Pangloss and Sab meet at Starbucks

Two very different customers order their coffee at Starbucks: 

PANGLOSS: I’ll have a double mint mocha decaf latte with whipped cream and a shot of hazelnut.

SAB:  Just a regular coffee.  Black.  No sugar.

Hungry for company, Pangloss attempts to strike up a conversation with the rather dejected-looking gentleman behind him in line:

PANGLOSS:  Yes, indeed, isn’t coffee great?  Just think about it: coffee was made to be poured into cups, and sure enough… we have cups!

SAB:  And the heart?  The heart was surely made to be broken, for mine is in a million pieces.

PANGLOSS:  Yes, if a heart can break, then it was surely meant to be. But it only breaks because we love so deeply and our love goes unrequited. So… in fact, that is a good thing, for who can argue that being deeply in love is not a pleasureable thing?

SAB:  Not for one who has no hope. It is a burden for those of us who are slaves. Slaves in every sense of the word. Only our minds are free to think what we will, but that in itself is also a curse, since it makes us dream of that which we so ardently desire but which we can never possess.

PANGLOSS:  My good man, you do have a point there.  But in saying so, you have also stated the solution to your problem: you must only desire that which you can have.

SAB: And what, pray, would that be?

PANGLOSS:  Regular coffee.  Black.  No sugar.

SAB:  With a shot of arsenic?

(sound of thunderbolt striking roof of Starbucks)

PANGLOSS: Well… in that case, add some sugar. Sugar was made to sweeten things, and sure enough, we have bitter things in life to which we can add sugar.

SAB:   Incredible!  I would never have imagined that anyone could make suicide seem like such an enticing option.  Think of it: millions of grains of sugar are produced on these plantations thanks to the back-breaking labor of my people, toiling under an unrelenting sun that pierces an azure sky, a sky that surely extends all the way to Heaven. Within the infinite sea of sweet granulation that pours forth continually, perhaps a grain or two can be spared for a humble mulatto slave.

Sab continues to elaborate on the details that led him to this point in his life, with Pangloss nodding all the while in sympathy…

PANGLOSS:  (anxiously interrupting)  And so now you can see that this is the best of all possible worlds: all human beings are created equal, and to each is accorded his or her grain of sugar. (slight pause) Now, not wishing to change the subject, but… what about that friend of yours… er, Teresa? Do you believe she would be interested in a lesson in experimental physics?

Sab, not knowing how to reply, suddenly spies a sign hanging on the wall next to them, and a faint smile creeps over his face as he reads the words:

Working the land

When I lived in Madrid, and before I was able to comprehend anything like a novel in Spanish, I read pretty much any book in English that fell into my hands.  Books were expensive, even paperbacks, and imported books in English were a luxury. My English-speaking ex-pat buddies swapped books all the time: in my little circle of close friends, there was a permanent, ongoing lending library happening. Occasionally I would actually proffer hard-earned cash for A New Book.  And it would not necessarily be for an icon of literature. I loved reading autobiographies, especially contemporary ones, and if they were famous people in the world of entertainment, my curiosity was truly piqued. 

One day I purchased the autobiography of Katharine Hepburn, called, appropriately, Me: Stories of my Life. I was not expecting marvelous pearls of wisdom; on the contrary, I was hoping fervently that she would give us the lowdown on Spencer Tracy. (In that, I was not entirely disappointed.) But what really surprised me were her intermittent philosophical musings on life. One in particular sticks in my mind: Hepburn was describing the back-breaking work of doing the landscaping for a new home she had bought. Her friends were puzzled that she would even bother to literally dirty her hands with such travail: she had more than enough money to pay for the best landscape gardeners.  Her response was that she needed the hard, physical labor.  For what? Apparently her mother had always told her “no matter how wealthy you may become in life, always save some of the drudge work to do yourself. It will help you maintain your sanity.”  The gardening opportunity had come along at a time when she was feeling depressed, and that was what anchored her and kept her from quietly losing her mind.

As I read the ending of Candide, I was instantly reminded of that.  There is something about manual labor that calms and orders the mind.  Thoughts of depression cannot creep in. Not easily, anyway.  Oddly, though, thoughts of being more productive do take root and grow.  I wonder if Voltaire took the context of a farm to deliberately play off of the many interpretations of “cultivation.” 

I will think on that as I busy my hands with some manual labor that is awaiting me in the kitchen.  I am now getting a grip on the Enlightenment: Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Clean Dishes. That will be my mantra as I do battle with food-encrusted forks.