II

In my Future of an Illusion⁠⁴ I was concerned much less with the deepest sources of religious feeling than with what the ordinary man understands by his religion, that system of doctrines and pledges that on the one hand explains the riddle of this world to him with an enviable completeness, and on the other assures him that a solicitous Providence is watching over him and will make up to him in a future existence for any shortcomings in this life. The ordinary man cannot imagine this Providence in any other form but that of a greatly exalted father, for only such a one could understand the needs of the sons of men, or be softened by their prayers and placated by the signs of their remorse. The whole thing is so patently infantile, so incongruous with reality, that to one whose attitude to humanity is friendly it is painful to think that the great majority of mortals will never be able to rise above this view of life. It is even more humiliating to discover what a large number of those alive to-day, who must see that this religion is not tenable, yet try to defend it inch by inch, as if with a series of pitiable rearguard actions. One would like to count oneself among the believers, so as to admonish the philosophers who try to preserve the God of religion by substituting for him an impersonal, shadowy, abstract principle, and say, ‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain!’ Some of the great men of the past did the same, but that is no justification for us; we know why they had to do so.

In my Future of an Illusion⁠⁴ I focused much less on the deepest sources of religious feeling than on the ordinary man’s understanding of his religion. For him, religion is a system of teachings and promises. On the one hand, this system explains the mystery of the world with enviable completeness. On the other, it assures him that a caring Providence watches over him. In a future life, this Providence will make up for anything lacking in his present life. The ordinary man can imagine this Providence only as a father raised far above ordinary human beings. Only such a father could understand human needs, be moved by people’s prayers, and be appeased by their remorse. This whole view is so obviously childish, so at odds with reality, that anyone who cares about humanity finds it painful. The great majority of people will never be able to rise above this view of life. Even more humiliating is the number of people today who must see that this religion cannot be defended. Yet they try to defend it inch by inch, as if fighting a series of pitiful rearguard actions. One would like to count oneself among the believers, just to rebuke certain philosophers. These philosophers try to preserve the God of religion by replacing him with an impersonal, vague, abstract principle. One could then say to them, ‘You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain!’ Some great men of the past did the same, but their example is no justification for us. We know why they had to do so.

We will now go back to the ordinary man and his religion—the only religion that ought to bear the name. The well-known words of one of our great and wise poets come to mind in which he expresses his view of the relation of religion to art and science. They run:

We will now return to the ordinary man and his religion. His religion is the only one that deserves the name. The well-known words of one of our great and wise poets come to mind. In these words, he describes his view of how religion relates to art and science. His words are:

On the one hand, these words contrast religion with the two highest achievements of man, and on the other, they declare that in respect of their value in life they can represent or replace each other. If we wish to deprive even the ordinary man, too, of his religion, we shall clearly not have the authority of the poet on our side. We will seek to get in touch with the meaning of his utterance by a special way. Life as we find it is too hard for us; it entails too much pain, too many disappointments, impossible tasks. We cannot do without palliative remedies. We cannot dispense with auxiliary constructions, as Theodor Fontane said. There are perhaps three of these means: powerful diversions of interest, which lead us to care little about our misery; substitutive gratifications, which lessen it; and intoxicating substances, which make us insensitive to it. Something of this kind is indispensable.⁠⁶ Voltaire is aiming at a diversion of interest when he brings his Candide to a close with the advice that people should cultivate their gardens; scientific work is another deflection of the same kind. The substitute gratifications, such as art offers, are illusions in contrast to reality, but none the less satisfying to the mind on that account, thanks to the place which phantasy has reserved for herself in mental life. The intoxicating substances affect our body, alter its chemical processes. It is not so simple to find the place where religion belongs in this series. We must look further afield.

On the one hand, these words contrast religion with humanity’s two highest achievements. On the other, they say all three can stand for or replace one another in their value for life. If we want to take religion away even from the ordinary person, the poet’s authority clearly will not support us. We will try a particular approach to understanding his words. Life as we find it is too hard for us. It brings too much pain, too many disappointments, and impossible tasks. We cannot do without remedies that ease our suffering. We cannot do without supporting structures, as Theodor Fontane said. There are perhaps three kinds of such remedies. Powerful distractions draw our attention away, making us care little about our misery. Substitute satisfactions lessen our misery. Intoxicating substances make us insensitive to our misery. Something of this kind is essential.⁠⁶ Voltaire aims to distract our attention when he ends his Candide by advising people to cultivate their gardens. Scientific work is another distraction of the same kind. The substitute satisfactions offered by art, for example, are illusions compared with reality. But these illusions are no less satisfying to the mind, thanks to fantasy’s established place in our mental life. Intoxicating substances affect our bodies and change their chemical processes. Finding religion’s place among these remedies is not so simple. We must look further afield.

The question, ‘What is the purpose of human life?’ has been asked times without number; it has never received a satisfactory answer; perhaps it does not admit of such an answer. Many a questioner has added that if it should appear that life has no purpose, then it would lose all value for him. But these threats alter nothing. It looks, on the contrary, as though one had a right to dismiss this question, for it seems to presuppose that belief in the superiority of the human race with which we are already so familiar in its other expressions. Nobody asks what is the purpose of the lives of animals, unless peradventure they are designed to be of service to man. But this, too, will not hold, for with many animals man can do nothing—except describe, classify and study them; and countless species have declined to be put even to this use, by living and dying and becoming extinct before men had set eyes upon them. So again, only religion is able to answer the question of the purpose of life. One can hardly go wrong in concluding that the idea of a purpose in life stands and falls with the religious system.

The question, ‘What is the purpose of human life?’ has been asked countless times. No satisfactory answer has ever been given. Perhaps no such answer is possible. Many who ask have added that if life turned out to have no purpose, life would lose all value for them. But these threats change nothing. On the contrary, we seem justified in dismissing the question. The question seems to assume that humans are superior, a belief already familiar to us in other forms. Nobody asks what purpose animals’ lives serve, except perhaps to suggest that animals are meant to serve humans. But that answer does not hold up either. Humans can do nothing with many animals except describe, classify, and study them. And countless species have refused even to serve that purpose. They lived, died, and became extinct before humans ever saw them. So once again, only religion can answer the question of life’s purpose. We can hardly go wrong in concluding that the idea of a purpose in life stands or falls with religion.

We will turn, therefore, to the less ambitious problem, what the behaviour of men themselves reveals as the purpose and object of their lives, what they demand of life and wish to attain in it. The answer to this can hardly be in doubt: they seek happiness, they want to become happy and to remain so. There are two sides to this striving, a positive and a negative; it aims on the one hand at eliminating pain and discomfort, on the other at the experience of intense pleasures. In its narrower sense the word ‘happiness’ relates only to the last. Thus human activities branch off in two directions—corresponding to this double goal—according to which of the two they aim at realizing, either predominantly or even exclusively.

So we will turn to a less ambitious question. What does people's own behavior reveal about the purpose and goal of their lives? What do people demand from life, and what do they hope to achieve in it? The answer can hardly be in doubt: people seek happiness. They want to become happy and stay happy. This pursuit has two sides, one positive and one negative. It aims both to eliminate pain and discomfort and to experience intense pleasure. In its narrower sense, the word ‘happiness’ refers only to the experience of intense pleasure. Human activities therefore branch out in two directions, reflecting this double goal. They aim mainly, or even exclusively, either to avoid pain and discomfort or to experience intense pleasure.

As we see, it is simply the pleasure-principle which draws up the programme of life’s purpose. This principle dominates the operation of the mental apparatus from the very beginning; there can be no doubt about its efficiency, and yet its programme is in conflict with the whole world, with the macrocosm as much as with the microcosm. It simply cannot be put into execution, the whole constitution of things runs counter to it; one might say the intention that man should be ‘happy’ is not included in the scheme of ‘Creation’. What is called happiness in its narrowest sense comes from the satisfaction—most often instantaneous—of pent-up needs which have reached great intensity, and by its very nature can only be a transitory experience. When any condition desired by the pleasure-principle is protracted, it results in a feeling only of mild comfort; we are so constituted that we can only intensely enjoy contrasts, much less intensely states in themselves.⁠⁷ Our possibilities of happiness are thus limited from the start by our very constitution. It is much less difficult to be unhappy. Suffering comes from three quarters: from our own body, which is destined to decay and dissolution, and cannot even dispense with anxiety and pain as danger-signals; from the outer world, which can rage against us with the most powerful and pitiless forces of destruction; and finally from our relations with other men. The unhappiness which has this last origin we find perhaps more painful than any other; we tend to regard it more or less as a gratuitous addition, although it cannot be any less an inevitable fate than the suffering that proceeds from other sources.

As we can see, the pleasure-principle alone sets the purpose of life. This principle governs how the mind works from the very beginning. There can be no doubt about its effectiveness. Yet its aim conflicts with the entire world, both the world at large and the world within us. Its aim simply cannot be achieved. The whole nature of things works against it. One might say that the intention for human beings to be ‘happy’ is not part of the plan of ‘Creation’. Happiness in the narrowest sense comes from satisfying pent-up needs that have become very intense, most often in an instant. By its very nature, such happiness can only be temporary. When a condition desired by the pleasure-principle lasts, the result is only a feeling of mild comfort. We are built to enjoy contrasts intensely, but to enjoy lasting states much less intensely.⁠⁷ Our own nature therefore limits our possibilities for happiness from the start. Being unhappy is much easier. Suffering comes from three sources. The first is our own body, which is destined to decay and fall apart. The body cannot even do without anxiety and pain as warning signals. The second is the outside world, which can attack us with immensely powerful and merciless forces of destruction. The third and final source is our relationships with other people. We find the unhappiness caused by these relationships perhaps more painful than any other kind. We tend to see this suffering as a more or less needless addition. Yet suffering from relationships cannot be any less inevitable than suffering from other sources.

It is no wonder if, under the pressure of these possibilities of suffering, humanity is wont to reduce its demands for happiness, just as even the pleasure-principle itself changes into the more accommodating reality-principle under the influence of external environment; if a man thinks himself happy if he has merely escaped unhappiness or weathered trouble; if in general the task of avoiding pain forces that of obtaining pleasure into the background. Reflection shows that there are very different ways of attempting to perform this task; and all these ways have been recommended by the various schools of wisdom in the art of life and put into practice by men. Unbridled gratification of all desires forces itself into the foreground as the most alluring guiding principle in life, but it entails preferring enjoyment to caution and penalizes itself after short indulgence. The other methods, in which avoidance of pain is the main motive, are differentiated according to the source of the suffering against which they are mainly directed. Some of these measures are extreme and some moderate, some are one-sided and some deal with several aspects of the matter at once. Voluntary loneliness, isolation from others, is the readiest safeguard against the unhappiness that may arise out of human relations. We know what this means: the happiness found along this path is that of peace. Against the dreaded outer world one can defend oneself only by turning away in some other direction, if the difficulty is to be solved single-handed. There is indeed another and a better way: that of combining with the rest of the human community and taking up the attack on nature, thus forcing it to obey human will, under the guidance of science. One is working then with all for the good of all. But the most interesting methods for averting pain are those which aim at influencing the organism itself. In the last analysis all pain is but sensation; it only exists in so far as we feel it, and we feel it only in consequence of certain characteristics of our organism.

Given these threats of suffering, it is no wonder that people tend to lower their expectations of happiness. Even the pleasure-principle becomes the more flexible reality-principle under the influence of the external world. So it is no wonder if someone feels happy merely to have escaped unhappiness or survived trouble. Nor is it surprising if avoiding pain generally pushes the pursuit of pleasure into the background. On reflection, we can see many different ways of trying to avoid pain. Various schools of wisdom about how to live have recommended all these methods, and people have put them into practice. Unrestrained satisfaction of every desire stands out as the most tempting guiding principle for life. But this approach means putting enjoyment before caution, and even a brief indulgence brings its own punishment. The other methods focus mainly on avoiding pain. They differ according to the source of suffering they chiefly aim to counter. Some measures are extreme and some moderate. Some address only one aspect of the problem, while others address several at once. Choosing solitude, or isolation from others, is the most readily available protection against unhappiness arising from human relationships. We know what such solitude offers: the happiness of peace. If we must deal with the feared outside world alone, we can defend ourselves only by turning away from it. There is, however, another and better way. We can join the rest of humanity and, guided by science, attack nature and force it to obey human will. Then we are working together for the good of all. But the most interesting methods of preventing pain aim to influence the body itself. Ultimately, all pain is simply a sensation. Pain exists only insofar as we feel it. And we feel pain only because of certain characteristics of our bodies.

The crudest of these methods of influencing the body, but also the most effective, is the chemical one: that of intoxication. I do not think anyone entirely understands their operation, but it is a fact that there are certain substances foreign to the body which, when present in the blood or tissues, directly cause us pleasurable sensations, but also so change the conditions of our perceptivity that we become insensible of disagreeable sensations. The two effects not only take place simultaneously, they seem to be closely bound up with each other. But there must be substances in the chemical composition of our bodies which can do the same, for we know of at least one morbid state, that of mania, in which a condition similar to this intoxication arises without any drug being absorbed. Besides this, our normal mental life shows variations, according to which pleasure is experienced with more or less ease, and along with this goes a diminished or increased sensitivity to pain. It is greatly to be regretted that this toxic aspect of mental processes has so far eluded scientific research. The services rendered by intoxicating substances in the struggle for happiness and in warding off misery rank so highly as a benefit that both individuals and races have given them an established position within their libido-economy. It is not merely the immediate gain in pleasure which one owes to them, but also a measure of that independence of the outer world which is so sorely craved. Men know that with the help they can get from ‘drowning their cares’ they can at any time slip away from the oppression of reality and find a refuge in a world of their own where painful feelings do not enter. We are aware that it is just this property which constitutes the danger and injuriousness of intoxicating substances. In certain circumstances they are to blame when valuable energies which could have been used to improve the lot of humanity are uselessly wasted.

The crudest method of influencing the body is also the most effective: using chemicals to become intoxicated. I do not think anyone fully understands how intoxicating substances work. But certain substances foreign to the body directly produce pleasurable sensations when present in the blood or tissues. These substances also change how we perceive things, making us unable to feel unpleasant sensations. These two effects not only happen at the same time, but also seem closely connected. Yet our bodies must contain chemicals that can do the same thing. We know of at least one disordered state, mania, that produces a similar condition without taking any drug. Our ordinary mental lives also vary in how easily we experience pleasure. These variations come with decreased or increased sensitivity to pain. It is deeply regrettable that this chemical aspect of mental processes has so far escaped scientific investigation. Intoxicating substances offer such great benefits in seeking happiness and keeping misery at bay that they have secured an established place. Both individuals and peoples have made room for them in their libido-economy, the way they distribute their libidinal energy. These substances offer not just immediate pleasure, but also some of the independence from the outside world we so desperately crave. People know that by ‘drowning their cares’ they can escape the pressures of reality at any time. They can retreat into a world of their own, where painful feelings cannot enter. We know that this very power makes intoxicating substances dangerous and harmful. Under certain circumstances, these substances cause the pointless waste of valuable energy that could have improved humanity’s condition.

The complicated structure of our mental apparatus admits, however, of a whole series of other kinds of influence. The gratification of instincts is happiness, but when the outer world lets us starve, refuses us satisfaction of our needs, they become the cause of very great suffering. So the hope is born that by influencing these impulses one may escape some measure of suffering. This type of defence against pain no longer relates to the sensory apparatus; it seeks to control the internal sources of our needs themselves. An extreme form of it consists in annihilation of the instincts, as taught by the wisdom of the East and practised by the Yogi. When it succeeds, it is true, it involves giving up all other activities as well (sacrificing the whole of life), and again, by another path, the only happiness it brings is that of peace. The same way is taken when the aim is less extreme and only control of the instincts is sought. When this is so, the higher mental systems which recognize the reality-principle have the upper hand. The aim of gratification is by no means abandoned in this case; a certain degree of protection against suffering is secured, in that lack of satisfaction causes less pain when the instincts are kept in check than when they are unbridled. On the other hand, this brings with it an undeniable reduction in the degree of enjoyment obtainable. The feeling of happiness produced by indulgence of a wild, untamed craving is incomparably more intense than is the satisfying of a curbed desire. The irresistibility of perverted impulses, perhaps the charm of forbidden things generally, may in this way be explained economically.

The complex structure of our minds, however, allows for a whole range of other influences. Satisfying our instincts brings happiness. But when the outside world leaves us starving and denies our needs, those instincts become a source of great suffering. So we begin to hope that influencing these impulses may spare us some suffering. This defense against pain no longer works through our senses. Instead, it seeks to control the inner sources of our needs. An extreme version aims to eliminate the instincts, as Eastern wisdom teaches and the Yogi practices. When this approach succeeds, it does indeed require giving up all other activities as well (sacrificing the whole of life). Once again, though by a different path, the only happiness it brings is peace. The same approach is taken when the aim is less extreme and seeks only to control the instincts. In this case, the higher mental systems that recognize the reality-principle gain the upper hand. The aim of satisfaction is by no means abandoned. But keeping the instincts in check provides some protection against suffering. Unsatisfied instincts cause less pain when restrained than when allowed to run free. On the other hand, this restraint undeniably reduces the pleasure we can experience. Satisfying a wild, untamed craving produces an incomparably stronger feeling of happiness than satisfying a restrained desire. This difference in intensity may explain the irresistible force of perverted impulses in terms of mental energy. Perhaps the appeal of forbidden things in general can be explained in the same way.

Another method of guarding against pain is by using the libido-displacements that our mental equipment allows of, by which it gains so greatly in flexibility. The task is then one of transferring the instinctual aims into such directions that they cannot be frustrated by the outer world. Sublimation of the instincts lends an aid in this. Its success is greatest when a man knows how to heighten sufficiently his capacity for obtaining pleasure from mental and intellectual work. Fate has little power against him then. This kind of satisfaction, such as the artist’s joy in creation, in embodying his phantasies, or the scientist’s in solving problems or discovering truth, has a special quality which we shall certainly one day be able to define metapsychologically. Until then we can only say metaphorically it seems to us ‘higher and finer’, but compared with that of gratifying gross primitive instincts, its intensity is tempered and diffused; it does not overwhelm us physically. The weak point of this method, however, is that it is not generally applicable; it is only available to the few. It presupposes special gifts and dispositions which are not very commonly found in a sufficient degree. And even to these few it does not secure complete protection against suffering; it gives no invulnerable armour against the arrows of fate, and it usually fails when a man’s own body becomes a source of suffering to him.⁠⁸

Another way to guard against pain is to redirect libido, as our minds allow us to do. This ability gives our minds much of their flexibility. The task is to redirect instinctual aims so that the outside world cannot frustrate them. Sublimation of the instincts helps with this. This method works best when someone can sufficiently increase their ability to find pleasure in mental and intellectual work. Fate then has little power over them. This satisfaction has a special quality, as in an artist’s joy in creating and giving form to their fantasies. The same is true of a scientist’s joy in solving problems or discovering truth. One day we will certainly be able to define this quality in metapsychological terms. Until then, we can only speak metaphorically and say that this satisfaction seems ‘higher and finer’. But compared with the satisfaction of basic, primitive instincts, its intensity is milder and more diffuse. It does not overwhelm us physically. The weakness of this method, however, is that not everyone can use it. It is available only to a few. It requires special gifts and inclinations that are rarely found to a sufficient degree. And even for these few, this method does not provide complete protection against suffering. It offers no impenetrable armor against the arrows of fate. And it usually fails when a person’s own body becomes a source of suffering.⁸

This behaviour reveals clearly enough its aim—that of making oneself independent of the external world, by looking for happiness in the inner things of the mind; in the next method the same features are even more marked. The connection with reality is looser still; satisfaction is obtained through illusions, which are recognized as such, without the discrepancy between them and reality being allowed to interfere with the pleasure they give. These illusions are derived from the life of phantasy which, at the time when the sense of reality developed, was expressly exempted from the demands of the reality-test and set apart for the purpose of fulfilling wishes which would be very hard to realize. At the head of these phantasy-pleasures stands the enjoyment of works of art which through the agency of the artist is opened to those who cannot themselves create.⁠⁹ Those who are sensitive to the influence of art do not know how to rate it high enough as a source of happiness and consolation in life. Yet art affects us but as a mild narcotic and can provide no more than a temporary refuge for us from the hardships of life; its influence is not strong enough to make us forget real misery.

This behavior reveals its aim clearly enough: to become independent of the outside world by seeking happiness within the mind. The next method shows these same features even more strongly. Its connection with reality is even looser. Satisfaction comes from illusions that are recognized as illusions. Yet the gap between these illusions and reality is not allowed to interfere with the pleasure they give. These illusions come from fantasy. When our sense of reality developed, fantasy was deliberately exempted from the need to pass the test of reality. Fantasy was set aside to fulfill wishes that would be very hard to realize. Foremost among these pleasures of fantasy is the enjoyment of works of art. Through the artist, this enjoyment becomes available to people who cannot create art themselves.⁹ Those who respond to art cannot praise it highly enough as a source of happiness and comfort in life. Yet art acts on us only as a mild narcotic. Art can offer us no more than a temporary refuge from life's hardships. Its influence is not strong enough to make us forget real misery.

Another method operates more energetically and thoroughly; it regards reality as the source of all suffering, as the one and only enemy, with whom life is intolerable and with whom therefore all relations must be broken off if one is to be happy in any way at all. The hermit turns his back on this world; he will have nothing to do with it. But one can do more than that; one can try to re-create it, try to build up another instead, from which the most unbearable features are eliminated and replaced by others corresponding to one’s own wishes. He who in his despair and defiance sets out on this path will not as a rule get very far; reality will be too strong for him. He becomes a madman and usually finds no one to help him in carrying through his delusion. It is said, however, that each one of us behaves in some respect like the paranoiac, substituting a wish-fulfilment for some aspect of the world which is unbearable to him, and carrying this delusion through into reality. When a large number of people make this attempt together and try to obtain assurance of happiness and protection from suffering by a delusional transformation of reality it acquires special significance. The religions of humanity, too, must be classified as mass-delusions of this kind. Needless to say, no one who shares a delusion recognizes it as such.

Another method works more forcefully and thoroughly. It sees reality as the source of all suffering and as the one and only enemy. Life with this enemy is unbearable. So anyone who wants any happiness at all must cut all ties with reality. The hermit turns his back on the world and refuses to have anything to do with it. But a person can go further and try to remake the world, building another in its place. In this new world, the most unbearable features are removed and replaced with others that match the person’s wishes. Anyone who takes this path out of despair and defiance will usually not get very far. Reality will be too strong for them. They become insane and usually find no one to help them carry out their delusion. Yet it is said that each of us behaves in some way like a person with paranoia. We replace some unbearable aspect of the world with a fulfilled wish, then carry this delusion into reality. This attempt takes on special significance when large numbers of people make it together. They try to secure happiness and protection from suffering by transforming reality through delusion. Humanity’s religions, too, must be classified as mass delusions of this kind. Needless to say, no one who shares a delusion recognizes it as a delusion.

I do not suppose that I have enumerated all the methods by which men strive to win happiness and keep suffering at bay, and I know, too, that the material might have been arranged differently. One of these methods I have not yet mentioned at all—not because I had forgotten it, but because it will interest us in another connection. How would it be possible to forget this way of all others of practising the art of life! It is conspicuous for its remarkable capacity to combine characteristic features. Needless to say, it, too, strives to bring about independence of fate—as we may best call it—and with this object it looks for satisfaction within the mind, and uses the capacity for displacing libido which we mentioned before, but it does not turn away from the outer world; on the contrary, it takes a firm hold of its objects and obtains happiness from an emotional relation to them. Nor is it content to strive for avoidance of pain—that goal of weary resignation; rather it passes that by heedlessly and holds fast to the deep-rooted, passionate striving for a positive fulfilment of happiness. Perhaps it really comes nearer to this goal than any other method. I am speaking, of course, of that way of life which makes love the centre of all things and anticipates all happiness from loving and being loved. This attitude is familiar enough to all of us; one of the forms in which love manifests itself, sexual love, gives us our most intense experience of an overwhelming pleasurable sensation and so furnishes a prototype for our strivings after happiness. What is more natural than that we should persist in seeking happiness along the path by which we first encountered it? The weak side of this way of living is clearly evident; and were it not for this, no human being would ever have thought of abandoning this path to happiness in favour of any other. We are never so defenceless against suffering as when we love, never so forlornly unhappy as when we have lost our love-object or its love. But this does not complete the story of that way of life which bases happiness on love; there is much more to be said about it.

I do not suppose I have listed all the ways people seek happiness and try to keep suffering away. I also know that I could have arranged the material differently. There is one method I have not mentioned at all. Not because I forgot it, but because it will interest us in another context. How could anyone forget this particular way of practicing the art of living! It stands out for its remarkable ability to combine distinctive features. Of course, this method also seeks independence from fate, as we might best call it. To achieve that independence, it seeks satisfaction within the mind and uses the ability to redirect libido mentioned earlier. But it does not turn away from the outside world. On the contrary, it holds firmly to the objects of its feelings and finds happiness through emotional relationships with them. Nor does it settle for trying to avoid pain, that goal of weary resignation. Instead, it brushes that goal aside and holds firmly to the deep-rooted, passionate drive to achieve positive happiness. Perhaps it really comes closer to that goal than any other method. I am speaking, of course, of the way of life that places love at the center of everything. It expects all happiness to come from loving and being loved. We are all familiar enough with this outlook. Sexual love, one of love’s forms, gives us our most intense experience of overwhelming pleasure. In doing so, it provides a model for our pursuit of happiness. What could be more natural than to keep seeking happiness along the path where we first found it? The weakness of this way of living is obvious. Without that weakness, no one would ever have considered abandoning this path to happiness for any other. We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love. We are never so desperately unhappy as when we have lost the person we love or that person’s love. But the account of a life that bases happiness on love does not end here. There is much more to say about it.

We may here go on to consider the interesting case in which happiness in life is sought first and foremost in the enjoyment of beauty, wherever it is to be found by our senses and our judgement, the beauty of human forms and movements, of natural objects, of landscapes, of artistic and even scientific creations. As a goal in life this aesthetic attitude offers little protection against the menace of suffering, but it is able to compensate for a great deal. The enjoyment of beauty produces a particular, mildly intoxicating kind of sensation. There is no very evident use in beauty; the necessity of it for cultural purposes is not apparent, and yet civilization could not do without it. The science of aesthetics investigates the conditions in which things are regarded as beautiful; it can give no explanation of the nature or origin of beauty; as usual, its lack of results is concealed under a flood of resounding and meaningless words. Unfortunately, psycho-analysis, too, has less to say about beauty than about most things. Its derivation from the realms of sexual sensation is all that seems certain; the love of beauty is a perfect example of a feeling with an inhibited aim. ‘Beauty’ and ‘attraction’ are first of all the attributes of a sexual object. It is remarkable that the genitals themselves, the sight of which is always exciting, are hardly ever regarded as beautiful; the quality of beauty seems, on the other hand, to attach to certain secondary sexual characters.

We may now consider an interesting case: seeking happiness in life above all through the enjoyment of beauty. This means beauty wherever our senses and judgment find it. It includes the beauty of human bodies and movements, natural objects, landscapes, and artistic and even scientific creations. As a goal in life, this focus on beauty offers little protection against the threat of suffering. But it can make up for a great deal. Enjoying beauty produces a distinctive, mildly intoxicating sensation. Beauty has no very obvious use, and its necessity for cultural purposes is not apparent. Yet civilization could not do without it. The science of aesthetics studies the conditions under which things are considered beautiful. It cannot explain the nature or origin of beauty. As usual, this lack of results is hidden beneath a flood of impressive-sounding, meaningless words. Unfortunately, psychoanalysis, too, has less to say about beauty than about most things. All that seems certain is that beauty has its roots in sexual sensation. The love of beauty perfectly illustrates a feeling whose original aim has been inhibited. ‘Beauty’ and ‘attraction’ are, first of all, qualities of a sexual object. Remarkably, the genitals themselves are hardly ever considered beautiful, although seeing them is always sexually exciting. Beauty seems, on the other hand, to belong to certain secondary sexual characteristics.

In spite of the incompleteness of these considerations, I will venture on a few remarks in conclusion of this discussion. The goal towards which the pleasure-principle impels us—of becoming happy—is not attainable; yet we may not—nay, cannot—give up the effort to come nearer to realization of it by some means or other. Very different paths may be taken towards it: some pursue the positive aspect of the aim, attainment of pleasure; others the negative, avoidance of pain. By none of these ways can we achieve all that we desire. In that modified sense in which we have seen it to be attainable, happiness is a problem of the economics of the libido in each individual. There is no sovereign recipe in this matter which suits all; each one must find out for himself by which particular means he may achieve felicity. All kinds of different factors will operate to influence his choice. It depends on how much real gratification he is likely to obtain in the external world, and how far he will find it necessary to make himself independent of it; finally, too, on the belief he has in himself of his power to alter it in accordance with his wishes. Even at this stage the mental constitution of the individual will play a decisive part, aside from any external considerations. The man who is predominantly erotic will choose emotional relationships with others before all else; the narcissistic type, who is more self-sufficient, will seek his essential satisfactions in the inner workings of his own soul; the man of action will never abandon the external world in which he can essay his power. The interests of narcissistic types will be determined by their particular gifts and the degree of instinctual sublimation of which they are capable. When any choice is pursued to an extreme it penalizes itself, in that it exposes the individual to the dangers accompanying any one exclusive life-interest which may always prove inadequate. Just as a cautious business-man avoids investing all his capital in one concern, so wisdom would probably admonish us also not to anticipate all our happiness from one quarter alone. Success is never certain; it depends on the co-operation of many factors, perhaps on none more than the capacity of the mental constitution to adapt itself to the outer world and then utilize this last for obtaining pleasure. Anyone who is born with a specially unfavourable instinctual constitution, and whose libido-components do not go through the transformation and modification necessary for successful achievement in later life, will find it hard to obtain happiness from his external environment, especially if he is faced with the more difficult tasks. One last possibility of dealing with life remains to such people and it offers them at least substitute-gratifications; it takes the form of the flight into neurotic illness, and they mostly adopt it while they are still young. Those whose efforts to obtain happiness come to nought in later years still find consolation in the pleasure of chronic intoxication, or else they embark upon that despairing attempt at revolt—psychosis.

Although these reflections are incomplete, I will venture a few final remarks to close this discussion. The pleasure-principle drives us toward happiness, but that goal cannot be reached. Yet we must not, indeed cannot, stop trying to come closer to happiness by one means or another. We may take very different paths toward happiness. Some pursue the positive side of the goal, gaining pleasure. Others pursue the negative side, avoiding pain. None of these paths can give us everything we desire. In the limited sense in which happiness is attainable, each individual's happiness depends on how their libido is distributed. There is no single formula that works for everyone. Each person must discover which particular means will bring them happiness. Many different factors influence that choice. The choice depends on how much real satisfaction a person can expect from the outside world. It also depends on how far they need to become independent of that world. Finally, the choice depends on their confidence in their power to change the world to suit their wishes. Even at this stage, a person's psychological makeup plays a decisive role, apart from any external circumstances. A person whose strongest drive is erotic will put emotional relationships with others first. The narcissistic type, being more self-sufficient, will seek their main satisfactions within their own inner life. A person of action will never turn away from the outside world, where they can test their power. Narcissistic people's interests will depend on their particular gifts and their capacity to redirect instinctual drives through sublimation. Any approach taken to an extreme brings its own penalty. It exposes the person to the dangers of a single, exclusive interest in life, which may always prove inadequate. Just as a cautious businessperson avoids investing all their capital in one business, wisdom would probably offer similar advice. We should not expect all our happiness to come from one source alone. Success is never certain. It depends on many factors working together. Perhaps the most important is the mind's capacity to adapt to the outside world and use it to gain pleasure. Some people are born with an especially unfavorable set of instinctual drives. If the components of their libido fail to undergo the changes needed for later success, finding happiness becomes difficult. They will struggle to find happiness in the outside world, especially when faced with more difficult tasks. One last way of coping with life remains for such people, offering them at least substitute satisfactions. This is an escape into neurotic illness, which they usually turn to while still young. People whose efforts to find happiness fail later in life can still find comfort in the pleasure of chronic intoxication. Or they embark on that desperate attempt at revolt: psychosis.

Religion circumscribes these measures of choice and adaptation by urging upon everyone alike its single way of achieving happiness and guarding against pain. Its method consists in decrying the value of life and promulgating a view of the real world that is distorted like a delusion, and both of these imply a preliminary intimidating influence upon intelligence. At such a cost—by the forcible imposition of mental infantilism and inducing a mass-delusion—religion succeeds in saving many people from individual neuroses. But little more. There are, as we have said, many paths by which the happiness attainable for man can be reached, but none which is certain to take him to it. Nor can religion keep her promises either. When the faithful find themselves reduced in the end to speaking of God’s ‘inscrutable decree’, they thereby avow that all that is left to them in their sufferings is unconditional submission as a last-remaining consolation and source of happiness. And if a man is willing to come to this, he could probably have arrived there by a shorter road.

Religion limits these choices and adjustments by urging the same path to happiness and protection from pain on everyone. Its method is to belittle the value of life and promote a view of reality distorted like a delusion. Both tactics first require intimidating the intellect. Religion forcibly keeps people mentally childlike and draws them into a mass delusion. At this cost, religion saves many people from individual neuroses. But little more. As we have said, there are many paths to the happiness human beings can attain. But no path is certain to lead to that happiness. Nor can religion keep its promises. In the end, the faithful may find themselves reduced to speaking of God’s ‘inscrutable decree’. When they do, they admit that unconditional submission is their only remaining comfort and source of happiness in their suffering. And if someone is willing to accept such submission, they could probably have reached it by a shorter path.