Voltaire’s section on “Luxury” in his Philosophical Dictionary feels as fresh today as it must have in the 18th century. His witty observations on human hypocrisy and indulgence leave us questioning everything. For Voltaire, the problem isn’t luxury itself—it’s our tendency to moralize about it while secretly enjoying its comforts.
He opens with a jab at those who idolize simplicity: “They cite Lacedaemon; why do they not cite also the republic of San Marino? What good did Sparta do to Greece?” Voltaire wasn’t impressed by the Spartans’ spartan-ness. Sure, they lived simply, but their rigid focus on military discipline didn’t leave room for much else—no flourishing of philosophy, no art, no joy. Contrast this with the unassuming Republic of San Marino, a small state that managed to thrive without all the grand gestures. Voltaire’s point? Extreme deprivation doesn’t make you virtuous—it just makes you deprived.
And what about luxury? For Voltaire, luxury isn’t inherently evil. He notes, “One arrives at death as well by lacking everything as by enjoying what can make life pleasant.” In other words, life is short, and deprivation isn’t morally superior if it makes you miserable. Luxury, when balanced, can make life more enjoyable, and there’s no shame in that—unless you’re a hypocrite about it.
Voltaire drives this point home with a seemingly mundane example: grooming. Cutting hair and nails is hardly essential for survival, yet even the harshest critics of luxury indulge in it. Over time, what began as practical grooming evolved into a cultural necessity and even a luxury. Take lipstick, for example. It’s sold as a necessity, something every woman “must have” to feel confident or presentable. Voltaire would have skewered this hypocrisy. Grooming rituals like this are entirely “made up,” cultural constructs marketed as essentials, but they’re also luxuries cloaked in necessity. The irony is palpable: luxury is okay as long as we don’t admit it’s luxury.
Enter Camus, who brings an existentialist twist to Voltaire’s critique. In The Myth of Sisyphus, Camus writes, “Man is always prey to his truths. Once he has admitted them, he cannot free himself from them.” This resonates with Voltaire’s disdain for the self-imposed moralizations around luxury. If we admit that lipstick is a luxury rather than a necessity, we free ourselves from its grip. But until then, we’re stuck pretending it’s something we can’t live without.
This critique feels especially modern. Think of today’s ethical luxury movements or minimalist trends. People buy $300 sustainably made sweaters and tout their moral superiority while quietly enjoying the indulgence. Voltaire’s razor-sharp wit cuts through this façade: luxury cloaked in virtue is still luxury.
For Voltaire, and perhaps for Camus as well, the antidote to this hypocrisy is honesty. If we embrace luxury as a means of making life more pleasant, rather than pretending it’s essential, we can enjoy it authentically. Camus might add that doing so would be an act of rebellion against the absurd, a way of finding joy in the midst of life’s chaos.
Ultimately, Voltaire leaves us with a challenge: stop moralizing about luxury. Instead, ask yourself if your indulgences align with your values. If they bring you authentic joy, embrace them. If they’re empty pursuits of social approval, reconsider. In the end, neither lipstick nor austerity will save us—but perhaps, with a little Voltairean wit, we can save ourselves from hypocrisy.