Voltaire on Working the Gardens of Our Classrooms

Are you a Pangloss, Martin, or Candide?

Apologies for missing last month’s post. The final deadline for my next book was in late April, and boy did I hit hard against it. I did submit the manuscript on time (nailed it!), but then I found myself needing several weeks both to catch up and just clear my head space. I am re-entering the world of thinking, and hope to stay for the foreseeable future.

I own a lot of books, although it’s probably the right amount for an English professor in his 50s who has always loved books. When I am looking for something to read, I can just let my eyes wander around my own book shelves, where I am likely to find something I own but haven’t read or something that deserves a re-reading. The inspiration for this post comes from a novel in the latter category: Voltaire’s Candide, first published in French in 1758.

Based on my markings in the copy I pulled from my shelf, and the yellowing nature of the pages, I would guess that I first read about the misadventures of Candide as an undergraduate. I also remember teaching it at least one time as a graduate student, and perhaps that even happened more than once. But it has been at least two decades since my eyes set on the book. I had lost track of some of the particulars of the plot, but I also remembered plenty of scenes as I encountered the names of characters or read the first sentences of pivotal scenes.

The novel tells the story of a young man born into a noble family in Germany, raised by his uncle in pleasant surroundings. He has a tutor named Dr. Pangloss, whose name has since been turned into an adjective—Panglossian—expressing irrepressible faith in the perfect goodness of the world. Pangloss expounds on this philosophy in the first chapter:

It is proved . . . that things cannot be other then they are, for since everything was made for a purpose, it follows that everything was made for the best purpose. Observe: our noses were made to carry spectacles, so we have spectacles. Legs were clearly intended for breeches, and we wear them. Stones were meant for carving and for building houses, and that is why my lord has a most beautiful house; for the greatest baron in Westphalia ought to have the noblest residence. And since pigs were made to be eaten, we eat pork all the year round. It follows that those who maintain that all is right talk nonsense; they ought to say that all is for the best.

In the kind of plot about-face familiar to us all from sitcoms, this speech is followed by three paragraphs in which everyone’s life falls apart. His uncle kicks Candide out of the house, and Candide spends the rest of the novel experiencing a series of head-spinning misfortunes and meeting other characters who have also been subject to the depths of human depravity. Their collective experiences include slavery, floggings, botched executions, murders, rapes, wars, cannibalism—and more! Every major and minor character has a story which would produce enough misery for a couple of lifetimes. Voltaire describes it all in a comic tone, but I was surprised at the amount of detailed brutality he includes.

In the second half of the novel, Candide encounters a down-on-his-luck scholar named Martin, who becomes his traveling companion. Martin sits at the other end of philosophical spectrum from Pangloss. As he explains to Candide to justify his grim view of human existence:

A million regimented assassins surge from one end of Europe to the other, earning their living by committing murder and brigandage in strictest discipline, because they have not more honest livelihood; and in those towns which seem to enjoy the blessings of peace and where the arts flourish, men suffer more from envy, cares, and anxiety than a besieged town suffers from the scourges of war, for secret vexations are much more cruel then public miseries. In short, I have seen and experienced so much, that I am forced to believe that man’s origin is evil.

Candide resists these arguments of Martin because his early education under Pangloss formed his philosophical outlook so firmly. He continues to assume that benevolent reasons exist for all of the evils he observes and experiences, although he seems less and less sure of himself as the tortures and violence pile up.

At the end of the novel, most of the major characters—including Candide, Pangloss, and Martin—find themselves living together in a humble farmhouse. In the final chapter, all of them, now chastened by their experiences but still clinging to their separate worldviews, visit a local philosopher and ask him, essentially, the purpose of human life. The philosopher mocks them for asking such a stupid and pointless question—”What has that got to do with you? Is it your business?”—and then slams the door on their faces.

In the final paragraphs, Candide comes to his own conclusion about how how to manage a life filled with turbulence—i.e., a human life. He quits worrying whether Pangloss or Martin are correct, and decides that he and his companions should turn their attention to the immediate work demanded by their current circumstances: farming. In response to a final speech by Pangloss about the harmonious nature of the universe, Candide finishes the novel with these words: “That’s true enough . . . but we must go and work in the garden.” In other words, worry less about praising the perfection of the blue skies or taking grim satisfaction at them falling around you, and worry about attending to the work that sustains you.

The Penguin Classics edition of Voltaire’s Candide, set against a background of cacti in a garden. The cover image depicts a young man in a dressing gown putting on his pants hurriedly, likely a representation of a scene in the novel’s first chapter.

Candide in the GenAI Era

Moments in which life-changing events are occurring around us—and without question, those of us in the educational world are facing a life-changing event with generative artificial intelligence—bring out the Panglosses and Martins in all of us. While in general I have more of a Panglossian temperament, I have been more of a Martin with GenAI. I see little good in the arrival of ChatGPT and its ilk for the future of teaching, learning, and humans more generally. I have also been irked at the Panglossian exhortations of GenAI enthusiasts who don’t mirror my skepticism.

But Candide reminded me that allying myself to some firm philosophical perspective on artificial intelligence is not necessary. I can’t see the future. Nobody else can either, including the people who make a living predicting the future of education. In the meantime, I have plenty of work to keep myself occupied. Last week I wrote a column for the Chronicle of Higher Education and drafted this essay. I know that GenAI can support writers in some tasks, but I enjoy every part of the process of writing and so I feel zero temptation to use it in that area of my life. Today I have three meetings with other humans, none of which will be AI ChatBots. And tomorrow I have to work on the syllabus for a summer course I am co-teaching. We have drafted a GenAI policy, and GenAI will make a cameo here and there in the course, but it won’t be much. That’s a choice we have made—and a choice available that remains to teachers everywhere.

I don’t mean to suggest that we should not engage with GenAI, or not argue about it, or not hold opinions about it. But I’m less and less convinced that I have to develop, or subscribe to, some Grand Theory of Artificial Intelligence to do most of my work well as a teacher or writer. I have skills and experiences that I have developed over a lifetime, and a commitment to supporting teachers and learners. I still see those skills and experiences making a positive difference in the lives of other humans. You might be feeling the same way. You feel storm clouds gathering above you, and are worried about the future of education, but in the meantime you are connecting with students and creating learning in the gardens of your classrooms.

The rain may or may not fall. In the meantime, the gardens need tending. If you continue to believe in the value of the plants that have always flourished in your garden, keep growing them.

In that respect, I’m no longer buying the argument that we shouldn’t use traditional assessments anymore in higher education—such as research papers or analytic essays—because AI can mimic them. If you see intellectual skills developing from asking students to brainstorm their own ideas about a text, organize those ideas into an outline, and bring them to life with words—then assign essays. Some students will shortcut that process by cheating with AI, to be sure. But students have always cheated, probably much more than you realize. We didn’t stop asking students to write essays when the internet arrived, because of (at least) three fundamental truths about the act of writing: writing is (1) a form of thinking (2) that produces learning and 3) generates new ideas. That was true in 2000, and it’s true in 2024.

But if you are concerned about cheating, or with other effects of GenAI on education, then maybe add some new plants to your garden—i.e. experiment with new teaching approaches. If you are worried about students losing their writing skills, have them write in class, workshop their writing with each other, and give them feedback in oral conferences. If you are worried about GenAI spoiling human relationships or promoting bias, practice some of the techniques recommended by proponents of inclusive or equity-minded teaching. If you are concerned that students will swallow this new technology unthinkingly, dedicate a class period to modeling a critical approach to technology. But if GenAI will play a major role in the careers of students in your field, then by all means reshape your garden—and be grateful that some of your colleagues will have gardens that don’t resemble yours, so students have a variety of learning experiences across all of their courses.

Work in Our Gardens

GenAI exploded into our lives so quickly that it occupied our attention and stoked all of our worst anxieties. More than two years later, we still have lots of Panglosses in the tech industry arguing for its value, but plenty of Martins are counterbalancing them with arguments about the dangers it poses. Happily, I believe the Candides are becoming a larger presence in the discourse. The Panglosses will continue to yap into our ears, and while I might roll my eyes at them a little, I am willing to hear their arguments. I definitely don’t want to become a Martin, assuming that nothing good sits on the horizon. I want to listen, learn, and be willing to change my mind.

And, in the meantime, let us go work in our gardens.