineal dye, every crate of indigo, and every human being—whether a returning colonist, a hopeful migrant, or an enslaved African—was funneled through its port. It was not merely a metropolis; it was a complex, living organism. Its artery was the river; its brain was the bureaucracy of the Casa; its beating heart was the Plaza de San Francisco, where coin, credit, and rumor changed hands with dizzying speed.
The brain of this operation, the Casa de la Contratación, was an institution without precedent. It was a combination of a shipping board, a research institute, and a supreme court for all maritime affairs. Within its walls, master cartographers secretly updated the Padrón Real, the master map of the New World, a document of such immense geopolitical value that its theft would be a blow to the entire empire. Its school for pilots trained men to navigate by the stars to a world that was, to most Europeans, still a realm of myth. The Casa licensed every ship, certified every sailor, and processed every manifest. It was the centralized, bureaucratic engine of the world’s first truly global enterprise.
The lifeblood of the system was the annual treasure fleet, the Flota de Indias. This convoy system, a necessity born from the existential threat of French and English privateers, was a marvel of logistics. Sailing in two main branches—one to Mexico, the other to Panama to collect the silver of Peru—the fleets were floating cities, military and commercial operations of immense scale. Their return, usually in late spring, was the moment the imperial heart beat loudest. The sheer volume of wealth was staggering. According to the foundational economic data compiled by Earl J. Hamilton, in the two decades from 1581 to 1600, over 52 million pesos in silver and gold were officially registered passing through Seville. The clang of heavy presses striking that silver into the iconic reales de a ocho, or pieces of eight—the world’s first global currency—echoed from the Royal Mint near the river.
This deluge of wealth transformed the city. To manage the booming trade, construction had begun in 1584 on a grand new merchant exchange, the Casa Lonja de Mercaderes. Designed by Juan de Herrera, the architect of the king’s austere Escorial palace, its monumental Renaissance style was a physical manifestation of Seville’s self-image: ordered, powerful, and the nerve center of a global Christian empire. The great Gothic Cathedral, already one of the largest in Christendom, glittered with new silver candlesticks and gold-leafed altarpieces forged from American bullion. The city attracted a complex web of foreign merchants and bankers who operated in a state of symbiotic tension with the Spanish crown. As historian Eberhard Crailsheim explains, foreign merchants were “indispensable for the functioning of the Spanish monopoly system, while at the same time they were its greatest threat.” They provided the credit and financial instruments the empire desperately needed, ensuring that American silver circulated rapidly into the European economy to pay the crown’s debts, often before it had even been unloaded at the Arenal.
But this firehose of silver was never pure. The same river that delivered the bullion also carried plague, contraband, and devastating floodwaters. That river of wealth was also a river of poison.
The most visceral fear was disease. Each arriving fleet was a potential vector for an epidemic. Ships from the Caribbean, their crews weakened by months at sea and ravaged by scurvy, disgorged sailors carrying typhus, smallpox, and what was then called vómito negro (yellow fever) into the densely packed, unsanitary tenements of the Triana neighborhood across the river. An outbreak meant sudden, terrifying death. It meant closed gates, armed guards preventing travel, and the dreaded chalk mark on the door of an infected house. While the truly catastrophic Great Castilian Plague of 1596–1601, which would kill a quarter of the city’s population, was still a few years away, smaller outbreaks kept the city in a perpetual state of anxiety.
Economic contagion was just as insidious. The endless flood of American silver triggered a century-long inflationary crisis known as the Price Revolution. As the money supply swelled, the value of each coin fell, and the price of everything—from bread and wine to cloth and rent—skyrocketed. A blacksmith or farmer in the Castilian countryside found himself poorer each year, his labor worth less and less. The very treasure that enriched the king and a small class of merchants was simultaneously impoverishing the kingdom. This paradox revealed the empire’s core fragility: it was living on credit, perpetually on the verge of bankruptcy (which it would declare again in 1596), its vast military and political ambitions financed by treasure it had not yet received.
Illicit trade pulsed through the artery with the same rhythm as legal commerce. Silver was smuggled to avoid the quinto real, often with the collusion of the very officials meant to prevent it. Forbidden books—Protestant tracts from Northern Europe or scientific texts deemed heretical—were hidden in barrels and circulated in the city’s more than one hundred taverns. And in the shadows of the Cathedral, a teeming underworld flourished. This was the world Miguel de Cervantes knew intimately. In the late 1580s, he served in Seville as a naval commissary, requisitioning wheat and olive oil for the navy—a frustrating job that landed him in jail and exposed him to the city’s seedy underbelly. His experience shaped his picaresque tale Rinconete y Cortadillo, a brilliant portrait of a city of hustlers, thieves, and corrupt officials who had created a perfect, parasitic society in the shadow of imperial wealth.
The Guadalquivir itself, the source of all this prosperity, was turning against the city. Centuries of deforestation and agricultural runoff were causing the river channel to silt up, creating treacherous sandbars near its mouth. As modern hydrological studies confirm, the late sixteenth century was a period of extreme environmental change in the estuary. At the time, the city’s frequent, devastating floods were interpreted as divine punishment for its sins of greed and luxury. In reality, it was a slow, man-made thrombosis. The great artery was hardening.
In a city defined by such spectacular contradictions—unimaginable wealth and desperate poverty, global connection and epidemic disease, rigid piety and rampant crime—life was lived on a knife’s edge. To manage these profound anxieties, Seville transformed itself into a grand stage, and the river became the backdrop for its most important dramas of power, faith, and identity.
The sensory experience of the port was an unforgettable piece of theater. Chroniclers describe the overwhelming smells of spices and sewage, the cacophony of ships’ bells and construction cranes, and the shouts of sailors in a dozen languages. Enslaved West Africans loaded and unloaded cargo in the grueling sun, their forced labor the invisible foundation of the entire enterprise. Moorish artisans crafted vibrant ceramics in Triana, while Flemish merchants in lace collars inspected textiles near the Casa Lonja. It was a microcosm of a new, globalized world, assembled by force and commerce on the banks of a single river.
To contain the social and spiritual anxieties this world produced, the city deployed the power of art and ritual. Painters of the emerging Seville School, like Francisco Pacheco, experimented with dramatic chiaroscuro, their canvases echoing the city’s tension between divine order and worldly excess. The church, enriched beyond measure by the tithes on American silver, became the primary patron of this art. As historian Amanda Wunder argues in her book Baroque Seville, these spectacular displays were essential civic mechanisms. The city, she writes, sought to “transmute the New World’s silver into a spiritual treasure that could be stored up in heaven” as a defense against the very instability that wealth created.
Nowhere was this clearer than during the feast of Corpus Christi, the city’s most important celebration. The streets were covered in flowers. The great guilds marched with their banners. And at the heart of the procession was the custodia, an immense, fortress-like monstrance of solid silver, paraded through the city as a tangible symbol of God’s presence. This was not mere decoration; it was a carefully choreographed piece of public therapy. It took the source of the city’s anxiety—silver—and transformed it into an object of sacred devotion, reassuring the populace that their chaotic world was still under divine control. In this baroque theater, as the eminent historian Antonio Domínguez Ortiz noted, Seville’s greatness was inseparable from its “spectacular fragility.”
Overseeing this entire performance was the Holy Office of the Inquisition, its headquarters looming in the castle of Triana. The Inquisition was not just hunting heretics; it was policing the boundaries of thought and expression in a dangerously cosmopolitan city. Its public trials, the autos-da-fé, were another, darker form of theater, designed to root out dissent and reinforce social order. Its presence created a climate of suspicion that simmered beneath the city’s vibrant surface.
The year 1590 was, in retrospect, a historical precipice. To a contemporary observer standing on the Triana bridge, watching the forest of masts on the river, Seville must have seemed invincible, the permanent heart of a permanent empire. The monumental walls of the Casa Lonja were rising, the mint’s hammers clanged incessantly, and the Cathedral shone with American treasure.
Yet within its very triumph lay the seeds of its decay. The shocking defeat of the Spanish Armada just two years prior had been a blow to both the treasury and the national psyche. The bankruptcy of 1596 loomed. The river’s sedimentation was worsening, a physical reality that would, over the next few decades, slowly choke the port and eventually divert the monopoly of trade to Cádiz. The great artery was silting, even as its pulse quickened.
Still, to walk the riverbank in 1590 was to witness the apex. Children stared at ships vanishing over the horizon toward a nearly mythical world; merchants prayed over contracts sealed with a handshake; artisans fashioned silver into monstrances of breathtaking complexity. The Guadalquivir carried all these flows—material, sensory, and symbolic. Its pulse was not merely economic; it was emotional, theological, and aesthetic. A popular epithet of the time called Seville “the city where the world’s heart beats.” In 1590, that heartbeat was fevered, irregular, and already trembling with overexertion—but it was magnificent.
At dusk, as the river darkened to ink, the silver locked away in the city’s coffers seemed to gleam like a heart beating too fast, too bright, and far too fragile to last. In that shimmer lay the paradox of Seville: a city at once glorious and doomed, sustained and threatened by the very waters that had forged its destiny. It’s a paradox baked into the very nature of globalization—a fevered heartbeat we can still hear in the rhythm of our own world.
We argue over thin crust versus deep-dish, debate the merits of a New York slice versus a Detroit square, and even defend our favorite topping combinations. Pizza is more than just a meal; it’s a cultural cornerstone of American life. Yet, behind this simple, beloved food lies a vast and powerful economic engine—an industry generating tens of billions of dollars annually. This essay explores the dual nature of America’s pizza landscape, a world where tech-driven corporate giants and passionate independent artisans coexist. We will dive into the macroeconomic trends that fuel its growth, the fine-grained struggles of small business owners, and the cultural diversity that makes pizza a definitive pillar of the American culinary experience.
Craft, Community, and the Independent Spirit
The true heart of the pizza industry lies in the human element, particularly within the world of independent pizzerias. While national chains like Domino’s and Pizza Hut rely on standardized processes and massive marketing budgets, local shops thrive on the passion of their owners, the skill of their pizzaiolos, and their deep connection to the community. This dedication to craft is a defining characteristic. For many, like the co-founders of New York City’s Zeno’s Pizza, making pizza is not just a business; it’s a craft rooted in family tradition and personal expertise. This meticulous attention to detail, from sourcing high-quality ingredients to the 48-hour fermentation of their dough, translates directly into a superior and unique product that fosters a fiercely loyal local following.
Running an independent pizzeria is an exercise in juggling passion with the practicalities of business. Owners must navigate the complexities of staffing, operations, and the ever-present pressure of online reviews. One successful owner shared his philosophy on building a strong team: instead of hiring many part-time employees, he created a smaller, dedicated crew with more hours and responsibility. This approach made employees feel more “vested” in the company, leading to higher morale, a greater sense of ownership, and significantly lower turnover in an industry notorious for its transient workforce. Another owner emphasized efficiency through cross-training, teaching every staff member to perform multiple roles from the kitchen to the front counter. This not only ensured smooth operations during peak hours but also empowered employees with new skills, making them more valuable assets to the business.
Customer relationships are equally crucial for independent shops. Instead of fearing negative online feedback, many owners see it as a direct line of communication with their customer base. A common practice is for an owner to insist that customers with a bad experience contact him directly, offering to “make it right” with a new order or a refund. This personal touch builds trust and often turns a negative situation into a positive one, demonstrating how successful independent pizzerias become true community hubs, built on a foundation of trust and personal connection. These businesses are more than just restaurants; they are local institutions that sponsor Little League teams, host fundraisers, and serve as gathering places that strengthen the fabric of their neighborhoods.
Macroeconomic Trends and Profitability
The macroeconomic picture of the pizza industry tells a story of immense scale and consistent growth. The U.S. pizza market alone generates over $46.9 billion in annual sales and is supported by a vast network of more than 75,000 pizzerias. To put that into perspective, the American pizza market is larger than the entire GDP of some small countries. This financial robustness isn’t just impressive on its own; it gains perspective when you realize that pizza holds its own against other major food categories like burgers and sandwiches, often dominating the quick-service restaurant sector. This success is underpinned by a powerful and reliable engine: constant consumer demand.
The U.S. pizza market alone generates over $46.9 billion in annual sales and is supported by a vast network of more than 75,000 pizzerias. — PMQ Pizza Magazine, “Pizza Power Report 2024”
A staggering 13% of Americans eat pizza on any given day, and a significant portion of the population enjoys it at least once a week. This high-frequency demand is driven by a broad and loyal consumer base that spans all demographics, but is particularly strong among younger consumers. For Gen Z and Millennials, pizza’s customizability, shareability, and convenience make it a perfect choice for nearly any occasion, from a quick solo lunch to a communal dinner with friends. The rise of digital ordering platforms and the optimization of delivery logistics have only amplified this demand, making it easier than ever for consumers to satisfy their craving.
The economic viability of a pizzeria is built on a simple yet powerful formula: inherent profitability. The cost of goods sold (COGS) for a pizza is remarkably low compared to many other dishes. The core ingredients—flour, tomatoes, and cheese—are relatively inexpensive commodities. While the quality of these ingredients can vary, the basic ratio of cost to sale price remains highly favorable. This low cost allows operators to achieve high profit margins, even at competitive price points. This profitability is further enhanced by pizza’s versatility. Operators can easily create a vast menu of specialty and premium pies by adding a variety of toppings, from artisanal meats and cheeses to fresh vegetables, all of which can be sold at a higher margin. This flexibility is a key reason why pizzerias are often cited as one of the most profitable types of restaurants to operate, providing a solid foundation for both national chains and independent startups.
Chains vs. Independents and Regional Identity
The enduring appeal of pizza in America is largely due to its remarkable diversity. The concept of “pizza” is not monolithic; it encompasses a wide array of regional styles, each with its own loyal following and distinct characteristics. The great pizza debate often revolves around the choice between thick and thin crusts, from the foldable, iconic New York-style slice to the hearty, inverted layers of a Chicago deep-dish. Other popular styles include the cracker-thin St. Louis-style, known for its Provel cheese blend, and the thick, crispy-edged Detroit-style, which has seen a recent surge in popularity. Each style represents a unique chapter in American food history and reflects the local culture from which it was born.
This diversity is reflected in the market dynamics, characterized by a fascinating duality: the coexistence of powerful national chains and a dense network of independent pizzerias. Dominant chains like Domino’s, with over 7,000 U.S. locations and $9 billion in annual sales, and Pizza Hut, with more than 6,700 locations and $5.6 billion in sales, leverage economies of scale and sophisticated technology to dominate the market. Their success is built on brand recognition, supply chain efficiency, and a focus on seamless digital innovation and rapid delivery.
In contrast, independents thrive by leaning into their unique identity, focusing on high-quality ingredients, traditional techniques, and a strong connection to their local communities. This dynamic is particularly evident in cities with rich pizza histories. In New York, the independent scene is a constellation of legendary establishments, from the historical Lombardi’s in Little Italy—often credited as America’s first pizzeria—to modern classics like Joe’s Pizza in Greenwich Village and L&B Spumoni Gardens in Brooklyn. These shops are not just restaurants; they are destinations. Chicago’s famous deep-dish culture is built on a foundation of iconic independent pizzerias like Lou Malnati’s and Giordano’s, which have since grown into regional chains but maintain a local identity forged by decades of tradition. Similarly, Detroit’s burgeoning pizza scene is defined by beloved institutions such as Buddy’s Pizza and Loui’s Pizza, which were instrumental in popularizing the city’s unique rectangular, thick-crust style. These places represent the soul of their cities, each telling a unique story through their distinctive pies.
The Fine-Grained Economics of a New York Slice
While the national picture is one of robust growth, the hyper-local reality, especially in a city like New York, is a constant battle for survival. As the owners of Zeno’s Pizza shared on the Bloomberg “Odd Lots” podcast, they saw an opportunity to open their new shop in a “pizza desert” in Midtown East after the pandemic forced many established places to close. They recognized that while the East Village is a “knife fight” of competition with pizzerias on every block, their location was a green space for a new business. This kind of strategic thinking is essential for anyone trying to enter the market.
The initial capital investment for a new pizzeria is a daunting obstacle. As discussed on the podcast, the Zeno’s team noted that a 1,000-square-foot quick-serve restaurant requires a minimum of $400,000, and more likely $500,000 to $600,000, in working capital before the doors can even open. Much of this goes to costly, specialized equipment: a single pizza oven can cost anywhere from $32,000 and is now up to $45,000, and a commercial cheese shredder can run $5,000. Beyond the equipment, the build-out costs are substantial, including commercial-grade plumbing, electrical work, specialized ventilation systems, and a multitude of city permits. These expenses, along with supply chain issues that led to back-ordered equipment and construction delays, mean the payback period for a restaurant has stretched from a pre-COVID average of 18 months to a new normal of three years.
The historic rule of thumb for a pizzeria’s cost structure was a balanced 30/30/30/10 split—30% for fixed costs (rent, utilities), 30% for labor, 30% for food costs, and a 10% profit margin. Today, that model has been shattered. — Bloomberg’s ‘Odd Lots’ podcast
Pizza’s profitability, while historically strong, is also under immense pressure. The historic rule of thumb for a pizzeria’s cost structure was a balanced 30/30/30/10 split—30% for fixed costs (rent, utilities), 30% for labor, 30% for food costs, and a 10% profit margin. Today, that model has been shattered. Labor costs, for example, have ballooned to 45% of a restaurant’s budget due to rising minimum wages and a tight labor market, while insurance premiums have climbed by 20-30%. This leaves very little room for a profit margin, forcing owners to find creative solutions to survive.
To counter these rising costs, pizzerias are being forced to innovate their business models. The Zeno’s co-founders noted that they are now pushing their prices higher to a premium product segment, relying on fresh, high-quality ingredients and a meticulous process like a 48-hour dough fermentation that makes the pizza healthier and less heavy. This strategy allows them to justify a higher price point to a discerning customer base. They also actively seek new sales by cold-calling companies for catering orders, a crucial part of their business that offers a higher ticket price and a predictable revenue stream.
The increasing use of third-party delivery services adds another layer of complexity to the financial landscape. While these platforms offer a wider reach, they take a significant cut, often charging up to 20%, plus additional fees for delivery. To make this work, pizzerias are forced to list prices on these platforms that are 15% higher than their in-house menu. The owners noted that the post-pandemic cap on these fees is expiring, which will place even more pressure on an already-tight profit margin. The decision to partner with these services becomes a difficult trade-off between increased exposure and reduced profitability.
Conclusion: A Lasting Legacy for America’s Favorite Food
The story of pizza in America is a compelling narrative of resilience, innovation, and cultural integration. It is a tale of a massive, multi-billion-dollar industry that thrives on both the hyper-efficient, tech-driven operations of its largest chains and the passion-fueled, community-centric efforts of its independent artisans.
Will this obsession last? All evidence points to a resounding yes. Pizza is not a fleeting trend; it is a fundamental part of the American diet and cultural landscape. Its unique ability to be a family meal, a late-night snack, a celebratory dish, and an affordable comfort food ensures its enduring relevance. The industry’s financial robustness, driven by constant consumer demand and inherent profitability, provides a sturdy foundation for its future.
So, how will the pizza category keep reinvigorating itself? By continually adapting and reflecting the evolving tastes of the public. This reinvigoration will come from multiple fronts:
Regional Innovation: The discovery and popularization of new regional styles, like the recent surge in Detroit-style pizza, will continue to capture the public’s imagination.
Creative Toppings: As palates become more sophisticated, chefs will experiment with bolder, more diverse ingredients, pushing the boundaries of what a “pizza” can be.
Technological Integration: The adoption of cutting-edge technology will continue to streamline operations, enhance delivery logistics, and provide new, seamless ordering experiences.
The Artisanal Revival: The push for high-quality, artisanal products and a return to traditional techniques by independent pizzerias will offer a crucial counterpoint to the efficiency of the national chains, ensuring that pizza remains a craft as well as a commodity.
The challenges of rising costs and competitive pressures are real, but the industry has proven its ability to adapt and thrive. The story of pizza in America reminds us that a business can still thrive on a foundation of passion and community. It’s a timeless testament to the power of a simple, delicious idea—one that will continue to unite and divide us, slice by delicious slice.
One finds oneself, much like a seasoned playgoer observing a particularly convoluted modern drama, grappling with the profound complexities of our age. The curtain, it seems, has risen on “Trump 2.0,” a performance so bewildering in its contradictions that even the most astute critics of human folly might pause for breath. This curious administration simultaneously seeks to disentangle itself from global commitments while igniting fresh international disputes; it endeavours to depreciate the dollar to boost exports whilst clinging to its status as the world’s reserve currency; and it champions a reduction in global economic reliance while striving to unilaterally dictate global economic terms. The American colossus, one might observe, appears caught in a most perplexing dance with its own identity, and the global audience watches, utterly transfixed.
It is into this very contemporary conundrum that Quinn Slobodian, a historian of capitalism whose intellectual acuity is as sharp as a well-honed epigram, strides with his latest volume: Hayek’s Bastards: Race, Gold, IQ, and the Capitalism of the Far Right (Princeton University Press, 2025). This title, one must concede, possesses a certain Wildean flourish, hinting at the delightful audacity within its pages. Slobodian, with the keen eye of a diagnostician, posits that the apparent contradiction of the Far Right simultaneously embracing pro-market liberalism and social hierarchies – facilitating the free movement of capital but not of people – is, in fact, no contradiction at all. He argues that neoliberalism has always possessed the intellectual elasticity to accommodate such a narrative.
The Unruly Offspring of Thought: “Bastards” and “Volk Capital”
Slobodian’s current work builds upon his earlier seminal analyses in Globalists: The End of Empire and the Birth of Neoliberalism (Harvard University Press, 2018) and Crack-up Capitalism: Market Radicals and the Dream of a World Without Democracy (Metropolitan, 2023). However, Hayek’s Bastards shifts its chronological focus decisively to the 1990s, illuminating this pivotal decade through the lens of figures not previously central to his explorations. If Globalists dissected the intellectual elite of the Mont Pèlerin Society, and Crack-Up Capitalism examined market radicals within the broader globalisation context, this new work turns its penetrating gaze to paleo-libertarianism. This intriguing ideological fusion, combining libertarian disdain for global governance with paleo-conservative traditionalism and isolationism (a distinct contrast to the more recent neoconservative branch of the Republican Party), forms the crux of Slobodian’s argument.
At the heart of Slobodian’s contention lies a startling conclusion: the rise of the Far Right is an acceleration, not a rejection of capitalism; a frontlash, not a backlash. He meticulously demonstrates how right-wing libertarians of the 1990s, through their convergence with paleoconservatives and their burgeoning interest in biology, IQ, and gold, inadvertently laid the intellectual foundations for our present reality.
In a recent conversation with Asensio Robles of Comillas Pontifical University, Slobodian elucidated the two primary concepts underpinning his book. The notion of “bastards,” he explains, serves as a vivid metaphor for the generations of intellectual influence, where adherents, though inspired by mentors, may diverge significantly from the original spirit and content of their masters’ work. In the case of Friedrich Hayek, Slobodian points to those who, in their pursuit of his scientific and complexity-focused ideas, veered into domains such as scientific racism or the belief in human nature as an absolute organizing principle. These, Slobodian asserts, represent the “illegitimate” heirs who strayed far enough to betray Hayek’s fundamental principles.
Friedrich Hayek, a Nobel laureate in Economics (1974) and a leading figure of the Austrian School of economics, is perhaps best known for his fervent defense of free-market capitalism and his critiques of central planning, notably articulated in his seminal 1944 work, The Road to Serfdom. Hayek argued that economic coordination arises not from central design, but from a “spontaneous order” – the result of millions of individuals making decisions based on dispersed, localized knowledge communicated primarily through the price system. He believed that any attempt by the state to centrally plan the economy would inevitably lead to a loss of individual liberty and, ultimately, totalitarianism, because such planners could never possess the vast, tacit knowledge embedded within a decentralized market.
The second crucial concept is “Volk capital.” Slobodian critiques the common, overly generalized understanding of neoliberalism as simply advocating for the commodification of all things and the reduction of all humans to an interchangeable substance. By adopting a narrower, more historically precise definition, focusing on a discrete group of thinkers (including those within the Mont Pèlerin Society, which Hayek co-founded in 1947), he reveals a significant inflection point in the 1960s and 1970s. This period saw a shift in neoliberal thought towards an emphasis on human difference, rather than equality.
Slobodian argues that the universalizing concept of human capital became “re-grounded” in specific genetic populations or cultural groups. He observes the re-emergence of 19th-century notions of the “Volk”—the idea of an essential character of a kinship group—fused with economic categories. This, he contends, transforms “human capital” into “Volk capital,” demonstrating how an ideology often associated with abstract market principles could regress to antiquated distinctions. For instance, by the 1980s, Hayek himself, often considered a progenitor of neoliberalism, suggested a unique quality of the Western world in producing an “optimal economic actor.”
A “Frontlash” Unveiled: Beyond the “Left-Behinds” Narrative
Slobodian further clarifies the genesis of these two books, revealing they were initially conceived as a single grand volume. The political shocks of 2016-2017 – the election of Donald Trump, the Brexit “Leave” vote, and the rise of parties like Alternative for Germany – prompted his inquiry. He expresses dissatisfaction with mainstream interpretations that viewed these developments as a revolt against neoliberal capitalism by those “left behind” by globalisation. This narrative, he argues, incorrectly positioned figures like Trump and Boris Johnson as unexpected challengers to the neoliberal consensus.
To counter this, Slobodian first introduced the concept of the “zone” in Crack-up Capitalism. This refers to more fluid spaces for investor capital within nations, such as freeports in the United Kingdom or the proliferation of Special Economic Zones in countries like China and India. He notes that in 2017-2018, much of the apparent economic nationalism was, in fact, about creating these spaces for capital mobility. For example, as of 2023, there were over 7,000 Special Economic Zones globally, employing tens of millions of people and contributing significantly to trade and investment, illustrating this practical application of “zones.”
He then sought to integrate the observation that many within the alt-right in 2016 originated from the paleo-libertarian camp. These individuals, skeptical of both global and national governments, sought a fracturing of the state system. The “grand narrative” of bundling these ideas proved “quixotic,” leading to the separate publication of Crack-up Capitalism and Hayek’s Bastards, the latter focusing on the paleo-alliance between dissident right-wing figures and the neoliberal movement.
The Unseen Hand of Difference: Chronology and Community
The chronological alignment between the two books is evident. In Hayek’s Bastards, the post-Cold War period is presented as a moment of reckoning for neoliberals, who questioned whether they had truly “won” or if “state spending and socialism” persisted in new guises, such as environmentalism or feminism. Similarly, in Crack-up Capitalism, the 1990s marked a breakthrough for zones, representing a form of globalisation that fostered “diversities across territory” rather than uniform regulatory spaces. The fundamental thread uniting both narratives, Slobodian suggests, is the “use of difference, politically or economically.” This challenges the widely held assumption that the 1990s and 2000s were periods of increasing uniformity, arguing instead that they were also times when “irreconcilable differences” were intensified and leveraged for new political agendas.
Slobodian also tackles the pervasive assumption that neoliberalism is solely a celebration of individualism. He argues that while individualism is indeed a focus, neoliberals are intensely concerned with the conditions under which it can be realized. When the traditional “republican tradition” – based on an impartial state providing space for individual expression – is discarded, a new framework for community must be forged. This is particularly true for the “subgenre of neoliberal thought” that advocates for the dissolution of the state.
In this context, the necessity arises to constitute communities that can function and allow for individual expression without uniform regulations from a representative state. This leads to an interest in factors like the role of ethnic homogeneity in decreasing transaction costs and fostering trust, thereby allowing communities to self-perpetuate. It also involves examining the importance of the “social contract” as a literal set of terms for participation in smaller communities, and questions of social reproduction – specifically, the necessary gender orders to ensure sufficient population in a “closed-border model of political organization.” This, he notes, is where anarcho-capitalists and conservatives find common ground, the former seeking abstract individual freedom but recognizing the need for parameters, and the latter striving to preserve existing moral and cultural orders.
A striking observation from Slobodian’s research is the neoliberal fear that the Cold War might have been “lost” despite the Soviet Union’s collapse, due to persistent high state spending. The end of the Cold War, Slobodian reveals, raised the possibility of completely dismantling the social state, which in turn brought forth new questions about how a post-redistributive order could be anchored. This, he asserts, directly relates to the current moment in the United States, where campaigns to significantly cut the federal budget, such as proposals to reduce it by one-third (as seen in certain fiscal proposals from conservative groups, often citing a need to return to pre-expansion levels of spending), would necessitate the dismantling of the existing social state. This scenario, he suggests, brings to mind the ominous question posed by Charles Murray regarding the aftermath of the welfare state’s disappearance – whether it would lead to anarchy, organic self-organization, or a segment of the population perishing. The “vexed triumphalism” following the Cold War, Slobodian concludes, thus set the stage for the “apocalyptic forms of politics” now all too familiar.
The Historical Lens: Unveiling Hidden Cleavages
Slobodian highlights the remarkable absence of significant sectarian splits within neoliberalism between the 1940s and 1980s. The clear ideological battle lines drawn between the “free, liberal, capitalist” world and the “planned command economies” of the communist bloc maintained a cohesive front. However, with the abrupt erasure of this divide in the 1990s, two paths emerged: either assume inevitable global convergence and the end of meaningful political divisions, or contend that divisions persisted, merely migrating to previously overlooked domains. The global Right, he observes, opted for the latter.
The 1990s became a period of “restless search for a new enemy” for the Right. This sometimes involved resurrecting older tropes, such as the anti-Semitic portrayal of George Soros as a conspiratorial figure, a narrative prominently used by figures like Viktor Orbán. Neoliberals, too, participated in this search, ultimately identifying their new adversary in the Left’s “march through the institutions” – specifically, movements advocating for gender and racial equality and a “politically correct” discourse. Slobodian emphasizes that this framing of issues like affirmative action and state-led efforts to redress inequality began remarkably early – some 35 years ago. He argues that the Left, too focused on internal critiques of a more mainstream neoliberalism (like that associated with Bill Clinton or Barack Obama), was often “caught off guard” by the “disruptive politics of the last decade,” failing to recognize the emerging “villain” that would ultimately manifest in today’s culture wars.
Slobodian’s methodological approach, as noted by Robles, is characterized by his commitment to “reading against the grain.” He consistently challenges conventional wisdom: if neoliberalism is thought to strive for state dissolution, Globalists shows its reliance on state intervention; if it promotes a borderless society, Crack-up Capitalism highlights its attention to “human separation”; and if the alt-right is seen as a backlash, Hayek’s Bastards frames it as a “frontlash,” an acceleration of the ideology. This “counterintuitive position” is, for Slobodian, a means to explore the profound revelations found within such contradictions. His advice to students – to begin a paper with “We think it’s like this, but it’s actually like that, and I’m going to show you why” – underscores his dedication to empirical evidence and intellectual revision.
He also draws a strong correlation between the 1990s and the 1960s, suggesting that understanding paleo-libertarian interests in hard borders, IQ, and gold necessitates examining earlier debates surrounding the 1965 Immigration Act, 1960s evolutionary psychology, or monetary reform post-Bretton Woods. These two decades, both periods of relative prosperity, represented moments where attempts were made to reconfigure societal settlements. Slobodian contends that the Left’s focus on criticizing a “progressive neoliberalism” (e.g., of the Clinton or Obama era) that paid “lip service” to 1960s social movements while blunting their critical edge meant they were “caught off guard” in 2016. He suggests that identifying what neoliberals “worried about” in a given decade, such as environmental demands disrupting growth models in the 1970s and 1990s, could reveal “vulnerability in the economic system” and “soft spots” for counter-movements to exploit.
Future Horizons: AI, Animals, and the Unseen Hand of Technology
Regarding future inquiries, Robles points to the absence of cryptocurrencies and AI in Hayek’s Bastards. Slobodian confirms these will be explored in his forthcoming book, Muskism, co-authored with Ben Tarnoff, which will delve into AI, effective altruism, and superintelligence. This work is slated for release next year.
However, Slobodian maintains a critical stance on cryptocurrencies, viewing them as “parasitical on a functioning traditional monetary system” and primarily “a hedge-speculative asset” or “plaything for a small number of libertarians and more recently large investors.” He believes his skepticism has been “a wise bet,” as the number of “true believers” in blockchain as a political template remains small, with most investors using crypto like any other growth sector.
Intriguingly, Slobodian’s other new research direction looks not to the digital future, but to a historical “backward” step: the changes in the human sciences in the postwar decades, specifically “How humans became animals at Harvard.” This project will explore the world of figures like Richard Herrnstein (a student of B. F. Skinner) and E. O. Wilson in the 1960s and 1970s, examining how humans were increasingly “analogized to animals.”
In Hayek’s Bastards, Quinn Slobodian has, with surgical precision, woven a compelling and unsettling thread through the tapestry of intellectual history. He compels us to confront the uncomfortable truths about the origins of our present predicament, reminding us that the seemingly spontaneous outbursts of populism are, in fact, the meticulously cultivated fruits of a long and complex intellectual lineage. One leaves his analysis with a renewed sense of vigilance, a heightened awareness of the subtle, often insidious, ways in which ideas, like the most potent of poisons, can mutate and proliferate, shaping our world in ways we are only now beginning to comprehend. Indeed, the stage is set for future acts in this ongoing drama, and one eagerly awaits Slobodian’s next intellectual curtain call.
“The Cynic & The Dandy” is an AI-generated essay series based on a hypothetical collaboration between Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw.
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