Feeding the Rich!

What if I told you one of the most famous writers in history calmly suggested… eating babies?

Here's the situation: You’re sitting down with a brand-new pamphlet in Dublin, 1729. The author, Jonathan Swift, is proposing a solution to poverty in Ireland. And here’s the solution: the Irish poor should sell their babies as food to the wealthy.

Yes, you heard that right. Children — on the dinner plate.

Swift wrote, 
“I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for landlords, who, as they have already devoured most of the parents, seem to have the best title to the children.” As well as I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious nourishing and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled.

Transcript

What if I told you one of the most famous writers in history calmly suggested… eating babies?

Here's the situation: You’re sitting down with a brand-new pamphlet in Dublin, 1729. The author, Jonathan Swift, is proposing a solution to poverty in Ireland. And here’s the solution: the Irish poor should sell their babies as food to the wealthy.

Yes, you heard that right. Children — on the dinner plate.

Swift wrote, 
“I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for landlords, who, as they have already devoured most of the parents, seem to have the best title to the children.” As well as I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious nourishing and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled.

Here, Swift deliberately blurs the line between metaphor and literal horror.
He satirizes landlord exploitation, portraying them as morally monstrous.
The calm, reasoned tone amplifies the horror — he treats moral corruption like a business calculation. It is though he is strongly implying that those already guilty of exploitation are now somehow “entitled” to the next atrocity.  His cold logic is absurd, funny, and disturbing simultaneously.
If he were alive today, he would probably satirically say that wealthy businessman are entitled to lower taxes because they have exploited their workers through low paying salaries and poor working conditions.
But he did mean it seriously his shocking suggestion was way of rubbing England's indifference and everyone's space and that's well that's a swift 
Another Example of Humane Language Masking Horror
“I shall now therefore humbly propose my own thoughts, which I hope will not be liable to the least objection. I have reckoned that a child just born will weigh about twelve pounds, and in a solar year, increase to twenty pounds, or thereabouts. I calculate that one hundred thousand children in Dublin, of both sexes, at one year old, may be well-fed, and, consequently, may serve for the tables of the rich.”

Here Jonathan Swift presents calculations and statistics as if feeding children to the rich were a normal, rational plan, and the dispassionate, logical tone makes the moral horror hit harder. At the same time, Swift
forces the audience to face societal indifference.

Now, again Swift didn’t mean his words literally. He wasn’t running a test kitchen. But he did mean it seriously. His shocking suggestion was a way of rubbing England’s indifference in everyone’s face. And that’s Swift in a nutshell: he makes us laugh, he makes us gasp, and then he makes us wonder why we were laughing in the first place.

On the surface, this reads like a calm, well-reasoned essay. Jonathan Swift adopts the voice of a rational economist, carefully explaining how selling Irish children as food would reduce poverty, stimulate the economy, and provide new delicacies for the wealthy.

He’s so deadpan that some readers at the time actually wondered if he was serious. But that’s the point. By exaggerating the cold logic of exploitation, Swift forces us to see just how inhuman real policies already were.

He doesn’t just say England was devouring Ireland. He makes us picture it on the plate.

Now, Jonathan Swift was born in Dublin in 1667, but he never felt entirely at home there. His parents were English, and that sense of being caught between two identities runs like a thread through his life and his work. He may have been born in Ireland but it has said that he never felt entirely at home there - the fact that he was Irish by birth and English by heritage would shape his entire life.

His father died before Jonathan was even born, and his mother also died soon after — so relatives raised him. He studied at Trinity College Dublin, scraped through with a degree, and then found his way into the church. 

Eventually, he became Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral — which is why you’ll sometimes see him called “Dean Swift.”

 Swift also spent years in London, working as a secretary and making himself known as a pamphleteer — those short, sharp political essays that could make or break reputations. He wrote for both the Whigs and the Tories, but the more he saw of politics, the more disillusioned he became.

When he returned to Ireland, reluctantly, he turned that disillusionment into some of the fiercest writing of his age.

Now we tend to think of his novel Gulliver’s Travels as a children’s story — tiny people, giants, talking horses. But for Swift, it was never a fairy tale. It was a funhouse mirror, designed to show us just how ridiculous we humans can be.

In Lilliput, Gulliver meets people only six inches tall. Their politics? Petty squabbles about which end of an egg should be cracked. Sound familiar?

In Brobdingnag, the land of giants, Gulliver himself becomes the tiny one. The giant king looks at European politics and concludes it’s nothing but a pack of vicious, greedy little men. Again… sound familiar?

Then there’s Laputa, the floating island of scientists and intellectuals, so obsessed with abstract theories that they forget about real life on the ground. And finally, the Houyhnhnms — rational, noble horses — who live in contrast to the Yahoos, disgusting, bestial humans. Swift’s conclusion? We may not be as noble as we like to think.

In short, Gulliver’s Travels is less “storybook adventure” and more “political satire disguised as adventure.” Think of it as Black Mirror on horseback.

Note this passage from gulliver's travels -

About four hours after we began our journey, I awaked by a very ridiculous accident; for the carriage being stopped a while, to adjust something that was out of order, two or three of the young natives had the curiosity to see how I looked when I was asleep; they climbed up into the engine, and advancing very softly to my face, one of them, an officer in the guards, put the sharp end of his half-pike a good way up into my left nostril, which tickled my nose like a straw, and made me sneeze violently; whereupon they stole off unperceived, and it was three weeks before I knew the cause of my waking so suddenly. We made a long march the remaining part of the day, and, rested at night with five hundred guards on each side of me, half with torches, and half with bows and arrows, ready to shoot me if I should offer to stir. The next morning at sunrise we continued our march, and arrived within two hundred yards of the city gates about noon. The emperor, and all his court, came out to meet us; but his great officers would by no means suffer his majesty to endanger his person by mounting on my body.
At the place where the carriage stopped there stood an ancient temple, esteemed to be the largest in the whole kingdom; which, having been polluted some years before by an unnatural murder, was, according to the zeal of those people, looked upon as profane, and therefore had been applied to common use, and all the ornaments and furniture carried away. In this edifice it was determined I should lodge. The great gate fronting to the north was about four feet high, and almost two feet wide, through which I could easily creep. On each side of the gate was a small window, not above six inches from the ground: into that on the left side, the king’s smith conveyed fourscore and eleven chains, like those that hang to a lady’s watch in Europe, and almost as large, which were locked to my left leg with six-and-thirty padlocks. Over against this temple, on the other side of the great highway, at twenty feet distance, there was a turret at least five feet high. Here the emperor ascended, with many principal lords of his court, to have an opportunity of viewing me, as I was told, for I could not see them. It was reckoned that above a hundred thousand inhabitants came out of the town upon the same errand; and, in spite of my guards, I believe there could not be fewer than ten thousand at several times, who mounted my body by the help of ladders. But a proclamation was soon issued, to forbid it upon pain of death. When the workmen found it was impossible for me to break loose, they cut all the strings that bound me; whereupon I rose up, with as melancholy a disposition as ever I had in my life. But the noise and astonishment of the people, at seeing me rise and walk, are not to be expressed. The chains that held my left leg were about two yards long, and gave me not only the liberty of walking backwards and forwards in a semicircle, but, being fixed within four inches of the gate, allowed me to creep in, and lie at my full length.

Let’s return to Swift’s most infamous work: A Modest Proposal.

On the surface, it reads like a calm, well-reasoned essay. Swift adopts the voice of a rational economist, carefully explaining how selling Irish children as food would reduce poverty, stimulate the economy, and even provide new recipes for the wealthy. It’s so straight-faced that some readers at the time actually wondered if he was serious. And that’s the genius of it. By exaggerating the cold logic of exploitation, Swift forces us to see just how inhuman real policies already were. He doesn’t just say England was devouring Ireland — he makes us imagine it on the plate.

But perhaps most important is the fact that he was one of the first writers who understood how entertainment could carry deep social critique. In a sense, he’s the ancestor of political cartoons, satirical late-night comedy, even shows  such as The Daily Show - a subject I want to delve into later in this podcast episode.. His questions still sting: Are politicians self-serving? Are scientists blind to real human needs? Is human nature corrupt at the core? He makes us laugh, but then he makes us uneasy.

He was a man of the cloth who wrote shocking satire - a playful fantasist whose children’s classic (Gulliver’s Travels) is actually a savage political allegory.  And he is a writer who forces us to ask: when is laughter the sharpest weapon?  It is even said that his biting pamphlets were so effective that people would say “it was safer to provoke a lion than to cross Swift.”

No, Jonathan Swift was not an optimist. He looked at human nature and saw pride, greed, and hypocrisy. But he also believed in the power of words to puncture those illusions. He made people laugh, but more importantly, he made them uncomfortable.

Swift was so effective as a pamphleteer that politicians actually feared him. His Drapier’s Letters (1724) — anonymous pamphlets protesting a new English coinage in Ireland — stirred up so much public anger that the government tried (and failed) to find and prosecute the author.
One judge even declared it would be “as dangerous to prosecute the Drapier as to attack a hornet’s nest.”  That line alone shows the power of his pen.
Swift had two close, complicated relationships with women, both named Esther.

Esther Johnson (“Stella”): He met her when she was a teenager and he was in his 20s; she became his lifelong companion. Rumors swirled that they secretly married — though there’s no proof. He wrote her tender letters, published later as the Journal to Stella.

Esther Vanhomrigh (“Vanessa”): A younger woman who fell in love with him; she even moved to Ireland to be near him. But she was jealous of Stella - the other Esther - and when she confronted him, Swift cut her off completely. Vanessa died soon after, at just 35.

It’s the kind of drama that could come straight out of a novel — except Swift lived it.

Toward the end of his life, Swift suffered from illness — probably Ménière’s disease, which caused dizziness, deafness, and mental decline.

When he died in 1745, he left behind an epitaph that still startles. In Latin, it says: “Here lies the body of Jonathan Swift, Dean of this Cathedral,

where savage indignation can no longer lacerate his heart.
Go, traveler, and imitate if you can,
one who strove with all his strength
to champion liberty.”

That phrase — “savage indignation” — captures him perfectly.

You could say that Jonathan Swift was a paradox in many ways.

He was a priest, but often accused of being irreverent.

He lived in Ireland, but considered himself English.
He wrote children’s adventure stories, but filled them with political despair.
This tension makes him both fascinating and frustrating — and perfect for satire.

Swift would thrive today on Twitter or TikTok. Imagine him tweeting A Modest Proposal today — it would go viral instantly, half the audience horrified, the other half saying, “It’s satire, people!” His wit was always short, sharp, and designed to provoke. In a sense, he was the 18th-century equivalent of “owning” someone with a perfectly timed clapback.

Think about that: one man, with nothing but his pen, made the English government back down.

His first work was A Tale of a Tub written in (1704)
This work was a parody of religious disputes; outrageous, scandalous, and got him accused of irreverence for the rest of his life.

Then he wrote the previous previously mentioned Gulliver’s Travels in (1726)

Think about its elements - you have miniature people from Lilliput: tiny politicians with petty disputes (egg-breaking).  And then people from Brobdingnag: giants who see Europeans as cruel little creatures.
As well as the floating island of Laputa a place detached from reality with its scientists, and absurd experiments. And finally he invented a literary island of rational horses versus brutish humans to represent Jonathan Swift's grim view of mankind.

Think of Gulliver’s Travels as Black Mirror on horseback. On the surface, it’s adventure. Underneath, it’s an unflinching look at politics, science, and human pride
Swift was brilliant, but not exactly easy to love. With “Stella” he may have found devotion; with “Vanessa” he found passion. But his inability — or unwillingness — to reconcile the two left heartbreak behind. It’s a reminder: behind the satirist’s mask was a complicated, often difficult man who gradually grew bitter and withdrawn.

It is said that Swift was meticulous about hygiene — not only for himself but for his surroundings. Yet he could be physically combative in disputes, sometimes swatting people with his walking stick when irritated. These   irks made him a larger-than-life personality, both disciplined and unpredictable.
He died in 1745, and the epitaph on his tomb says

“Where savage indignation can no longer lacerate his heart.
Go, traveler, and imitate if you can,
one who strove with all his strength
to champion liberty.”

- “Savage indignation” — that’s Swift in two words. Angry, biting, relentless — but always in the service of truth.  He is the model for satire - showing that laughter can be sharper than anger. His work anticipates Orwell and Vonnegut, and modern satirists such as John Oliver and Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart.

He remains readable: his prose cuts through the centuries.

Now, one of the many writers who was influenced by Swift was Charles Dickens - Now when we talk about literary influence, Jonathan Swift and Charles Dickens might seem like worlds apart. One writes in 18th-century Ireland, delivering moral shock with A Modest Proposal. The other, Dickens, walks the crowded streets of 19th century London, painting vivid portraits of orphans, laborers, and corrupt officials. And yet, the connection is undeniable.

Swift’s genius lay in his ability to entertain while instructing, to make readers laugh, shudder, and reflect all at once. Dickens inherited this blueprint. In novels such as Oliver Twist or Bleak House, Dickens exposes poverty, bureaucratic absurdity, and social injustice, often through exaggerated characters or situations. Fagin, Uriah Heep, and Mr. Bumble may seem almost caricatured, but they are moral mirrors — much like the Lilliputians or Yahoos of Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels.

Both authors understood that humor is a vehicle for critique. Swift presents a calm, reasoned argument for the unthinkable — eating children — and Dickens makes us laugh at Mr. Micawber’s endless optimism or Mrs. Gamp’s chaotic caregiving. In both cases, the humor softens the blow but sharpens the insight.

Swift’s first-person narrators, such as Gulliver, lend authority and irony simultaneously. Dickens often employs a narrator who is both observer and commentator, guiding readers through social absurdities without ever being heavy-handed. This method — weaving social critique seamlessly into story — is a direct inheritance from Swift.

Finally, both writers illuminate injustice. Swift decries the exploitation of Ireland and the human capacity for folly; Dickens exposes industrial-era England’s cruelty and neglect. In short, Dickens inherited Swift’s lesson that literature can be both a moral instrument and a mirror to society — making readers laugh, cringe, and think, all at once.

So when you read Dickens, or hear a well-aimed satirical commentary today, remember: he’s walking a path blazed long before him by Jonathan Swift, the master of moral satire. And yes a future episode, will delve specifically into Charles Dickens

So, getting back to today’s subject -  why should we still care about Swift?

Because he showed that satire can matter. That laughter can sting. That wit can be a weapon sharper than any sword.

Without Swift, we don’t get Orwell. We don’t get Vonnegut. We don’t get Stephen Colbert or John Oliver or John Stewart. Every time someone uses humor to expose injustice, they’re walking in Swift’s footsteps.
And his writing? It still reads fresh. Still funny. Still unnerving. Which is the best kind of funny.

Jonathan Swift wasn’t easy. He wasn’t gentle. But he proved that literature can be dangerous. And sometimes, that’s exactly what literature should be.

Next time, we’ll move from Swift’s biting satire to Henry Fielding. But for now, remember this: the best satire doesn’t just make us laugh. It makes us see ourselves more clearly.

In conclusion, you might ask what do we notice about Swift’s writing? What makes it special?

First, satire as a weapon. Swift rarely shouts. He rarely moralizes. Instead, he makes you laugh, and then he makes you uncomfortable about why you’re laughing.

Second, human folly. Swift had no illusions about human nature. He saw greed, hypocrisy, and corruption everywhere.

Third, his style. Unlike many writers of his day, Swift’s prose is clear, sharp, and modern. You could almost drop his sentences into today’s newspaper and they’d still make sense.

And finally, his pessimism. He doubted whether humans could ever truly improve themselves. It’s a dark vision — but it gave his satire its bite.

If Swift were alive today? I think he’d be all over Twitter. Imagine him dropping A Modest Proposal as a tweet-thread. Half the audience horrified. The other half saying, “Relax — it’s satire.” Swift would go viral in an instant.

Sources include: Gulliver's travels, a modest proposal, a tale of a tub, and Drapier’s letters.

Join celebrate creativity for episode 463 - a look at nature through the eyes of poets William Wordsworth, Robert Frost, and singer Taylor Swift

I’m George Bartley, and this is Celebrate Creativity.