The philosophy is revealed by the title -- both of the book and of its central character -- Candide, meaning, if I understand it correctly, a kind of naïve optimism in Voltaire’s native French. And it is an attack on the philosophic fashion of its time, that one should approach all calamities in one’s life with an understanding that it could not have been any other way, that one is living in the best of all possible worlds.
From the book’s introduction:
The reasons for Candide’s immediate and enduring success with readers are many. It is a supremely wrought tragicomedy that slyly and irresistibly induces us to laugh at and simultaneously reflect upon the most dreadful events that befall humankind. It appeals to us today because, nearly 250 years after its publication, it has lost none of its relevance or satirical sting. It is particularly modern and pertinent because its dark comic vision is essentially in keeping with our own awareness of what separates our need for order, clarity, and rationality from the brutal reality of a chaotic world.
The fiercely relentless attack Candide unleashes against the evils of religious fanaticism, war, colonialism, slavery, and mass atrocities is more relevant that ever. The naive, young hero of the tale obstinately seeks personal happiness in a world beleaguered by all kinds of catastrophes wrought by the blind, unleashed forces of nature -- such as earthquakes and epidemic diseases -- as well as by violent, destructive human passions.
This is indeed the book I read, but it is, I think, the most optimistic of interpretations. Somewhere else in the introduction, it supposes that Voltaire himself would “probably have been both pleasantly surprised as well as bemused by the exceptional and enduring popularity of Candide, which he viewed as one of his minor works, unworthy to vie with his tragedies, historical essays, and epic and philosophical poems, on which he staked his posthumous reputation.”
Bemused is a good word for my reaction as well. I found this work to be little more than a sketch, a kind of rough first draft that should have been fleshed out into a full narrative if its author wanted it to have its full effect. Don’t get me wrong, stuff happens in this short novel, almost too much stuff, but who are these people that this stuff is happening to? I don’t really know, and characters come on and off the stage too rapidly for me to develop any kind of rooting interest in any of them.
But that’s okay, I guess, because it’s a fable, not a novel. The characters in it are not supposed to be people, they’re supposed to simply represent ideas or archetypes. The story isn’t the stuff that happens. The story is the clash of these archetypal ideas. In that regard it reminds me a little of Don Quixote, but Cervantes pulls off something transcendent that I’m not sure Voltaire had the time or interest to develop.
Here’s the closing paragraph, in which at least the moral of the tale is well represented. After years of wandering and trouble, Candide and his small band of companions have found a kind of peace on a tiny plot of land that they all share.
The little society, one and all, entered into this laudable scheme, and each began to exercise his talents. The little piece of ground yielded a plentiful crop. Cunegonde indeed was very ugly, but she became excellent at pastry-work. Pacquette embroidered, the old woman took care of the linen. Everyone, down to Brother Giroflee, did some service. He was a very good carpenter, and became an honest man. Pangloss sometimes would say to Candide: “All events are linked together in the best of all possible worlds; for, after all, had you not been kicked out of a fine castle for your love of Miss Cunegonde, had you not been put into the Inquisition, had you not travelled across America on foot, had you not stabbed the Baron with your sword, and had you not lost all your sheep which you brought from the good country of El Dorado, then you wouldn’t be here eating preserved citrons and pistachio-nuts.” “Excellently observed,” answered Candide; “but we must cultivate our garden.”
We must cultivate our garden. In other words, rather than blindly suffer the slings and arrows of our outrageous fortune, we must act and try to improve our situation. Yes, calamity will befall us all, but those who seek will always find more than those who cower in place.
That’s fine, but the deepest wisdom I found didn’t come from Candide but from the “old woman” he picks up along the way. She is one of the many beaten and tortured creatures that Candide meets in his beaten and tortured journeys. And after describing the specific toils and abuses that have comprised her life, she says this to Candide and his love Cunegonde on a sea voyage they take together:
In the different countries in which it has been my fate to wander, and the many inns where I have been a servant, I have observed a prodigious number of people who held their existence in abhorrence, and yet I never knew more than twelve who voluntarily put an end to the misery: namely, three negroes, four Englishmen, four Genoese, and a German professor named Robek. My last place was with the Jew, Don Issachar, who attached me to your service, my fair lady; to whose destinies I have attached myself, and have been more concerned with your misfortunes than with my own. I would never have even mentioned the matter to you, if you had not irked me a little bit; and it was not customary to tell stories on board a ship in order to pass away the time. In short, my dear miss, I have a great deal of knowledge and experience in the world; therefore, take my advice -- divert yourself, and ask each passenger to tell his story, and of these is one of them all who has not curses his existence many times, said to himself over and over again that he was the most miserable of men, I give you permission to throw me head-first into the sea.
“This ridiculous weakness,” the old woman reminds us, “is perhaps one of our worst instincts. What can be more absurd than choosing to carry a burden that one really wants to throw to the ground? To detest, and yet to strive to preserve our existence? To caress the serpent that devours us, and hug him close to our bosoms till he had gnawed into our hearts?”
Yes, cultivate your garden. But while you’re cultivating, remember that life is and always will be a serpent gnawing into your heart. There is no other remedy. Carry the burden, since the burden is your existence.
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This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.
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