An erudite, pan-European survey of the eraRitchie Robertson is a British academic who has published several books on German literature. With his most recent book, however, Robertson has broadened his scope to encompass the pan-European movement known as the Age of Enlightenment. Published in 2021, Robertson’s book The Enlightenment is a sweeping synthesis that attempts to, and in my opinion succeeds in, providing a comprehensive summary of the era that encapsulates the intellectual and social landscape of the period.
Not surprisingly, Robertson focuses primarily on France, Britain, and Germany, but he does often reach farther afield into many other European nations, demonstrating that this was a truly continent-wide phenomenon. The United States doesn’t get a great deal of coverage. Jefferson and Franklin are occasionally discussed, and there’s a brief section on the American Revolution. Rather than examining specific nations or specific thinkers in turn, this book is organized thematically by issue or discipline. The result is much rapid jumping around among diverse locations and historical personages, but this approach helps in gaining an understanding of the overall zeitgeist and important debates in Enlightenment thought. Figures like Immanuel Kant, David Hume, or Voltaire are mentioned in almost every subchapter. If you wanted to get an overall picture of Kant’s thought, for example, you’d have to search around for two sentences here and three sentences there, but if you did so, you’d get a very good understanding of what Kant was all about.
The one thread that tied the myriad endeavors of the Enlightenment together was a striving for an improvement in the happiness of the human race, whether it be through technology, philosophy, politics, law, or some other means. That may seem like an obvious and simplistic answer. Hasn’t mankind always striven for happiness? Well, no, not really. For much of the past two thousand years the prevailing view (at least in the Western world) was that life is an ordeal to be endured so that one could be rewarded with happiness in the afterlife. The Enlightenment is often thought of as a period of extreme secularization and rising atheism, and there definitely was some turning away from prior superstitions and religious dogma, but Robertson asserts that the religious landscape of the Enlightenment was far more complex and heterogenous than widely assumed. The trend of the age was not necessarily antireligious but rather an effort to reconcile religion with reason, to question religion and theology in order to clarify them, so that religion is the product of active thought rather than passive acceptance.
Robertson’s study is not only through but also well-balanced. This isn’t just a book about how great certain Enlightenment thinkers were and what important political and scientific advances were made. Robertson also pays attention to the prejudices, superstitions, and ignorances active during this period. He presents the progress of Enlightenment thought as a series of debates, or exercises in trial and error, and gives as much consideration to those in the wrong as those in the right.
I takes a very skilled writer and researcher to encapsulate an era in one volume like this. Robertson’s book is comprehensive enough to serve as a textbook for an undergraduate course, but it doesn’t read like a textbook. The prose is accessible to general readers, and history buffs will find much food for fascination here. Robertson’s breadth of knowledge is impressive. He seems to have read just about everything published between the two dates in the subtitle, as well as the scholarly literature of recent years. For anyone interested in this period, the notes and bibliography are a treasure trove of further readings. Though I thought I had a good idea of what the Enlightenment was all about, Robertson really broadened my understanding and heightened my interest in this pivotal age in history.
Poorly written sketches of interesting people
Ancient and Modern Celebrated Freethinkers is the American reprint of a work previously published in England in 1857 under the title Half-Hours with the Freethinkers. It is a collection of what appear to have been columns in a periodical, though the title of the journal is never named. The book provides profiles of 23 important freethinkers throughout history, a group that broadly includes atheists, pantheists, deists, and other heretics who publicly disagreed with Christian dogma. The essays are written by Charles Bradlaugh (writing under the pseudonym of Iconoclast), A. Collins, and J. Watts.
Bradlaugh was a prominent spokesman for freethought in his own right, but his writing here, and that of his colleagues, leaves much to be desired. The essays are a mixture of biographical sketches, philosophical summary, adulatory tribute, and textual excerpts. Unfortunately the authors rely far too heavily on the latter. Many of the chapters contain very little biographical content and instead rather lazily reproduce extensive and not judiciously edited excerpts of the subjects’ writings. Baruch Spinoza, for example, led an interesting life, but his chapter is mostly one big chunk taken from his Ethics, which I’d already read. One of the reasons I pick up a book like this is because I don’t want to read Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poetry; I just want to get an idea of his philosophical thought. Bradlaugh, however, chooses to reprint page after page of Shelley’s poetry when two summary paragraphs on the poet’s freethought views would have been more useful and effective. As far as biographical content goes, the best you can hope for is maybe two or three interesting facts about each person’s life, and for some of the lesser known personages you get almost no idea of who they were. Rather than really trying to educate readers, the authors write in a “but of course you already know this” tone that is strange and off-putting.
Because of the heavy reliance on excerpts, two of the more interesting entries are about ancient authors whose written works no longer exist: Epicurus and Zeno of Citium (the founder of Stoicism). With the exception of these two ancient thinkers and Spinoza, almost all the remaining figures are 17th or 18th century deists, meaning those who believed in an impartial creator god as opposed to the anthropomorphic Judeo-Christian deity who judges man and answers his prayers. The authors themselves are atheists, but they view the heretical thinking of these deists with admiration as necessary precursors toward modern atheism. A few of the subjects were bona fide members of the clergy who departed from church doctrine, and their excerpts tend to be long and tedious catalogs of biblical inaccuracies. Robert Taylor’s chapter consists almost entirely of Bible quotes while Joseph Barker focuses on the error-prone process of translating holy scripture. To 21st century freethinkers, this stuff is old hat and makes for a boring read, unless you are a fundamentalist Christian thinking of leaving the Church, in which case you could probably find a better book to guide you than this 19th century anthology.
I was hoping for a collection of biographical sketches, but what I got was far less interesting. The book did very briefly introduce me to some thinkers of which I was unfamiliar, and for that I am thankful. There are a few choice chapters, like the ones on David Hume or Frances Wright D’Arusmont, the only woman represented here. In general, however, the text was mostly dull and annoying. For those interested in the history of freethought, I would recommend the 1889 work compiled by Joseph Mazzini Wheeler, A Biographical Dictionary of Freethinkers of All Ages and Nations, a far more interesting work than this collection by Bradlaugh and company.
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The fortunes and misfortunes of a man of reason
Zadig, or The Book of Fate, a philosophical novel by the French author Voltaire, was first published in 1747. It relates the adventures of the title character, a wealthy young man of Babylon, as his life undergoes a series of extreme reversals of fortune. Through all his ups and downs, Zadig conducts himself as a gentleman of impeccable reason, dispensing and acquiring wisdom with each episode of his roller coaster life. Zadig’s extraordinary travels and tribulations are told in a very straightforward matter-of-fact manner, often with wry humor, as a little parable is played out with each new character that he meets. For much of its length, Zadig doesn’t feel like much of a novel at all, but rather a patchwork series of disconnected scenes, each imparting a moral or philosophical lesson. Towards the end of the book, however, many of the earlier plot points come full circle and the story starts to feel more like a novel with a preconceived narrative structure. Ultimately Voltaire ties up all the loose ends of the story into a neat little package, leaving the reader with a feeling of satisfactory resolution.
Zadig is often cited by literary critics as being the first modern detective story. Such a statement is a bit of a stretch, quite frankly. This is not a mystery story, and solving crimes, puzzles, or riddles is not Zadig’s primary purpose. The designation of Zadig as a detective comes from one particular scene in which he uses deductive reasoning to describe a horse and dog that he has not seen, based on physical evidence such as tracks in the dirt. This scene can certainly be seen as a forerunner to the reasoning employed by detectives such as Sherlock Holmes, and it is rumored that early detective fiction authors like Edgar Allen Poe, Emile Gaboriau, and Arthur Conan Doyle were influenced by Zadig when creating their classic detective characters. The funny thing about this particular “detective” scene is that Zadig is not rewarded for the use of his reasoning faculties, but actually punished for it.
Voltaire is famous for being one of history’s most staunch paragons of reason in the face of religion and superstition. Zadig, the character, embodies this rationalism as he spreads enlightenment wherever he goes (for those who are willing to receive it). The characters he encounters are often foils to this rational mindset, displaying irrational and superstitious behavior or thoughtlessly slavish devotion to unreasonable customs. For example, Egypt insists that widows burn themselves alive immediately following their husband’s death, but Zadig shows everyone the error of their ways, and the custom is abolished. Elsewhere in the book, however, Voltaire introduces the character of an angel who illustrates how we are all slaves to fate and subject to a grand plan of the universe that exists beyond our knowledge. It is hard to see how this angel jibes with Voltaire’s freethought, but perhaps he (or the translator) just couldn’t come up with a better word than “angel.” Voltaire’s deistical view of fate, as presented by this rather absurdly behaving angel, can be seen as an almost secular determinism that emphasizes man’s insignificance in the face of the clockwork indifference of the universal forces of nature.
For today’s readers, Zadig’s only real fault is that it’s over 250 years old. The conventions of storytelling were different back then, and the sense of humor doesn’t always translate through the intervening centuries. Even so, it’s not an overly labor intensive read, its lessons are still relevant, and after all these years it still manages to enlighten and entertain.
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Not a bad life, OK biography, terrible ebook
I have never been a big fan of Voltaire’s writing. His sense of humor has not held up well over the last two centuries. Nevertheless, the man himself and the life he lived is a source of fascination. It’s hard for today’s American reader to understand his importance or the influential role he played in French and world history. Voltaire is somewhat analogous to our Benjamin Franklin—neither a head of state nor a war hero, but a leading architect and living embodiment of the philosophy of a nation undergoing rebirth. In addition, Voltaire was the most acclaimed living French playwright of his time, a groundbreaking historian, an influential public intellectual, and a major celebrity throughout Europe. As a freethinker, I admire his championing of reason over superstition and his outspoken advocacy for freedom and human rights. Voltaire was a deist, meaning he believed in the intelligent design of the universe by God the creator, but not in the active participation of that God in man’s affairs. He fought tirelessly against religious intolerance and oppression by organized religions, in particular the Catholicism that was dominant in France.
Yet for all his accomplishments, there is a less flattering side to Voltaire that is all too apparent in Roger Pearson’s 2005 biography Voltaire Almighty. His behavior was frequently childish and shallow. He was constantly engaged in petty squabbles and frivolous lawsuits with anyone who criticized his writings. Much of his literary output consisted of thinly veiled digs at those he didn’t like. Despite his iconoclastic image, he spent years kissing up to the royal family, hoping to curry their favor. Toward the end of his life he devoted months if not years to devising a scheme by which he could be granted absolution by the Catholic church without publicly declaring a belief in their faith. While such behavior makes for witty anecdotes, in sum total these shenanigans regrettably lower one’s estimation of the man. Pearson unfortunately revels in Voltaire’s infantile escapades, while the reader is often left wondering why exactly the man was so significant. I would never fault a biographer for providing too much detail—because that’s his job—but Pearson’s account of Voltaire’s life is such a morass of data it’s difficult to see the forest for the trees. He is much more interested in recounting the financial minutiae of a real estate deal than in examining Voltaire’s literary or philosophical achievements. Pearson’s concluding summary is really quite good at encapsulating Voltaire’s life and legacy. If only he had injected some of that big-picture view into the preceding 23 chapters, instead of dwelling on every trivial dispute and investment transaction, the book would have been a more rewarding read.
Through no fault of Pearson’s, this Kindle file is in terrible shape. It is riddled with typographical errors. The reader must acclimate himself to the fact that the letters “t” and “r” appear to be used interchangeably. In addition, someone possessing no familiarity whatsoever with the French language went crazy with the spellcheck. In all cases, the word “duc” (French for Duke), has been changed to “due”; The title of Voltaire’s play Oedipe has been transformed into “(edipe”; and “Mlle” (the abbreviation for Mademoiselle) has become “Mile”. In a few places numeric dates have been inexplicably replaced by a letter “n”, as in “n April 1713”. Almost every word in italics is misspelled. These are just a few examples. Outside of free public domain files, I’ve never seen an ebook this poorly done. The publisher ought to be embarrassed to have put a file in such condition out for public consumption. Perhaps by the time you read this review they will have replaced the file with a corrected version, but I can only review what I bought.
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Science fiction in the Age of Enlightenment
I have the utmost respect for Voltaire as a thinker, a historical personage, and an outspoken advocate of reason and freedom. During the Age of Enlightenment, he may very well have been the most influential man in the Western world. He left his indelible mark in the realms of philosophy, literature, politics, history, culture, and science. Nevertheless, despite my admiration for the man, I don’t usually enjoy his writings all that much. Most of his literary output was satirical, and regrettably his humor has not held up well over the last quarter of a millennium. This work, however, is a notable exception.
Micromégas, originally published in 1752, is a short story consisting of seven brief chapters. Despite being written almost three centuries ago, it is a work of science fiction, and remarkably innovative for its time. The story, in a nutshell, could best be described as Gulliver’s Travels in outer space. In this case the traveler is a being from a gargantuan planet in the Sirius star system. Named Micromégas, this creature is of a colossal size proportionate to his home world, being 120,000 feet tall. Upon arriving in our solar system his first stop is the planet Saturn, where he makes the acquaintance of a local scholar of only 6,000 feet in stature. After some conversation on the nature of their two worlds, the two decide to go traveling together. They make a trip to Earth, where they encounter mankind.
Voltaire’s humor is hilarious and thought-provoking throughout, even for the 21st-century reader. Micromégas and his Saturnian companion prove to be quite adept at cultural criticism. The difference in perspective between the three planetary cultures is analogous to the difficulties in foreign relations between the giant empires of Europe and the tiny kingdoms they dominate, or the insensitivity of the wealthy aristocracy to the unwashed masses. Despite their obvious superiorities, these beings are not without their own problems and faults. The Saturnian possesses 72 senses; the Sirian 1,000. Yet, they both have “plenty of time to be bored.” Their life spans are proportionately long, and their worlds are blessed with a corresponding abundance, yet, much like their human counterparts, neither is satisfied with their lot and only wants more. Initially, the two extraterrestrial visitors can’t even perceive the existence of life on earth, and once they do make contact with the earthlings, they doubt that the tiny beings possess any intelligence whatsoever. Through this outsider perspective, Voltaire points out the insignificance and pettiness of much of our earthly affairs. Out of the scientific awakening of the Renaissance arose a realization that mankind is nothing but a speck of dust amid the workings of the universe. This rejection of the anthropocentric view that had persisted for centuries rocked the religious establishment. Voltaire, on the other hand, revels in such iconoclasm.
His enthusiasm and humor is infectious. Micromégas is a thoroughly entertaining read. Like any work from the 18th century, some of the cultural references may be lost on today’s reader. The ending of the story is also weak. Voltaire wraps it up too abruptly. The last few sentences comprise a punchline that’s not equal to the joke that came before. Yet there’s plenty to enjoy in this little story, and its importance as one of the earliest works of science fiction is undeniable. Even those who would never dream of reading any literature of the French Enlightenment should give Micromégas a try. It’s truly in a class by itself.
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