Long, long ago when I was young, someone I knew told me how much it meant to her to read Candide. In fact, she read it over and over. It was inspiring. I wanted to say, “Are we talking about the same book?” How could the deep cynicism I’d seen in that book be inspiring? But she was old and I was young, so, instead of arguing, I filed it for future reference.
Then there’s this story, perhaps a koan, I first heard at one of those self-help meetings so popular in that same era. It goes: a man is falling headlong over the edge of a huge cliff. There’s not much doubt about the outcome. He’s falling pretty fast. Then he spots an overhanging vine and clutching it, stops for just the moment. Alas, it’s not a very strong vine and he realizes almost immediately that it’s going to give way. He’s still doomed, the poor guy.
As he’s momentarily hanging there, with maybe visions of his life passing before his eyes, he suddenly notices that he is eye to eye, or eye to wing, with the most beautiful butterfly he has ever seen. Iridescent doesn’t cover it. This is one fantastic butterfly. And so, for the few moments he has, the man focuses all his attention on this amazing sight, drinking in all its luminous details until, well, you know.
You get the point. We all got the point: look at this beautiful world! stop thinking about the abyss!
I couldn’t keep from thinking that if I were hanging from a breaking vine above an abyss, a butterfly was just not going to make it. I could see the metaphor was good. Look how fast we’re falling. We’re all falling. The idea of having company didn’t help much either.
In those days, I also had this not very unusual notion that when I got old, really old—like those wise old people I was always hearing about—I would finally contemplate the nature of reality. Really really contemplate it. Oddly enough, that hasn’t happened. Yet, anyway. And, whenever I hear about the wisdom of old age, I get kind of cranky. Especially if I’m accused of it.
However, I have been reading Candide again. Now that I’ve had a lot of interesting experiences myself (though happily I’ve never seen anyone dismembered or burned at the stake), reading this book is truly a new experience. For one thing, I’m getting more of the jokes. What looked like cynicism to my youthful eye looks—well, still cynical (and rather nasty at that). Nonetheless, still a good read. After all, it is satire.
And, I have to admit there’s this: at the end, Candide, that hopeless romantic, having undergone terror, savaging and betrayal on all sides, and yet survived–as if while clinging from his last vine—says, “ . . . but we must cultivate our garden.” He’s no longer young, Candide. And he has cheerfully accepted a lot of reality. I like to think he has butterflies in that garden.
I think, if we’re lucky, we all have some kind of garden. Mine, for example, is full of books. Others have, maybe music, art, video games, whatever works. Some, even actual flowers and vegetables. Based on no wisdom at all, just the instinct given everyone of us, I wish us butterflies in those gardens. Yes, butterflies all the way down.
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