What Makes People Unhappy?

Animals are happy so long as they have health and enough to eat. Human beings, one feels, ought to be, but in the modern world they are not, at least in a great majority of cases. If you are unhappy yourself, you will probably be prepared to admit that you are not exceptional in this. If you are happy, ask yourself how many of your friends are so. And when you have reviewed your friends, teach yourself the art of reading faces; make yourself receptive to the moods of those whom you meet in the course of an ordinary day.

Animals are happy as long as they are healthy and have enough to eat. You would think human beings ought to be happy too. But in the modern world, they are not, at least in the great majority of cases. If you are unhappy yourself, you will probably be willing to admit that you are not alone in your unhappiness. If you are happy, ask yourself how many of your friends are happy. And after thinking about your friends, teach yourself to read faces. Learn to notice the moods of the people you meet during an ordinary day.

says Blake. Though the kinds are different, you will find that unhappiness meets you everywhere. Let us suppose that you are in New York, the most typically modern of great cities. Stand in a busy street during working hours, or on a main thoroughfare at a week-end, or at a dance of an evening; empty your mind of your own ego, and let the personalities of the strangers about you take possession of you one after another. You will find that each of these different crowds has its own trouble. In the work-hour crowd you will see anxiety, excessive concentration, dyspepsia, lack of interest in anything but the struggle, incapacity for play, unconsciousness of their fellow creatures. On a main road at the week-end you will see men and women, all comfortably off, and some very rich, engaged in the pursuit of pleasure. This pursuit is conducted by all at a uniform pace, that of the slowest car in the procession; it is impossible to see the road for the cars, or the scenery since looking aside would cause an accident; all the occupants of all the cars are absorbed in the desire to pass other cars, which they cannot do on account of the crowd; if their minds wander from this preoccupation, as will happen occasionally to those who are not themselves driving, unutterable boredom seizes upon them and stamps their features with trivial discontent. Once in a way a car-load of coloured people will show genuine enjoyment, but will cause indignation by erratic behaviour, and ultimately get into the hands of the police owing to an accident: enjoyment in holiday time is illegal.

says Blake. Though unhappiness takes different forms, you will find it everywhere. Suppose you are in New York, the most typically modern of the great cities. Stand on a busy street during working hours, on a main road at the weekend, or at an evening dance. Put aside your sense of self, and let the personalities of the strangers around you fill your mind, one after another. You will find that each crowd has its own troubles. In the working crowd, you will see anxiety, excessive concentration, indigestion, and no interest in anything beyond the struggle. You will see an inability to have fun and a lack of awareness of other people. On a main road at the weekend, you will see men and women pursuing pleasure. All are comfortably off, and some are very rich. Everyone pursues pleasure at the same speed, set by the slowest car in the line. You cannot see the road because of the cars, or the scenery because looking away would cause an accident. Everyone in every car is absorbed in wanting to pass other cars, but the traffic makes passing impossible. If their minds wander from this desire, unbearable boredom takes hold, marking their faces with petty discontent. Such wandering occasionally happens to those who are not driving. Once in a while, a car full of Black people will show genuine enjoyment. But their erratic behavior will cause outrage, and an accident will eventually land them in police custody. Enjoying yourself on holiday is illegal.

Or, again, watch people at a gay evening. All come determined to be happy, with the kind of grim resolve with which one determines not to make a fuss at the dentist’s. It is held that drink and petting are the gateways to joy, so people get drunk quickly, and try not to notice how much their partners disgust them. After a sufficient amount of drink, men begin to weep, and to lament how unworthy they are, morally, of the devotion of their mothers. All that alcohol does for them is to liberate the sense of sin, which reason suppresses in saner moments.

Or again, watch people at a lively evening party. All arrive determined to be happy, with the same grim resolve they bring to not making a fuss at the dentist’s. Drinking and sexual fondling are considered the gateways to joy. So people get drunk quickly and try not to notice how much their partners disgust them. After enough drink, men begin to weep and complain that they are morally unworthy of their mothers’ devotion. All alcohol does for these men is release the sense of sin that reason suppresses in saner moments.

The causes of these various kinds of unhappiness lie partly in the social system, partly in individual psychology—which, of course, is itself to a considerable extent a product of the social system. I have written before about the changes in the social system required to promote happiness. Concerning the abolition of war, of economic exploitation, of education in cruelty and fear, it is not my intention to speak in this volume. To discover a system for the avoidance of war is a vital need of our civilization; but no such system has a chance while men are so unhappy that mutual extermination seems to them less dreadful than continued endurance of the light of day. To prevent the perpetuation of poverty is necessary if the benefits of machine production are to accrue in any degree to those most in need of them; but what is the use of making everybody rich if the rich themselves are miserable? Education in cruelty and fear is bad, but no other kind can be given by those who are themselves the slaves of these passions. These considerations lead us to the problem of the individual: what can a man or woman, here and now, in the midst of our nostalgic society, do to achieve happiness for himself or herself? In discussing this problem, I shall confine my attention to those who are not subject to any extreme cause of outward misery. I shall assume a sufficient income to secure food and shelter, sufficient health to make ordinary bodily activities possible. I shall not consider the great catastrophes, such as loss of all one’s children, or public disgrace. There are things to be said about such matters, and they are important things, but they belong to a different order from the things that I wish to say. My purpose is to suggest a cure for the ordinary day-to-day unhappiness from which most people in civilized countries suffer, and which is all the more unbearable because, having no obvious external cause, it appears inescapable. I believe this unhappiness to be very largely due to mistaken views of the world, mistaken ethics, mistaken habits of life, leading to destruction of that natural zest and appetite for possible things upon which all happiness, whether of men or animals, ultimately depends. These are matters which lie within the power of the individual, and I propose to suggest the changes by which his happiness, given average good fortune, may be achieved.

The causes of these different kinds of unhappiness lie partly in the social system and partly in individual psychology. Of course, individual psychology is itself largely shaped by the social system. I have written before about the changes in society needed to promote happiness. In this book, I do not intend to discuss ending war, economic exploitation, or education that teaches cruelty and fear. Finding a way to prevent war is vital to our civilization. But no such system has a chance while people are so unhappy that killing one another seems less dreadful than staying alive. We must prevent poverty from continuing if machine production is to benefit those most in need to any degree. But what is the use of making everyone rich if the rich themselves are miserable? Teaching cruelty and fear is bad. But people who are themselves ruled by cruelty and fear cannot provide any other kind of education. These considerations bring us to the individual. What can a person do, here and now, to find happiness in our nostalgic society? In discussing this question, I will focus on people who face no extreme external cause of misery. I will assume they have enough income for food and shelter, and enough health for ordinary physical activities. I will not consider great catastrophes, such as losing all one's children or suffering public disgrace. There are important things to say about such experiences, but they are different from the matters I want to discuss. My purpose is to suggest a cure for the ordinary, everyday unhappiness that most people in civilized countries suffer. This unhappiness is even harder to bear because it has no obvious external cause and therefore seems inescapable. I believe this unhappiness is largely caused by mistaken views of the world, mistaken moral beliefs, and mistaken habits. These mistakes destroy our natural enthusiasm for life and our appetite for what is possible. All happiness, in both humans and animals, ultimately depends on that enthusiasm and appetite. These are matters individuals have the power to change. I propose to suggest changes through which a person may achieve happiness, given an ordinary amount of good fortune.

Perhaps the best introduction to the philosophy which I wish to advocate will be a few words of autobiography. I was not born happy. As a child, my favourite hymn was: “Weary of earth and laden with my sin.” At the age of five, I reflected that, if I should live to be seventy, I had only endured, so far, a fourteenth part of my whole life, and I felt the long-spread-out boredom ahead of me to be almost unendurable. In adolescence, I hated life and was continually on the verge of suicide, from which, however, I was restrained by the desire to know more mathematics. Now, on the contrary, I enjoy life; I might almost say that with every year that passes I enjoy it more. This is due partly to having discovered what were the things that I most desired, and having gradually acquired many of these things. Partly it is due to having successfully dismissed certain objects of desire—such as the acquisition of indubitable knowledge about something or other—as essentially unattainable. But very largely it is due to a diminishing preoccupation with myself. Like others who had a Puritan education, I had the habit of meditating on my sins, follies, and shortcomings. I seemed to myself—no doubt justly—a miserable specimen. Gradually I learned to be indifferent to myself and my deficiencies; I came to centre my attention increasingly upon external objects: the state of the world, various branches of knowledge, individuals for whom I felt affection. External interests, it is true, bring each its own possibility of pain: the world may be plunged in war, knowledge in some direction may be hard to achieve, friends may die. But pains of these kinds do not destroy the essential quality of life, as do those that spring from disgust with self. And every external interest inspires some activity which, so long as the interest remains alive, is a complete preventive of ennui. Interest in oneself, on the contrary, leads to no activity of a progressive kind. It may lead to the keeping of a diary, to getting psycho-analysed, or perhaps to becoming a monk. But the monk will not be happy until the routine of the monastery has made him forget his own soul. The happiness which he attributes to religion he could have obtained from becoming a crossing-sweeper, provided he were compelled to remain one. External discipline is the only road to happiness for those unfortunates whose self-absorption is too profound to be cured in any other way.

Perhaps a few words about my own life will best introduce the philosophy I want to advocate. I was not born happy. As a child, my favourite hymn was: “Weary of earth and laden with my sin.” At five, I thought that if I lived to seventy, I had endured only a fourteenth of my life. The long stretch of boredom ahead seemed almost unbearable. As a teenager, I hated life and was constantly on the verge of suicide. But my desire to learn more mathematics held me back. Now, by contrast, I enjoy life. I might almost say I enjoy life more with every passing year. Partly, I have discovered what I most wanted and gradually acquired many of those things. Partly, I have successfully let go of certain desires because they were essentially impossible to fulfil. One example was the desire for absolutely certain knowledge about something or other. But the main reason is that I have become less preoccupied with myself. Like others with a Puritan upbringing, I used to dwell on my sins, foolishness, and shortcomings. I saw myself as a miserable specimen, no doubt rightly. Gradually, I learned not to care so much about myself and my faults. I increasingly focused my attention on things outside myself: the state of the world, different fields of knowledge, people I loved. Each outside interest does, of course, bring its own possibility of pain. The world may be plunged into war, knowledge in some field may be hard to gain, friends may die. But these pains do not destroy life's essential quality, as pains arising from self-disgust do. And every outside interest inspires some activity that completely prevents boredom, as long as the interest stays alive. Interest in oneself, by contrast, leads to no activity that moves things forward. It may lead to keeping a diary, undergoing psychoanalysis, or perhaps becoming a monk. But the monk will not be happy until the monastery's routine makes him forget his own soul. He credits religion for his happiness. But he could have found the same happiness by becoming a street sweeper, provided he were forced to remain one. For those unfortunate people whose self-absorption is too deep for any other cure, external discipline is the only road to happiness.

Self-absorption is of various kinds. We may take the sinner, the narcissist, and the megalomaniac as three very common types.

Self-absorption takes different forms. We can take the sinner, the narcissist, and the megalomaniac as three very common types.

When I speak of “the sinner”, I do not mean the man who commits sins: sins are committed by everyone or no one, according to our definition of the word. I mean the man who is absorbed in the consciousness of sin. This man is perpetually incurring his own disapproval, which, if he is religious, he interprets as the disapproval of God. He has an image of himself as he thinks he ought to be, which is in continual conflict with his knowledge of himself as he is. If, in his conscious thought, he has long since discarded the maxims that he was taught at his mother’s knee, his sense of sin may be buried deep in his unconscious, and only emerge when he is drunk or asleep. Nevertheless, it may suffice to take the savour out of everything. At bottom he still accepts all the prohibitions he was taught in infancy. Swearing is wicked; drinking is wicked; ordinary business shrewdness is wicked; above all, sex is wicked. He does not, of course, abstain from any of these pleasures, but they are all poisoned for him by the feeling that they degrade him. The one pleasure that he desires with his whole soul is that of being approvingly caressed by his mother, which he can remember having experienced in childhood. This pleasure being no longer open to him, he feels that nothing matters; since he must sin, he decides to sin deeply. When he falls in love he looks for maternal tenderness, but cannot accept it, because, owing to the mother-image, he feels no respect for any woman with whom he has sexual relations. Then, in his disappointment, he becomes cruel, repents of his cruelty, and starts afresh on the dreary round of imagined sin and real remorse. This is the psychology of very many apparently hard-boiled reprobates. What drives them astray is devotion to an unattainable object (mother or mother-substitute) together with the inculcation, in early years, of a ridiculous ethical code. Liberation from the tyranny of early beliefs and affections is the first step towards happiness for these victims of maternal “virtue”.

When I speak of “the sinner”, I do not mean the man who commits sins. Everyone commits sins, or no one does, depending on how we define the word. I mean the man who is consumed by a sense of sin. This man constantly disapproves of himself. If he is religious, he sees his own disapproval as God’s disapproval. He has an image of who he thinks he ought to be. This image constantly conflicts with his knowledge of who he actually is. He may have consciously rejected the rules he learned at his mother’s knee long ago. If so, his sense of sin may lie buried deep in his unconscious, surfacing only when he is drunk or asleep. Nevertheless, that sense of sin may be enough to drain the pleasure from everything. Deep down, he still accepts all the prohibitions he was taught as a small child. Swearing is wicked. Drinking is wicked. Ordinary business shrewdness is wicked. Above all, sex is wicked. Of course, he does not avoid any of these pleasures. But his feeling that these pleasures degrade him poisons them all. The one pleasure he longs for with his whole soul is his mother’s affectionate touch, expressing her approval. He remembers experiencing this pleasure in childhood. Since this pleasure is no longer available to him, he feels that nothing matters. Since he must sin, he decides to sin deeply. When he falls in love, he looks for a mother’s tenderness but cannot accept it. Because of his image of his mother, he feels no respect for any woman he has sex with. Then, in his disappointment, he becomes cruel, regrets his cruelty, and begins the dreary cycle again: imagined sin and real remorse. This is the psychology of very many seemingly hardened wrongdoers. Their devotion to someone unattainable, their mother or a substitute for her, helps drive them astray. So does the ridiculous moral code instilled in them in their early years. For these victims of maternal “virtue”, freedom from the tyranny of early beliefs and emotional attachments is the first step toward happiness.

Narcissism is, in a sense, the converse of an habitual sense of sin; it consists in the habit of admiring oneself and wishing to be admired. Up to a point it is, of course, normal, and not to be deplored; it is only in its excesses that it becomes a grave evil. In many women, especially rich Society women, the capacity for feeling love is completely dried up, and is replaced by a powerful desire that all men should love them. When a woman of this kind is sure that a man loves her, she has no further use for him. The same thing occurs, though less frequently, with men; the classic example is the hero of Liaisons Dangereuses. When vanity is carried to this height, there is no genuine interest in any other person, and therefore no real satisfaction to be obtained from love. Other interests fail even more disastrously. A narcissist, for example, inspired by the homage paid to great painters, may become an art student; but, as painting is for him a mere means to an end, the technique never becomes interesting, and no subject can be seen except in relation to self. The result is failure and disappointment, with ridicule instead of the expected adulation. The same thing applies to those novelists whose novels always have themselves idealized as heroines. All serious success in work depends upon some genuine interest in the material with which the work is concerned. The tragedy of one successful politician after another is the gradual substitution of narcissism for an interest in the community and the measures for which he stands. The man who is only interested in himself is not admirable, and is not felt to be so. Consequently the man whose sole concern with the world is that it shall admire him is not likely to achieve his object. But even if he does, he will not be completely happy, since human instinct is never completely self-centred, and the narcissist is limiting himself artificially just as truly as is the man dominated by a sense of sin. The primitive man might be proud of being a good hunter, but he also enjoyed the activity of the chase. Vanity, when it passes beyond a point, kills pleasure in every activity for its own sake, and thus leads inevitably to listlessness and boredom. Often its source is diffidence, and its cure lies in the growth of self-respect. But this is only to be gained by successful activity inspired by objective interests.

Narcissism is, in a sense, the opposite of a constant sense of sin. It is the habit of admiring yourself and wanting others to admire you. Up to a point, this is normal, of course, and is not something to condemn. Only when taken too far does narcissism become seriously harmful. In many women, especially wealthy women in high society, the ability to feel love has completely dried up. A powerful desire for all men to love them has taken its place. Once a woman like this is sure a man loves her, she has no further use for him. The same thing happens with men, though less often. The classic example is the hero of Liaisons Dangereuses. When vanity reaches this level, there is no genuine interest in anyone else. As a result, love can offer no real satisfaction. Other interests fail even more disastrously. A narcissist, for example, may take up art because of the admiration great painters receive. But because painting is only a means to an end for him, he never becomes interested in technique. He cannot see any subject except in relation to himself. The result is failure and disappointment, with ridicule instead of the praise he expected. The same applies to novelists who always make idealized versions of themselves the heroines of their novels. All serious success at work depends on a genuine interest in the subject of the work. One successful politician after another suffers the same tragedy. Narcissism gradually replaces an interest in the community and the policies he supports. A man interested only in himself is not admirable, and others do not find him admirable. So a man whose only concern with the world is to win its admiration is unlikely to succeed. But even if he succeeds, he will not be completely happy, because human instinct is never entirely self-centered. The narcissist places artificial limits on himself, just as surely as the man dominated by a sense of sin. A man in a primitive society might be proud of being a good hunter. But he also enjoyed the hunt itself. Beyond a certain point, vanity destroys the pleasure of doing anything for its own sake. So vanity inevitably leads to a lack of energy and interest, and to boredom. Vanity often comes from a lack of confidence, and its cure lies in developing self-respect. But self-respect can only be gained through successful activity driven by interests outside yourself.

The megalomaniac differs from the narcissist by the fact that he wishes to be powerful rather than charming, and seeks to be feared rather than loved. To this type belong many lunatics and most of the great men in history. Love of power, like vanity, is a strong element in normal human nature, and as such is to be accepted; it becomes deplorable only when it is excessive or associated with an insufficient sense of reality. Where this occurs it makes a man unhappy or foolish, if not both. The lunatic who thinks he is a crowned head may be, in a sense, happy, but his happiness is not of a kind that any sane person would envy. Alexander the Great was psychologically of the same type as the lunatic, though he possessed the talent to achieve the lunatic’s dream. He could not, however, achieve his own dream, which enlarged its scope as his achievement grew. When it became clear that he was the greatest conqueror known to fame, he decided that he was a God. Was he a happy man? His drunkenness, his furious rages, his indifference to women, and his claim to divinity, suggest that he was not. There is no ultimate satisfaction in the cultivation of one element of human nature at the expense of all the others, nor in viewing all the world as raw material for the magnificence of one’s own ego. Usually the megalomaniac, whether insane or nominally sane, is the product of some excessive humiliation. Napoleon suffered at school from inferiority to his schoolfellows, who were rich aristocrats, while he was a penurious scholarship boy. When he allowed the return of the émigrés, he had the satisfaction of seeing his former schoolfellows bowing down before him. What bliss! Yet it led to the wish to obtain a similar satisfaction at the expense of the Czar, and this led to Saint Helena. Since no man can be omnipotent, a life dominated wholly by love of power can hardly fail, sooner or later, to meet with obstacles that cannot be overcome. The knowledge that this is so can only be prevented from obtruding on consciousness by some form of lunacy, though if a man is sufficiently great he can imprison or execute those who point this out to him. Repressions in the political and in the psycho-analytic senses thus go hand in hand. And wherever psycho-analytic repression in any marked form takes place, there is no genuine happiness. Power kept within its proper bounds may add greatly to happiness, but as the sole end of life it leads to disaster, inwardly if not outwardly.

The megalomaniac differs from the narcissist in wanting power rather than charm, and wanting to be feared rather than loved. Many people with mental illness and most of history’s great men belong to this type. The love of power, like vanity, is a strong part of normal human nature and should be accepted as such. It becomes regrettable only when excessive or combined with a weak grasp of reality. In those cases, the love of power makes a person unhappy or foolish, if not both. A mentally ill person who believes he is a monarch may, in a sense, be happy. But his happiness is not the kind any sane person would envy. Alexander the Great was psychologically the same type as that deluded person, though Alexander had the talent to achieve that person’s dream. But Alexander could not achieve his own dream, which grew more ambitious as his achievements grew. When he clearly became the most celebrated conqueror in history, he decided he was a God. Was he happy? His drunkenness, furious rages, indifference to women, and claim to be divine suggest he was not. Developing one part of human nature at the expense of all the others brings no lasting satisfaction. Nor does treating the whole world as raw material for glorifying your own ego. Usually, the megalomaniac, whether insane or supposedly sane, has suffered some extreme humiliation. At school, Napoleon suffered because he felt inferior to his schoolmates. They were wealthy aristocrats, while he was a poor scholarship boy. When he allowed the émigrés to return, he enjoyed seeing his former schoolmates bow before him. What bliss! Yet that pleasure made him want the same satisfaction at the Czar’s expense, and that ambition led to Saint Helena. Since no one can be all-powerful, a life ruled entirely by the love of power will almost inevitably face insurmountable obstacles. Sooner or later, those obstacles will appear. Only some form of madness can keep the knowledge of those limits from entering a person’s awareness. Though if a man is great enough, he can imprison or execute anyone who points out those limits. Political repression and psychological repression thus go hand in hand. And wherever significant psychological repression occurs, there is no genuine happiness. Power kept within proper limits may add greatly to happiness. But as life’s only goal, power leads to disaster, inwardly if not outwardly.

The psychological causes of unhappiness, it is clear, are many and various. But all have something in common. The typical unhappy man is one who, having been deprived in youth of some normal satisfaction, has come to value this one kind of satisfaction more than any other, and has therefore given to his life a one-sided direction, together with a quite undue emphasis upon the achievement as opposed to the activities connected with it. There is, however, a further development which is very common in the present day. A man may feel so completely thwarted that he seeks no form of satisfaction, but only distraction and oblivion. He then becomes a devotee of “pleasure”. That is to say, he seeks to make life bearable by becoming less alive. Drunkenness, for example, is temporary suicide; the happiness that it brings is merely negative, a momentary cessation of unhappiness. The narcissist and the megalomaniac believe that happiness is possible, though they may adopt mistaken means of achieving it; but the man who seeks intoxication, in whatever form, has given up hope except in oblivion. In his case, the first thing to be done is to persuade him that happiness is desirable. Men who are unhappy, like men who sleep badly, are always proud of the fact. Perhaps their pride is like that of the fox who had lost his tail; if so, the way to cure it is to point out to them how they can grow a new tail. Very few men, I believe, will deliberately choose unhappiness if they see a way of being happy. I do not deny that such men exist, but they are not sufficiently numerous to be important. I shall therefore assume that the reader would rather be happy than unhappy. Whether I can help him to realize this wish, I do not know; but at any rate the attempt can do no harm.

Clearly, the psychological causes of unhappiness are many and varied. But all have something in common. The typical unhappy man was denied some normal source of satisfaction in his youth. He has come to value that one kind of satisfaction more than any other. As a result, his life has become one-sided. He places far too much emphasis on reaching his goal, rather than on the activities involved. There is, however, a further development that is very common today. A man may feel so completely frustrated that he no longer seeks any satisfaction, only distraction and escape from awareness. He then becomes devoted to “pleasure”. In other words, he tries to make life bearable by becoming less alive. Drunkenness, for example, is temporary suicide. The happiness drunkenness brings is merely the brief absence of unhappiness, not anything positive. The narcissist and the megalomaniac believe happiness is possible, though they may choose mistaken ways of pursuing it. But the man who seeks intoxication, in whatever form, has given up hope of anything except escape from awareness. For him, the first step is to persuade him that happiness is worth wanting. Unhappy men, like men who sleep badly, are always proud of the fact. Perhaps their pride resembles the pride of the fox who had lost his tail. If so, the cure is to show them how they can grow a new tail. I believe very few men will deliberately choose unhappiness if they see a way to be happy. I do not deny that such men exist, but there are too few of them to matter. I shall therefore assume that the reader would rather be happy than unhappy. I do not know whether I can help him achieve this wish. But at least the attempt can do no harm.