Candide, or Optimism
By Voltaire
Initial Thoughts
This book was hilarious—a total romp, and a fun way to mock Leibniz’s theodicy. It only took a couple of days for me to read because not only is it quite short, but the chapters are lean with little fat left on them.
The line that keeps popping up in my head is that one about “heroic butchery”. For me, this is the key to the work as a satire. It’s almost a parody of logotherapy, in which a person constructs meaning out of horrid circumstances. Here we have the unfortunate outcome of people being slaughtered, but by applying the idea of “heroism” to their deaths, the whole affair suddenly becomes one that is meaningful—though in fact the end result is the same: death, suffering, etc. Voltaire’s satire to me then is more than a critique of theodicy: it is a critique of anyone’s attempt to make life seem as though it were other than what it is.
But the work as a philosophy—something that one can live by—is best expressed in Candide’s imperative to cultivate a garden. Amidst the harsher realities of life, we are responsible for creating something beautiful in our lives that perhaps give them some pleasure. I was surprised that the ending was not a comic misery: I was half-expecting Cunegonde to be dead, Candide to be extremely melancholy, and the whole affair to have had no satisfying resolution. Voltaire’s genius, however, gives us an ending that is like so much of life: just a little bit “off”.
I’m incredibly sympathetic to this line of thinking. After four years of studying philosophy, I could take some pleasure in simple work. There’s all these ideas and metaphysical systems—to what end? It feels like a cope at a certain point, and the best thing for us to do is just get out of it. That’s why I say the best philosophy is lived and simple—ultimately, empirical. Because if it’s not based on experience, what the hell is the point of it? We could just as easily make shit up.
Memorable Quotes
The bayonet was also the sufficient reason for the death of several thousand men. The total may well have amounted to about thirty thousand souls. Candide, who was trembling like a philosopher, hid himself as best he could during this heroic butchery.
I love this line because it illustrates the absolute ridiculousness of so much of what is considered virtuous and meaningful. There may be virtue in courage, but there is none in dying.
Ah! best of worlds, where are you?
It was an indispensable thing in the best of worlds, a necessary ingredient.
“All that was indispensable,” replied the one-eyed doctor (Pangloss), “and individual misfortunes bring about general welfare, so that the more individual misfortunes there are, the better everything is in general.”
A hilarious absurdity inherent in Pangloss’ theodicy. The greater good comes at the expense of many.
Alas!” said Candide, “I’ve known it, that love, the sovereign of hearts, that soul of our soul, never brought me anything but one kiss and twenty kicks in the backside.”
Bad things can happen to good people. Candide, despite his innocence, is punished for it in this “best of all worlds.”
This speech pleased Cacambo: a man likes so much to travel, then to show off among his own people, to brag about what he has seen on his travels; and so the two fortunates made up their minds to be fortunate no longer and to ask His Majesty for permission to leave.
“Yes, sir,” said the Negro, “it’s the custom. We’re given a pair of cloth shorts twice a year as all our clothing. If, when we’re working at the sugar mills, we get one of our fingers caught in the grindstone, our hand is cut off; if we try to run away, one of our legs is cut off: I’ve been in both predica-ments. That’s the price for your eating sugar in Europe. …”
Mr. Vanderdendur, the master of a large ship, came to introduce himself to him. “How much do you want,” Candide asked this man, “to take me straight to Venice, me, my servants, my baggage and those two sheep there?” The cap-tain agreed to ten thousand piasters. Candide didn’t hesitate to accept.
“Aha!” said the prudent Vanderdendur to himself, “this foreigner is prepared to give ten thousand piasters right away! he must be very wealthy.” Then, returning a moment later, he made it clear that he couldn’t go for less than twenty thousand. “Well, you’ll have them,” said Candide.
“Well now!” the merchant said to himself under his breath, “this fellow gives twenty thousand piasters as easily as ten thousand.” He came back again and said that he could not take him to Venice for less than thirty thousand piasters. “Then you’ll have thirty thou-sand,” replied Candide. “Aha!” the Dutch merchant said to himself again, “thirty thousand piasters seem to cost this man here nothing; no doubt the two sheep are carrying immense treasures; let’s not insist any further; let’s first have him pay the thirty thousand piasters, and then we’ll see.”
“You see,” said Candide to Martin, “that crime is sometimes punished; that rogue of a Dutch captain met the fate that he deserved.” “Yes,” said Martin; “but did the passengers who were on board his ship have to perish too? God punished that rogue, the devil drowned the others.”
“You’re very severe,” said Candide. “It’s because I’ve lived,” said Martin.
Candide, noticing a Milton, asked him if he did not consider that author a great man. “Who?” said Pococurante, “that barbarian who has created a long commentary on the first chapter of Genesis in ten books of harsh verse? that crude imitator of the Greeks who disfigures the Creation and who, while Moses presents the Eternal Being creating the world by the word, has the Messiah take up a huge pair of compasses from a closet in heaven to trace out his work? Would I esteem the man who spoiled the hell and the devil of Tasso; who disguises Lucifer sometimes as a toad, sometimes as a pygmy; who has him repeat the same speeches a hundred times; who has him argue about theology; who, while imitating in a serious manner the comic invention of firearms in Ariosto, has the devils fire cannon in heaven? Not I, nor anyone in Italy, has been able to take pleasure in all those sorry extravagances. The marriage of Sin and Death, and the snakes to which Sin gives birth, nauseate any man with a little delicacy of taste … I treat it today as it was treated by its contemporaries.
Voltaire’s commentary on Paradise Lost?
“I also know,” said Candide, “that we must cultivate our garden.” “You’re right,” said Pangloss: “for, when man was placed in the Garden of Eden, he was placed there … to work; which proves that man was not born for repose.” “Let’s work without reasoning,” said Martin; “it’s the only way to make life bearable.”
A strange point of agreement between the two otherwise opposing philosophies of Martin and Pangloss.