Just Another Liberalism?

The Enduring Spell of Economic Man: Liberalism's Utopias, Fears, and Crises. Imagine a world where, despite decades of criticism and recurring political upheaval, the pulse of neoliberalism continues to beat beneath our cultural and economic life. The story of neoliberalism is not simply one of policy or politics; it is the latest chapter in a centuries-long saga of liberalism reinventing itself to meet new crises. From the economic turmoil of the 1970s to today's populist surges, what appears as the collapse or transformation of neoliberalism is, in fact, the persistent reworking of liberal values, fears, and hopes. Central to this tale is the figure of “economic man”—the rational, self-interested individual who, according to neoliberal thinking, can be guided, nudged, or manipulated by incentives. This is not a new invention; rather, it is the distillation of older liberal philosophies, where various models of human nature—ranging from the sentimental to the moral—once competed for dominance. What marks our era is the narrowing down to this single, minimalist archetype. Policy debates, whether about welfare reform, family incentives, or industrial strategy, still revolve around the assumption that economic calculation is the primary driver of human behavior. But the roots of this fixation go deeper. French philosopher Michel Foucault, reflecting on the rise of neoliberalism, argued that what truly sets it apart is not its policies, but its anthropology—its vision of who we are. Neoliberalism, he observed, hinges on the belief that governance can and should be secured by aligning incentives with self-interest, moving away from appeals to shared values or grand moral projects. This anthropological stance has been so influential that even those who rail against neoliberalism often propose alternatives that remain within its conceptual bounds. Yet, liberalism is not—at its heart—just a set of economic theories. Foucault suggested that it is an emotional system, defined by a perpetual fear of the expanding state and a utopian longing for spaces of freedom beyond politics. This “fear of governing too much” is not mere paranoia; it is the engine of critique and self-correction, compelling liberals to question, revise, and sometimes radically rethink the role of government. Alongside this fear is a hope: the belief that there are realms of life—family, love, commerce—where freedom can be lived as something natural and unforced. Crucially, these utopias are not distant dreams but everyday realities, enchanted by the liberal imagination as spaces to be protected from the encroachments of politics. The crises of liberalism, then, are not just about economics or policy failures; they are moments when the emotional balance between fear and hope falters, when utopias lose their plausibility or become sites of conflict rather than consensus. Today, critics from both left and right argue that liberalism is exhausted, unable to inspire or protect, yet even their alternatives often rely on the same basic image of human beings as rational calculators. The challenge, as Foucault saw it, is to expand our vision of humanity—to recover the richer moral repertoire that once allowed liberalism to imagine citizens, families, believers, and dreamers, not just economic actors. If liberalism is to survive and renew itself, it must reclaim its capacity for utopian thinking and emotional complexity, moving beyond the thin anthropology of economic man. Otherwise, we risk a future where not only liberalism but our very sense of meaningful selfhood is diminished, leaving us vulnerable to new forms of manipulation and fragmentation. The fate of our politics—and perhaps of our very selves—may hinge on whether we can once again imagine, and strive for, a more capacious vision of what it means to be human.