A Philosophical Dictionary, Volume 01 — Key Ideas to Explore

Alphabet as Argument

The first entry, 'A, B, C, or Alphabet,' immediately demonstrates Voltaire's method: he takes a seemingly neutral subject—the alphabet—and turns it into a weapon against superstition. He notes that the letters served as ciphers and musical notes, leading to 'an infinity of useful knowledge,' but then undercuts this with a sarcastic flourish: the seven first letters became 'the seven heavens.' The entry is less a definition than a demolition of the 'cabalistic art' and 'mysterious folly' that arise from treating letters as sacred. Voltaire's voice here is that of a rationalist exposing the absurdities that accumulate around simple symbols. He does not argue systematically but instead piles up examples of how the alphabet has been misused, from acrostics to celestial harmonies, leaving the reader to conclude that such mystifications are both ridiculous and dangerous.

Comparing Ancients and Moderns

In the section on 'Certain Comparisons between Celebrated Works,' Voltaire stages a direct confrontation between classical and French drama. He praises Corneille's line 'Que vouliez-vous qu'il fût contre trois? — Qu'il mourût' as unequalled in Homer or Sophocles, but immediately condemns the line that follows. This pattern—admiring a specific achievement while noting surrounding flaws—recurs throughout. He grants Racine's tragedies 'fine and artful contexture' and 'continued elegance,' yet finds 'weakness and uniformity' in some characters, and 'gallantry and sometimes even coquetry' where great passion is expected. Voltaire insists that judgment should be based on 'the works themselves,' not on the author's reputation or era. He even imagines the ancient painter Timanthes presenting his work alongside modern paintings, and has connoisseurs reject his veiled Agamemnon as a failure of art, not a stroke of genius.

The Critic's Voice

Throughout these excerpts, Voltaire's critical voice is unmistakable: confident, combative, and unwilling to defer to authority. He dismisses the notion that the Athenian populace had more wit than the court of Louis XIV, calling it a 'pleasantry' that the Athenians 'never laughed at anything stupid.' Yet he also acknowledges that Euripides and Sophocles 'have beauties' alongside 'much greater defects.' This balanced irreverence is the hallmark of the Dictionary. Voltaire does not simply praise or condemn; he dissects. He praises Molière as superior to Terence and Aristophanes, but only 'in his best pieces.' The reader is invited to share in this critical act, to weigh evidence and resist the tyranny of names. The Dictionary thus becomes a training ground for independent judgment, one article at a time.

Readers approaching this volume should expect not a reference work but a series of intellectual skirmishes. Voltaire's articles reward those who read them as performances: each entry is a miniature essay in which erudition and wit combine to unsettle received opinion. The notes by Smollett, Fleming, Leigh, and Morley provide context but do not tame the text's provocations. To read Voltaire here is to watch a philosopher at war—with dogma, with complacency, and with the very idea that any subject is too sacred for scrutiny.

Reading Voltaire’s sharp-edged wit, I found myself back in a sunlit library corner, arguing with a friend about whether truth ever needs to be cruel. He lent me A Beginner's History of Philosophy, Vol. 1: Ancient and Mediæval Philosophy — Themes and Context that same week, and its patient, roomy questions felt like a quiet breathing space after all that brilliant sarcasm. Both books left me holding my own certainty more loosely.