3

Our discussion of happiness has so far not taught us much that is not already common knowledge. Nor does the prospect of discovering anything new seem much greater if we go on with the problem why it is so hard for mankind to be happy. We gave the answer before, when we cited the three sources of human sufferings, namely, the superior force of nature, the disposition to decay of our bodies, and the inadequacy of our methods of regulating human relations in the family, the community and the state. In regard to the first two, our judgement cannot hesitate: it forces us to recognize these sources of suffering and to submit to the inevitable. We shall never completely subdue nature; our body, too, is an organism, itself a part of nature, and will always contain the seeds of dissolution, with its limited powers of adaptation and achievement. The effect of this recognition is in no way disheartening; on the contrary, it points out the direction for our efforts. If we cannot abolish all suffering, yet a great deal of it we can, and can mitigate more; the experience of several thousand years has convinced us of this. To the third, the social source of our distresses, we take up a different attitude. We prefer not to regard it as one at all; we cannot see why the systems we have ourselves created should not rather ensure protection and well-being for us all. To be sure, when we consider how unsuccessful our efforts to safeguard against suffering in this particular have proved, the suspicion dawns upon us that a bit of unconquerable nature lurks concealed behind this difficulty as well—in the shape of our own mental constitution.

Our discussion of happiness has so far taught us little beyond what is already common knowledge. Nor do we seem much more likely to discover anything new by asking why happiness is so difficult for humanity. We have already answered that question by naming the three sources of human suffering. They are nature’s greater power, our bodies’ tendency to decay, and our inadequate ways of managing human relationships. These relationships include those within the family, the community, and the state. On the first two sources, our judgment leaves no room for doubt. We must recognize these sources of suffering and accept what cannot be avoided. We will never completely control nature. Our bodies, too, are living organisms and part of nature. They will always carry the seeds of decay, with limited abilities to adapt and achieve. Recognizing these limits is not discouraging at all. On the contrary, it shows us where to direct our efforts. If we cannot eliminate all suffering, we can still eliminate a great deal and ease even more. Several thousand years of experience have convinced us of this. We take a different attitude toward the third source of suffering, our social arrangements. We prefer not to regard these arrangements as a source of suffering at all. We cannot see why the systems we ourselves created should not instead ensure protection and well-being for us all. Yet our efforts to protect ourselves against suffering in this area have proved unsuccessful. When we consider these failures, we begin to suspect that some unconquerable part of nature lies behind this difficulty too. That part of nature is our own psychological makeup.

When we start to consider this possibility, we come across a point of view which is so amazing that we will pause over it. According to it, our so-called civilization itself is to blame for a great part of our misery, and we should be much happier if we were to give it up and go back to primitive conditions. I call this amazing because—however one may define culture—it is undeniable that every means by which we try to guard ourselves against menaces from the several sources of human distress is a part of this same culture.

When we begin to consider this possibility, we encounter a view so surprising that we must pause to examine it. According to this view, our so-called civilization is itself to blame for much of our misery. We would be much happier if we abandoned civilization and returned to primitive conditions. I call this view surprising because, however we define culture, one thing is undeniable. Every means we use to protect ourselves from the various sources of human suffering belongs to that same culture.

How has it come about that so many people have adopted this strange attitude of hostility to civilization? In my opinion, it arose from a background of profound long-standing discontent with the existing state of civilization, which finally crystallized into this judgement as a result of certain historical happenings. I believe I can identify the last two of these; I am not learned enough to trace the links in the chain back into the history of the human species. At the time when Christianity conquered the pagan religions some such antagonism to culture must already have been actively at work. It is closely related to the low estimation put upon earthly life by Christian doctrine. The earlier of the last two historical developments was when, as a result of voyages of discovery, men came into contact with primitive peoples and races. To the Europeans, who failed to observe them carefully and misunderstood what they saw, these people seemed to lead simple, happy lives—wanting for nothing—such as the travellers who visited them, with all their superior culture, were unable to achieve. Later experience has corrected this opinion on many points; in several instances the ease of life was due to the bounty of nature and the possibilities of ready satisfaction for the great human needs, but it was erroneously attributed to the absence of the complicated conditions of civilization. The last of the two historical events is especially familiar to us; it was when people began to understand the nature of the neuroses which threaten to undermine the modicum of happiness open to civilized man. It was found that men become neurotic because they cannot tolerate the degree of privation that society imposes on them in virtue of its cultural ideals, and it was supposed that a return to greater possibilities of happiness would ensue if these standards were abolished or greatly relaxed.

How did so many people come to adopt this strange hostility toward civilization? In my view, this hostility grew out of deep, long-standing dissatisfaction with civilization as it existed. Certain historical events finally turned that dissatisfaction into this judgment. I believe I can identify the last two of these events. I do not know enough to trace the chain of events further back into human history. When Christianity overcame the pagan religions, some such hostility toward culture must already have been at work. This hostility is closely connected to the low value Christian teaching places on earthly life. The earlier of the last two developments came when voyages of discovery brought Europeans into contact with primitive peoples and races. The Europeans observed these peoples carelessly and misunderstood what they saw. To European eyes, these peoples seemed to live simple, happy lives, lacking nothing. Despite all their superior culture, the European travelers could not achieve such lives themselves. Later experience has corrected this view on many points. In several cases, life was easy because nature was generous and basic human needs could be readily satisfied. But Europeans mistakenly attributed this ease to the absence of civilization’s complicated conditions. The last of these two historical events is especially familiar to us. People began to understand the nature of the neuroses that threaten the little happiness available to people in civilized society. They discovered that people become neurotic because they cannot bear the deprivation society imposes in the name of its cultural ideals. So people supposed that abolishing or greatly relaxing these standards would once again make greater happiness possible.

And there exists an element of disappointment, in addition. In the last generations man has made extraordinary strides in knowledge of the natural sciences and technical application of them, and has established his dominion over nature in a way never before imagined. The details of this forward progress are universally known: it is unnecessary to enumerate them. Mankind is proud of its exploits and has a right to be. But men are beginning to perceive that all this newly-won power over space and time, this conquest of the forces of nature, this fulfilment of age-old longings, has not increased the amount of pleasure they can obtain in life, has not made them feel any happier. The valid conclusion from this is merely that power over nature is not the only condition of human happiness, just as it is not the only goal of civilization’s efforts, and there is no ground for inferring that its technical progress is worthless from the standpoint of happiness. It prompts one to exclaim: is it not then a positive pleasure, an unequivocal gain in happiness, to be able to hear, whenever I like, the voice of a child living hundreds of miles away, or to know directly a friend of mine arrives at his destination that he has come well and safely through the long and troublesome voyage? And is it nothing that medical science has succeeded in enormously reducing the mortality of young children, the dangers of infection for women in childbirth, indeed, in very considerably prolonging the average length of human life? And there is still a long list one could add to these benefits that we owe to the much-despised era of scientific and practical progress—but a critical, pessimistic voice makes itself heard, saying that most of these advantages follow the model of those ‘cheap pleasures’ in the anecdote. One gets this enjoyment by sticking one’s bare leg outside the bedclothes on a cold winter’s night and then drawing it in again. If there were no railway to make light of distances my child would never have left home and I should not need the telephone to hear his voice. If there were no vessels crossing the ocean my friend would never have embarked on his voyage and I should not need the telegraph to relieve my anxiety about him. What is the use of reducing the mortality of children when it is precisely this reduction which imposes the greatest moderation on us in begetting them, so that taken all round we do not rear more children than in the days before the reign of hygiene, while at the same time we have created difficult conditions for sexual life in marriage and probably counteracted the beneficial effects of natural selection? And what do we gain by a long life when it is full of hardship and starved of joys and so wretched that we can only welcome death as our deliverer?

There is also an element of disappointment. In recent generations, humanity has made extraordinary advances in the natural sciences and their practical applications. People have gained control over nature in ways never imagined before. The details of this progress are known to everyone, so there is no need to list them. Humanity is proud of its achievements, and rightly so. But people are beginning to realize that this newfound power over space and time has not brought them more pleasure. Conquering nature’s forces and fulfilling age-old desires have not made them feel any happier. We can conclude only that control over nature is not the sole condition for human happiness. Nor is control over nature the only goal civilization pursues. There is no reason to conclude that technological progress is worthless when it comes to happiness. We are prompted to ask: Is hearing my child’s voice whenever I want not a genuine pleasure, a clear gain in happiness? My child may live hundreds of miles away. Or is it not a pleasure to know, as soon as my friend arrives, that he has arrived safely? He has made it through a long and difficult voyage. And does it count for nothing that medical science has greatly reduced deaths among young children? Or that medical science has reduced the dangers of infection for women giving birth? Or, indeed, that medical science has considerably extended the average human lifespan? We could add many more benefits that we owe to this much-despised era of scientific and technological progress. But a critical, pessimistic voice speaks up. Most of these benefits, the voice says, follow the pattern of those ‘cheap pleasures’ in the anecdote. On a cold winter night, you stick your bare leg out from under the blankets. Then you enjoy pulling your leg back in. If railways did not make distances easy to cross, my child would never have left home. I would not need the telephone to hear his voice. If ships did not cross the ocean, my friend would never have set out on his voyage. I would not need the telegraph to ease my anxiety about him. What is the use of reducing deaths among children when that very reduction forces us to limit childbearing so severely? As a result, overall, we raise no more children than people did before hygiene became widespread. At the same time, we have made sexual life within marriage difficult and probably offset the benefits of natural selection. And what do we gain from a long life full of hardship and starved of joy? What do we gain when life is so miserable that we can only welcome death as our release?

It seems to be certain that our present-day civilization does not inspire in us a feeling of well-being, but it is very difficult to form an opinion whether in earlier times people felt any happier and what part their cultural conditions played in the question. We always tend to regard trouble objectively, i.e. to place ourselves with our own wants and our own sensibilities in the same conditions, so as to discover what opportunities for happiness or unhappiness we should find in them. This method of considering the problem, which appears to be objective because it ignores the varieties of subjective sensitivity, is of course the most subjective possible, for by applying it one substitutes one’s own mental attitude for the unknown attitude of other men. Happiness, on the contrary, is something essentially subjective. However we may shrink in horror at the thought of certain situations, that of the galley-slaves in antiquity, of the peasants in the Thirty Years’ War, of the victims of the Inquisition, of the Jews awaiting a pogrom, it is still impossible for us to feel ourselves into the position of these people, to imagine the differences which would be brought about by constitutional obtuseness of feeling, gradual stupefaction, the cessation of all anticipation, and by all the grosser and more subtle ways in which insensibility to both pleasurable and painful sensations can be induced. Moreover, on occasions when the most extreme forms of suffering have to be endured, special mental protective devices come into operation. It seems to me unprofitable to follow up this aspect of the problem further.

It seems certain that our present-day civilization does not give us a sense of well-being. But it is very difficult to judge whether people were happier in earlier times. It is also difficult to judge what part their cultural conditions played in their happiness. We always tend to view suffering objectively, that is, to imagine ourselves in the same conditions, with our own needs and sensitivities. We do so to discover what opportunities for happiness or unhappiness those conditions would offer us. This approach seems objective because it ignores differences in people's sensitivities. Yet it is, of course, the most subjective approach possible. By using it, we replace other people's unknown outlook with our own. Happiness, by contrast, is essentially subjective. We may recoil in horror at the thought of certain situations. Consider the galley-slaves in antiquity, the peasants in the Thirty Years’ War, the victims of the Inquisition, or the Jews awaiting a pogrom. Yet we still cannot put ourselves in these people's position. We cannot imagine how their experiences might differ because of a naturally duller sensitivity, gradual numbness, or no longer anticipating anything. Nor can we imagine the differences caused by all the cruder and subtler ways of dulling pleasurable and painful sensations. Moreover, when people must endure the most extreme forms of suffering, special mental defenses come into play. It seems to me that pursuing this aspect of the problem further would be unproductive.

It is time that we should turn our attention to the nature of this culture, the value of which is so much disputed from the point of view of happiness. Until we have learnt something by examining it for ourselves, we will not look round for formulas which express its essence in a few words. We will be content to repeat⁠¹⁰ that the word ‘culture’ describes the sum of the achievements and institutions which differentiate our lives from those of our animal forebears and serve two purposes, namely, that of protecting humanity against nature and of regulating the relations of human beings among themselves. In order to learn more than this, we must bring together the individual features of culture as they are manifested in human communities. We shall have no hesitation in allowing ourselves to be guided by the common usages of language, or as one might say, the feeling of language, confident that we shall thus take into account inner attitudes which still resist expression in abstract terms.

It is time to examine the nature of culture, whose value for happiness is so widely disputed. Before seeking formulas that sum up culture in a few words, we must learn something by examining culture ourselves. For now, we will simply repeat¹⁰ that ‘culture’ means all the achievements and institutions that distinguish our lives from those of our animal ancestors. These achievements and institutions serve two purposes: protecting humanity from nature and regulating relationships between human beings. To learn more, we must gather together the individual features of culture as they appear in human communities. We will readily let ordinary language guide us, or what we might call the feeling of language. We are confident that this approach will account for inner attitudes that still resist expression in abstract terms.

The beginning is easy. We recognize as belonging to culture all the activities and possessions which men use to make the earth serviceable to them, to protect them against the tyranny of natural forces, and so on. There is less doubt about this aspect of civilization than any other. If we go back far enough we find that the first acts of civilization were the use of tools, the gaining of power over fire, and the construction of dwellings. Among these the acquisition of power over fire stands out as a quite exceptional achievement, without a prototype;⁠¹¹ while the other two opened up paths which have ever since been pursued by man, the stimulus towards which is easily imagined. By means of all his tools, man makes his own organs more perfect—both the motor and the sensory—or else removes the obstacles in the way of their activity. Machinery places gigantic power at his disposal which, like his muscles, he can employ in any direction; ships and aircraft have the effect that neither air nor water can prevent his traversing them. With spectacles he corrects the defects of the lens in his own eyes; with telescopes he looks at far distances; with the microscope he overcomes the limitations in visibility due to the structure of his retina. With the photographic camera he has created an instrument which registers transitory visual impressions, just as the gramophone does with equally transient auditory ones; both are at bottom materializations of his own power of memory. With the help of the telephone he can hear at distances which even fairy-tales would treat as insuperable; writing to begin with was the voice of the absent; dwellings were a substitute for the mother’s womb, that first abode, in which he was safe and felt so content, for which he probably yearns ever after.

The beginning is easy. We count as culture all the activities and possessions people use to make the earth serve their needs. These also protect them against the tyranny of natural forces, and so on. There is less doubt about this aspect of civilization than about any other. If we go back far enough, we find civilization’s first acts: using tools, controlling fire, and building homes. Among these, control over fire stands out as an exceptional achievement, with no earlier model.¹¹ The other two, however, opened paths that humanity has followed ever since. We can easily imagine what drove people along those paths. Through all their tools, people improve their own organs, both those used for movement and those used for sensing. Or they remove obstacles that prevent those organs from working. Machines give people enormous power that, like their muscles, they can use in any direction. Ships and aircraft allow them to cross water and air without being stopped by either. Glasses correct defects in the lenses of their eyes. Telescopes let them see far into the distance. Microscopes overcome the limits on vision imposed by the structure of the retina. With the camera, people have created a tool that records fleeting visual impressions. The gramophone does the same for equally fleeting impressions of sound. Both are, at bottom, physical forms of their own power of memory. The telephone lets people hear across distances that even fairy tales would treat as impossible to overcome. Writing was originally the voice of someone absent. Homes were a substitute for the mother’s womb, that first home where people were safe and felt so content. They probably long for that first home for the rest of their lives.

It sounds like a fairy-tale, but not only that; this story of what man by his science and practical inventions has achieved on this earth, where he first appeared as a weakly member of the animal kingdom, and on which each individual of his species must ever again appear as a helpless infant—O inch of nature!—is a direct fulfilment of all, or of most, of the dearest wishes in his fairy-tales. All these possessions he has acquired through culture. Long ago he formed an ideal conception of omnipotence and omniscience which he embodied in his gods. Whatever seemed unattainable to his desires—or forbidden to him—he attributed to these gods. One may say, therefore, that these gods were the ideals of his culture. Now he has himself approached very near to realizing this ideal, he has nearly become a god himself. But only, it is true, in the way that ideals are usually realized in the general experience of humanity. Not completely; in some respects not at all, in others only by halves. Man has become a god by means of artificial limbs, so to speak, quite magnificent when equipped with all his accessory organs; but they do not grow on him and they still give him trouble at times. However, he is entitled to console himself with the thought that this evolution will not come to an end in A.D. 1930. Future ages will produce further great advances in this realm of culture, probably inconceivable now, and will increase man’s likeness to a god still more. But with the aim of our study in mind, we will not forget, all the same, that the human being of to-day is not happy with all his likeness to a god.

It sounds like a fairy tale, but it is more than that. Consider what humans have achieved on earth through science and practical inventions. We first appeared here as weak members of the animal kingdom. And each of us must begin life again as a helpless infant. Oh, what a tiny piece of nature! Yet our achievements directly fulfill all, or most, of the wishes we cherish most in our fairy tales. We have gained all these things through culture. Long ago, humans imagined an ideal of unlimited power and knowledge and embodied that ideal in their gods. Whatever seemed beyond their reach, or forbidden to them, they attributed to these gods. So we may say that these gods were the ideals of human culture. Now humans themselves have come very close to achieving this ideal. We have almost become gods ourselves. But admittedly, we have achieved this ideal only as humanity usually achieves its ideals. Not completely, in some respects not at all, and in others only halfway. Humans have become gods through artificial limbs, so to speak. Equipped with all our extra organs, we are quite magnificent. But these organs do not grow on us, and they still cause us trouble at times. Still, we are entitled to take comfort in knowing that this development will not end in A.D. 1930. Future ages will bring further great advances in this area of culture, probably beyond anything we can imagine now. These advances will make humans even more like gods. But keeping the purpose of our study in mind, we must still remember one thing. For all their resemblance to gods, human beings today are not happy.

Thus we recognize that a country has attained a high level of civilization when we find that everything in it that can be helpful in exploiting the earth for man’s benefit and in protecting him against nature—everything, in short, that is useful to him—is cultivated and effectively protected. In such a country the course of rivers which threaten to overflow their banks is regulated, their waters guided through canals to places where they are needed. The soil is industriously cultivated and planted with the vegetation suited to it; the mineral wealth is brought up assiduously from the depths and wrought into the implements and utensils that are required. The means of communication are frequent, rapid and reliable; wild and dangerous animals have been exterminated, the breeding of tamed and domesticated ones prospers. But we demand other things besides these of civilization, and, curiously enough, we expect to find them existing in the same countries. As if we wished to repudiate the first requisition we made, we count it also as proof of a high level of civilization when we see that the industry of the inhabitants is applied as well to things which are not in the least useful and, on the contrary, seem to be useless, e.g. when the parks and gardens in a town, which are necessary as playgrounds and air-reservoirs, also bear flowering plants, or when the windows of dwellings are adorned with flowers. We soon become aware that the useless thing which we require of civilization is beauty; we expect a cultured people to revere beauty where it is found in nature and to create it in their handiwork so far as they are able. But this is far from exhausting what we require of civilization. Besides, we expect to see the signs of cleanliness and order. We do not think highly of the cultural level of an English country town in the time of Shakespeare when we read that there was a tall dungheap in front of his father’s house in Stratford; we are indignant and call it ‘barbarous’, which is the opposite of civilized, when we find the paths in the Wiener Wald littered with paper. Dirt of any kind seems to us incompatible with civilization; we extend our demands for cleanliness to the human body also, and are amazed to hear what an objectionable odour emanated from the person of the Roi Soleil; we shake our heads when we are shown the tiny wash-basin on the Isola Bella which Napoleon used for his daily ablutions. Indeed, we are not surprised if anyone employs the use of soap as a direct measure of civilization. It is the same with order, which, like cleanliness, relates entirely to man’s handiwork. But whereas we cannot expect cleanliness in nature, order has, on the contrary, been imitated from nature; man’s observations of the great astronomical periodicities not only furnished him with a model, but formed the ground-plan of his first attempts to introduce order into his own life. Order is a kind of repetition-compulsion by which it is ordained once for all when, where and how a thing shall be done so that on every similar occasion doubt and hesitation shall be avoided. The benefits of order are incontestable: it enables us to use space and time to the best advantage, while saving expenditure of mental energy. One would be justified in expecting that it would have ingrained itself from the start and without opposition into all human activities; and one may well wonder that this has not happened, and that, on the contrary, human beings manifest an inborn tendency to negligence, irregularity and untrustworthiness in their work, and have to be laboriously trained to imitate the example of their celestial models.

We recognize that a country has reached a high level of civilization when everything useful to people is developed and effectively protected. This includes everything that helps people use the earth for their benefit and protects them against nature. In such a country, rivers that threaten to overflow their banks are controlled. Their waters are channeled through canals to places where they are needed. The soil is carefully cultivated and planted with suitable vegetation. Mineral resources are diligently extracted from underground and made into the tools and utensils people need. Transport and communication are frequent, fast, and reliable. Wild and dangerous animals have been exterminated, while tame and domesticated animals are successfully bred. But we demand other things of civilization too. Curiously enough, we expect to find these things in the same countries. We also regard effort spent on things with no practical use as evidence of a high level of civilization. It is as if we wanted to reject our first requirement. Such things are not useful in the least and, on the contrary, seem useless. Consider, for example, a town’s parks and gardens, which are necessary as playgrounds and sources of fresh air. We expect them also to contain flowering plants, or we expect the windows of homes to be decorated with flowers. We soon realize that the useless thing we demand of civilization is beauty. We expect a cultured people to honor beauty in nature and create beauty in their own work wherever they can. But beauty is far from the last of our demands on civilization. We also expect signs of cleanliness and order. We read that a tall dungheap stood outside Shakespeare’s father’s house in Stratford. This does not give us a high opinion of an English country town’s cultural level in Shakespeare’s time. We are outraged when we find the paths in the Wiener Wald littered with paper. We call such littering ‘barbarous’, the opposite of civilized. Dirt of any kind seems incompatible with civilization. We demand cleanliness of the human body too. We are amazed to hear how unpleasant the Roi Soleil’s body smelled. We shake our heads when shown the tiny washbasin on the Isola Bella that Napoleon used for his daily washing. Indeed, we are not surprised when someone treats the use of soap as a direct measure of civilization. The same applies to order, which, like cleanliness, concerns only what people do and make. But while we cannot expect cleanliness in nature, order, by contrast, has been copied from nature. People observed the great recurring cycles of the heavens. These observations provided both a model and a basic plan for their first attempts to organize their own lives. Order is a kind of repetition-compulsion. It establishes once and for all when, where, and how something should be done. This avoids doubt and hesitation whenever a similar occasion arises. The benefits of order are undeniable. Order lets us make the best use of space and time while saving mental effort. We might reasonably expect order to have become firmly established in all human activities from the start, without resistance. We may well wonder why this has not happened. On the contrary, people show an inborn tendency to be careless, irregular, and unreliable in their work. They have to be painstakingly trained to follow the example of their celestial models.

Beauty, cleanliness and order clearly occupy a peculiar position among the requirements of civilization. No one will maintain that they are as essential to life as the activities aimed at controlling the forces of nature and as other factors which we have yet to mention; and yet no one would willingly relegate them to the background as trivial matters. Beauty is an instance which plainly shows that culture is not simply utilitarian in its aims, for the lack of beauty is a thing we cannot tolerate in civilization. The utilitarian advantages of order are quite apparent; with regard to cleanliness we have to remember that it is required of us by hygiene, and we may surmise that even before the days of scientific prophylaxis the connection between the two was not altogether unsuspected by mankind. But these aims and endeavours of culture are not entirely to be explained on utilitarian lines; there must be something else at work besides.

Beauty, cleanliness, and order clearly hold an unusual place among the requirements of civilization. No one would claim they are as essential to life as efforts to control the forces of nature. Nor are they as essential as other factors we have yet to mention. Yet no one would willingly dismiss beauty, cleanliness, and order as trivial. Beauty clearly shows that culture does not aim only at practical benefits. We cannot tolerate a lack of beauty in civilization. The practical benefits of order are obvious. As for cleanliness, we must remember that hygiene requires it. We may suppose that people had some sense of this connection even before science developed ways to prevent disease. But practical benefits cannot fully explain these cultural goals and efforts. Something else must also be at work.

According to general opinion, however, there is one feature of culture which characterizes it better than any other, and that is the value it sets upon the higher mental activities—intellectual, scientific, and aesthetic achievement—the leading part it concedes to ideas in human life. First and foremost among these ideas come the religious systems with their complicated evolution, on which I have elsewhere endeavoured to throw a light; next to them come philosophical speculations; and last, the ideals man has formed, his conceptions of the perfection possible in an individual, in a people, in humanity as a whole, and the demands he makes on the basis of these conceptions. These creations of his mind are not independent of each other; on the contrary, they are closely interwoven, and this complicates the attempt to describe them, as well as that to trace their psychological derivation. If we assume as a general hypothesis that the force behind all human activities is a striving towards the two convergent aims of profit and pleasure, we must then acknowledge this as valid also for these other manifestations of culture, although it can be plainly recognized as true only in respect of science and art. It cannot be doubted, however, that the remainder, too, correspond to some powerful need in human beings—perhaps to one which develops fully only in a minority of people. Nor may we allow ourselves to be misled by our own judgements concerning the value of any of these religious or philosophical systems or of these ideals; whether we look upon them as the highest achievement of the human mind, or whether we deplore them as fallacies, one must acknowledge that where they exist, and especially where they are in the ascendant, they testify to a high level of civilization.

Most people, however, believe that one feature defines culture better than any other: the value placed on higher mental activities. These include intellectual, scientific, and artistic achievements. Culture gives ideas a leading role in human life. Foremost among these ideas are religious systems, whose complex development I have tried to explain elsewhere. Next come philosophical theories. Finally come the ideals people have formed about the perfection possible for an individual, a people, or humanity as a whole. These ideals also include the demands people make based on their ideas of perfection. These creations of the mind are not independent of one another. On the contrary, they are closely connected. These connections make it harder both to describe these creations and to trace their psychological origins. Suppose we accept the general hypothesis that all human activity is driven by the pursuit of two converging goals: benefit and pleasure. We must then acknowledge that the hypothesis also applies to these other expressions of culture. Yet only in science and art can we clearly recognize the hypothesis as true. Still, there is no doubt that the remaining expressions of culture also meet some powerful human need. Perhaps this need develops fully only in a minority of people. Nor should we let our own judgments about these religious or philosophical systems, or these ideals, mislead us. We may see them as the human mind’s highest achievement, or we may deplore them as mistaken beliefs. Either way, we must acknowledge that their presence indicates a high level of civilization, especially where they are dominant.

We now have to consider the last, and certainly by no means the least important, of the components of culture, namely, the ways in which social relations, the relations of one man to another, are regulated, all that has to do with him as a neighbour, a source of help, a sexual object to others, a member of a family or of a state. It is especially difficult in this matter to remain unbiased by any ideal standards and to ascertain exactly what is specifically cultural here. Perhaps one might begin with the statement that the first attempt ever made to regulate these social relations already contained the essential element of civilization. Had no such attempt been made, these relations would be subject to the wills of individuals: that is to say, the man who was physically strongest would decide things in accordance with his own interests and desires. The situation would remain the same even though this strong man should in his turn meet with another who was stronger than he. Human life in communities only becomes possible when a number of men unite together in strength superior to any single individual and remain united against all single individuals. The strength of this united body is then opposed as ‘Right’ against the strength of any individual, which is condemned as ‘brute force’. This substitution of the power of a united number for the power of a single man is the decisive step towards civilization. The essence of it lies in the circumstance that the members of the community have restricted their possibilities of gratification, whereas the individual recognized no such restrictions. The first requisite of culture, therefore, is justice—that is, the assurance that a law once made will not be broken in favour of any individual. This implies nothing about the ethical value of any such law. The further course of cultural development seems to tend towards ensuring that the law shall no longer represent the will of any small body—caste, tribe, section of the population—which may behave like a predatory individual towards other such groups perhaps containing larger numbers. The end-result would be a state of law to which all—that is, all who are capable of uniting—have contributed by making some sacrifice of their own desires, and which leaves none—again with the same exception—at the mercy of brute force.

We now need to consider the last component of culture, certainly not the least important: how social relations are regulated. These are the relations between people as neighbours, sources of help, sexual objects for others, and family or state members. Here, it is especially difficult to avoid letting ideal standards shape our judgment. It is also difficult to identify exactly what makes these arrangements cultural. Perhaps we might begin by saying that the first attempt to regulate social relations already contained civilization’s essential element. Without such an attempt, these relations would depend on individual wills. The physically strongest man would decide matters according to his own interests and desires. The situation would remain unchanged even if this strong man met someone stronger than himself. Community life becomes possible only when people unite with a combined strength greater than that of any single individual. They must also remain united against all individuals. The united group’s strength then stands as ‘Right’ against individual strength, which is condemned as ‘brute force’. Replacing one man’s power with the power of a united group is the decisive step towards civilization. The essential point is that community members have limited their opportunities to satisfy their desires. The individual, by contrast, recognized no such limits. Culture’s first requirement, therefore, is justice: the assurance that an established law will not be broken to favour any individual. This requirement says nothing about the ethical value of the law itself. Further cultural development seems to move towards ensuring that the law no longer represents any small group’s will. Such a group might be a caste, tribe, or section of the population. It may act like a predatory individual towards other groups, perhaps larger than itself. The eventual outcome would be a system of law to which everyone capable of uniting has contributed. Each would contribute by sacrificing some of their own desires. This system would leave no one at the mercy of brute force, with the same exception for those incapable of uniting.

The liberty of the individual is not a benefit of culture. It was greatest before any culture, though indeed it had little value at that time, because the individual was hardly in a position to defend it. Liberty has undergone restrictions through the evolution of civilization and justice demands that these restrictions shall apply to all. The desire for freedom that makes itself felt in a human community may be a revolt against some existing injustice and so may prove favourable to a further development of civilization and remain compatible with it. But it may also have its origin in the primitive roots of the personality, still unfettered by civilizing influences, and so become a source of antagonism to culture. Thus the cry for freedom is directed either against particular forms or demands of culture or else against culture itself. It does not seem as if man could be brought by any sort of influence to change his nature into that of the ants; he will always, one imagines, defend his claim to individual freedom against the will of the multitude. A great part of the struggles of mankind centres round the single task of finding some expedient (i.e. satisfying) solution between these individual claims and those of the civilized community; it is one of the problems of man’s fate whether this solution can be arrived at in some particular form of culture or whether the conflict will prove irreconcilable.

Individual freedom is not a benefit of civilization. Freedom was greatest before civilization existed, though freedom had little value then because individuals could hardly defend it. As civilization has developed, freedom has been restricted, and justice demands that these restrictions apply to all. The desire for freedom within a human community may be a revolt against some existing injustice. Such a revolt may therefore help civilization develop further and remain compatible with civilization. But the desire for freedom may also come from the primitive roots of personality, still unrestrained by civilization. Such a desire can therefore become a source of opposition to civilization. So the call for freedom targets either particular forms or demands of civilization, or civilization itself. No kind of influence seems capable of changing human nature into the nature of ants. People will always, one imagines, defend their claim to individual freedom against the will of the majority. Much of humanity’s struggle centers on one task: finding a workable (i.e. satisfying) balance between individual claims and those of civilized society. One question about humanity’s fate is whether such a balance can be achieved in some particular form of civilization. Or will the conflict prove impossible to resolve?

We have obtained a clear impression of the general picture presented by culture through adopting the common view as to which aspects of human life are to be called cultural; but it is true that so far we have discovered nothing that is not common knowledge. We have, however, at the same time guarded ourselves against accepting the misconception that civilization is synonymous with becoming perfect, is the path by which man is ordained to reach perfection. But now a certain point of view presses for consideration; it will lead perhaps in another direction. The evolution of culture seems to us a peculiar kind of process passing over humanity, of which several aspects strike us as familiar. We can describe this process in terms of the modifications it effects on the known human instinctual dispositions, which it is the economic task of our lives to satisfy. Some of these instincts become absorbed, as it were, so that something appears in place of them which in an individual we call a character-trait. The most remarkable example of this process is found in respect of the anal erotism of young human beings. Their primary interest in the excretory function, its organs and products, is changed in the course of their growth into a group of traits that we know well—thriftiness, orderliness and cleanliness—valuable and welcome qualities in themselves, which, however, may be intensified till they visibly dominate the personality and produce what we call the anal character. How this happens we do not know; but there is no doubt about the accuracy of this conclusion.⁠¹² Now, we have seen that order and cleanliness are essentially cultural demands, although the necessity of them for survival is not particularly apparent, any more than their suitability as sources of pleasure. At this point we must be struck for the first time with the similarity between the process of cultural development and that of the libidinal development in an individual. Other instincts have to be induced to change the conditions of their gratification, to find it along other paths, a process which is usually identical with what we know so well as sublimation (of the aim of an instinct), but which can sometimes be differentiated from this. Sublimation of instinct is an especially conspicuous feature of cultural evolution; this it is that makes it possible for the higher mental operations, scientific, artistic, ideological activities, to play such an important part in civilized life. If one were to yield to a first impression, one would be tempted to say that sublimation is a fate which has been forced upon instincts by culture alone. But it is better to reflect over this a while longer. Thirdly and lastly, and this seems most important of all, it is impossible to ignore the extent to which civilization is built up on renunciation of instinctual gratifications, the degree to which the existence of civilization presupposes the non-gratification (suppression, repression or something else?) of powerful instinctual urgencies. This ‘cultural privation’ dominates the whole field of social relations between human beings; we know already that it is the cause of the antagonism against which all civilization has to fight. It sets hard tasks for our scientific work, too; we have a great deal to explain here. It is not easy to understand how it can become possible to withhold satisfaction from an instinct. Nor is it by any means without risk to do so; if the deprivation is not made good economically, one may be certain of producing serious disorders.

We have gained a clear overall picture of culture by accepting the usual view of which aspects of human life count as cultural. So far, however, we have discovered nothing beyond common knowledge. At the same time, we have avoided the mistaken belief that civilization means becoming perfect. We have not assumed that civilization is the path humanity is destined to follow toward perfection. But another perspective now calls for consideration. Perhaps it will take us in a different direction. The development of culture seems to be a distinctive process unfolding across humanity. Several features of this process seem familiar. We can describe it through the changes it makes to our known instinctual tendencies. Satisfying those tendencies is the task of our lives in managing our psychic energy. Some instincts are absorbed, so to speak. Something then takes their place that we would call a character trait in an individual. The most striking example involves anal erotism in young children. Their initial interest in excretion, its organs, and its products changes as they grow. That interest becomes a familiar group of traits: thriftiness, orderliness, and cleanliness. These qualities are valuable and welcome in themselves. But they may become so strong that they visibly dominate the personality, producing what we call the anal character. We do not know how this happens, but there is no doubt that this conclusion is correct.¹² Now, we have seen that order and cleanliness are essential demands of culture. Yet their necessity for survival is not particularly clear, nor is their suitability as sources of pleasure. Here, for the first time, we must notice a similarity between cultural development and an individual’s libidinal development. Other instincts must be led to change the conditions of their satisfaction and find satisfaction through different routes. This process is usually identical to the familiar process called sublimation of an instinct’s aim. Sometimes, however, the two processes can be distinguished. Sublimation of instinct is an especially striking feature of cultural development. Sublimation allows higher mental activities, including science, art, and ideological work, to play such an important role in civilized life. If we followed our first impression, we might say that culture alone has forced sublimation upon the instincts. But we should reflect on that idea a little longer. Third and finally, we cannot ignore how much civilization depends on giving up instinctual satisfaction. This seems the most important point of all. Civilization’s existence requires powerful instinctual urges to remain unsatisfied (through suppression, repression, or something else?). This ‘cultural privation’ dominates the entire field of social relations between human beings. We already know that this privation causes the hostility against which all civilization must struggle. This privation also poses difficult problems for our scientific work. We have a great deal to explain here. It is not easy to understand how denying satisfaction to an instinct becomes possible. Nor is denying that satisfaction by any means without risk. Unless the deprivation is compensated for in the balance of psychic energy, serious disorders are certain to result.

But now, if we wish to know what use it is to us to have recognized the evolution of culture as a special process, comparable to the normal growth of an individual to maturity, we must clearly attack another problem and put the question: what are the influences to which the evolution of culture owes its origin, how did it arise and what determined its course?

But now, suppose we want to know how recognizing cultural development as a distinct process helps us. We have compared cultural development to an individual’s normal growth to maturity. To understand the value of that comparison, we must clearly turn to another problem. We must ask: what influences gave rise to cultural development, how did it begin, and what shaped its course?