Boredom and Excitement

Boredom as a factor in human behaviour has received, in my opinion, far less attention than it deserves. It has been, I believe, one of the great motive powers throughout the historical epoch, and is so at the present day more than ever. Boredom would seem to be a distinctively human emotion. Animals in captivity, it is true, become listless, pace up and down, and yawn, but in a state of nature I do not believe that they experience anything analogous to boredom. Most of the time they are on the look-out for enemies, or food, or both; sometimes they are mating, sometimes they are trying to keep warm. But even when they are unhappy, I do not think that they are bored. Possibly the anthropoid apes may resemble us in this respect, as in so many others, but having never lived with them I have not had the opportunity to make the experiment. One of the essentials of boredom consist in the contrast between present circumstances and some other more agreeable circumstances which force themselves irresistibly upon the imagination. It is also one of the essentials of boredom that one’s faculties must not be fully occupied. Running away from enemies who are trying to take one’s life is, I imagine, unpleasant, but certainly not boring. A man would not feel bored while he was being executed, unless he had almost superhuman courage. In like manner no one has ever yawned during his maiden speech in the House of Lords, with the exception of the late Duke of Devonshire, who was reverenced by their Lordships in consequence. Boredom is essentially a thwarted desire for events, not necessarily pleasant ones, but just occurrences such as will enable the victim of ennui to know one day from another. The opposite of boredom, in a word, is not pleasure, but excitement.

Boredom’s role in human behavior has, in my opinion, received far less attention than it deserves. I believe boredom has been one of the great driving forces throughout recorded history, and is now more than ever. Boredom seems to be a distinctly human emotion. Animals in captivity do become listless, pace up and down, and yawn. But I do not believe animals in the wild experience anything like boredom. Most of the time, animals are watching for enemies, looking for food, or both. Sometimes they are mating, and sometimes they are trying to keep warm. But even when animals are unhappy, I do not think they are bored. Possibly the great apes resemble us in this respect, as in so many others. But I have never lived with them, so I have had no opportunity to test the idea. One essential feature of boredom is the contrast between our present circumstances and more pleasant circumstances we cannot help imagining. Another essential feature is that our abilities must not be fully engaged. Running from enemies who are trying to kill you is unpleasant, I imagine, but certainly not boring. A man would not feel bored during his execution unless he had almost superhuman courage. Similarly, no one has ever yawned while giving his first speech in the House of Lords, except the late Duke of Devonshire. The other members revered the Duke for doing so. Boredom is essentially a frustrated desire for events. These events need not be pleasant, just something that lets the sufferer of ennui tell one day from another. In short, the opposite of boredom is not pleasure, but excitement.

The desire for excitement is very deep-seated in human beings, especially in males. I suppose that in the hunting stage it was more easily gratified than it has been since. The chase was exciting, war was exciting, courtship was exciting. A savage will manage to commit adultery with a woman while her husband is asleep beside her, knowing that it is instant death if the husband wakes. This situation, I imagine, is not boring. But with the coming of agriculture life began to grow dull, except, of course, for the aristocrats, who remained, and still remain, in the hunting stage. We hear a great deal about the tedium of machine-minding, but I think the tedium of agriculture by old-fashioned methods is at least as great. Indeed, contrary to what most philanthropists maintain, I should say that the machine age has enormously diminished the sum of boredom in the world. Among wage-earners the working hours are not solitary, while the evening hours can be given over to a variety of amusements that were impossible in an old-fashioned country village. Consider again the change in lower middle-class life. In old days, after supper, when the wife and daughters had cleared away the things, everybody sat round and had what was called “a happy family time”. This meant that paterfamilias went to sleep, his wife knitted, and the daughters wished they were dead or at Timbuktu. They were not allowed to read, or to leave the room, because the theory was that at that period their father conversed with them, which must be a pleasure to all concerned. With luck they ultimately married and had a chance to inflict upon their children a youth as dismal as their own had been. If they did not have luck, they developed into old maids, perhaps ultimately into decayed gentlewomen—a fate as horrible as any that savages have bestowed upon their victims. All this weight of boredom should be borne in mind in estimating the world of a hundred years ago, and when one goes further into the past the boredom becomes still worse. Imagine the monotony of winter in a mediæval village. People could not read or write, they had only candles to give them light after dark, the smoke of their one fire filled the only room that was not bitterly cold. Roads were practically impassable, so that one hardly ever saw anybody from another village. It must have been boredom as much as anything that led to the practice of witch hunts as the sole sport by which winter evenings could be enlivened.

The desire for excitement runs very deep in human beings, especially in men. I suppose this desire was easier to satisfy when people lived by hunting than it has been since. Hunting was exciting, war was exciting, and courtship was exciting. A man from a so-called primitive society will manage to commit adultery with a woman while her husband sleeps beside her. He knows he faces instant death if the husband wakes. This situation, I imagine, is not boring. But with the arrival of agriculture, life began to grow dull, except, of course, for the aristocrats. They continued to live as hunters, and still do. We hear a great deal about the boredom of tending machines. But I think farming by old-fashioned methods is at least as boring. Indeed, contrary to what most philanthropists claim, I would say the machine age has enormously reduced the world's total boredom. Wage earners do not spend their working hours alone. And their evenings offer a variety of amusements that were impossible in an old-fashioned country village. Consider, too, the change in lower-middle-class life. In the old days, after supper, the wife and daughters cleared everything away. Then everyone sat around for what was called “a happy family time”. This meant that the father fell asleep, his wife knitted, and the daughters wished they were dead or at Timbuktu. The daughters were not allowed to read or leave the room. This was because, in theory, their father was talking with them during that time. Such conversation must surely be a pleasure for everyone involved. With luck, the daughters eventually married. Then they could inflict a childhood as miserable as their own on their children. Without luck, they became lifelong unmarried women, perhaps eventually impoverished ladies living on their former social standing. This fate was as horrible as any that so-called primitive peoples have inflicted on their victims. We should remember all this accumulated boredom when judging the world of a hundred years ago. And further back in the past, the boredom becomes still worse. Imagine the monotony of winter in a medieval village. People could not read or write, and after dark they had only candles for light. Smoke from their one fire filled the only room that was not bitterly cold. Roads were almost impassable, so people hardly ever saw anyone from another village. Boredom must have contributed as much as anything to the practice of witch hunts. These hunts were the only sport that could liven up winter evenings.

We are less bored than our ancestors were, but we are more afraid of boredom. We have come to know, or rather to believe, that boredom is not part of the natural lot of man, but can be avoided by a sufficiently vigorous pursuit of excitement. Girls nowadays earn their own living, very largely because this enables them to seek excitement in the evening and to escape “the happy family time” that their grandmothers had to endure. Everybody who can lives in a town; in America, those who cannot, have a car, or at the least a motor-bicycle, to take them to the movies. And of course they have the radio in their houses. Young men and young women meet each other with much less difficulty than was formerly the case, and every housemaid expects at least once a week as much excitement as would have lasted a Jane Austen heroine throughout a whole novel. As we rise in the social scale the pursuit of excitement becomes more and more intense. Those who can afford it are perpetually moving from place to place, carrying with them as they go gaiety, dancing and drinking, but for some reason always expecting to enjoy these more in a new place. Those who have to earn a living get their share of boredom, of necessity, in working hours, but those who have enough money to be freed from the need of work have as their ideal a life completely freed from boredom. It is a noble ideal, and far be it from me to decry it, but I am afraid that like other ideals it is more difficult of achievement than the idealists suppose. After all, the mornings are boring in proportion as the previous evenings were amusing. There will be middle age, possibly even old age. At twenty men think that life will be over at thirty. I, at the age of fifty-eight, can no longer take that view. Perhaps it is as unwise to spend one’s vital capital as one’s financial capital. Perhaps some element of boredom is a necessary ingredient in life. A wish to escape from boredom is natural; indeed, all races of mankind have displayed it as opportunity occurred. When savages have first tasted liquor at the hands of the white men, they have found at last an escape from age-old tedium, and, except when the Government has interfered, they have drunk themselves into a riotous death. Wars, pogroms, and persecutions have all been part of the flight from boredom; even quarrels with neighbours have been found better than nothing. Boredom is therefore a vital problem for the moralist, since at least half the sins of mankind are caused by the fear of it.

We are less bored than our ancestors were, but we are more afraid of boredom. We have come to know, or rather to believe, that boredom is not a natural part of human life. Instead, we believe we can avoid boredom by seeking excitement energetically enough. Young women now earn their own living largely because working lets them seek excitement in the evening. They can also escape “the happy family time” that their grandmothers had to endure. Everyone who can lives in a town. In America, those who cannot have a car, or at least a motorcycle, to take them to the movies. And of course they have radios at home. Young men and women meet one another much more easily than they used to. Every housemaid expects excitement at least once a week, enough to last a Jane Austen heroine through an entire novel. The higher we go up the social ladder, the more intensely people pursue excitement. Those who can afford to are constantly moving from place to place, taking their merrymaking, dancing, and drinking with them. Yet for some reason they always expect to enjoy these pleasures more somewhere new. Those who must earn a living necessarily get their share of boredom during working hours. But those wealthy enough not to work aim for a life entirely free from boredom. It is a noble ideal, and I would be the last to criticize it. But I fear that, like other ideals, it is harder to achieve than its supporters suppose. After all, the more entertaining the evening, the more boring the next morning. Middle age will come, and possibly even old age. At twenty, men think life will be over at thirty. At fifty-eight, I can no longer take that view. Perhaps using up our reserves of energy is as unwise as spending all our savings. Perhaps some boredom is a necessary part of life. Wanting to escape boredom is natural. Indeed, all peoples have shown this desire whenever they have had the opportunity. When Indigenous peoples first tasted alcohol supplied by white people, they finally found an escape from age-old boredom. Unless the government intervened, they drank themselves to death in a frenzy of excess. Wars, pogroms, and persecutions have all been part of the escape from boredom. Even quarrels with neighbours have seemed better than nothing. Boredom is therefore a crucial problem for anyone concerned with morality. At least half of humanity’s sins are caused by the fear of boredom.

Boredom, however, is not to be regarded as wholly evil. There are two sorts, of which one is fructifying, while the other is stultifying. The fructifying kind arises from the absence of drugs, and the stultifying kind from the absence of vital activities. I am not prepared to say that drugs can play no good part in life whatsoever. There are moments, for example, when an opiate will be prescribed by a wise physician, and I think these moments more frequent than prohibitionists suppose. But the craving for drugs is certainly something which cannot be left to the unfettered operation of natural impulse. And the kind of boredom which the person accustomed to drugs experiences when deprived of them is something for which I can suggest no remedy except time. Now what applies to drugs applies also, within limits, to every kind of excitement. A life too full of excitement is an exhausting life, in which continually stronger stimuli are needed to give the thrill that has come to be thought an essential part of pleasure. A person accustomed to too much excitement is like a person with a morbid craving for pepper, who comes at last to be unable even to taste a quantity of pepper which would cause anyone else to choke. There is an element of boredom which is inseparable from the avoidance of too much excitement, and too much excitement not only undermines the health, but dulls the palate for every kind of pleasure, substituting titillations for profound organic satisfactions, cleverness for wisdom, and jagged surprises for beauty. I do not want to push to extremes the objection to excitement. A certain amount of it is wholesome, but, like almost everything else, the matter is quantitative. Too little may produce morbid cravings, too much will produce exhaustion. A certain power of enduring boredom is therefore essential to a happy life, and is one of the things that ought to be taught to the young.

Boredom, however, should not be seen as entirely bad. There are two kinds: one encourages growth, while the other dulls the mind. The first comes from going without drugs, and the second from lacking activities that give life meaning and energy. I am not prepared to say that drugs can never play a useful role in life. Sometimes, for example, a wise doctor will prescribe an opiate. I think such occasions are more frequent than those who favor banning drugs suppose. But the craving for drugs certainly cannot be left to unchecked natural impulses. People accustomed to drugs experience a particular kind of boredom when deprived of them. For that boredom, I can suggest no remedy except time. Now, what is true of drugs is also true, within limits, of every kind of excitement. A life with too much excitement is exhausting. Ever stronger stimulation is needed to provide the thrill that has come to seem essential to pleasure. Someone accustomed to too much excitement resembles someone with an unhealthy craving for pepper. Eventually, the pepper lover cannot even taste an amount that would make anyone else choke. Some boredom is unavoidable when we avoid too much excitement. And too much excitement not only damages health but also dulls our ability to enjoy every kind of pleasure. It replaces deep bodily satisfaction with fleeting thrills, wisdom with cleverness, and beauty with jarring surprises. I do not want to take the argument against excitement too far. A certain amount is healthy, but, as with almost everything else, the question is how much. Too little may produce unhealthy cravings, while too much will produce exhaustion. Some ability to endure boredom is therefore essential to a happy life. Learning to endure boredom should be part of young people's education.

All great books contain boring portions, and all great lives have contained uninteresting stretches. Imagine a modern American publisher confronted with the Old Testament as a new manuscript submitted to him for the first time. It is not difficult to think what his comments would be, for example, on the genealogies. “My dear sir,” he would say, “this chapter lacks pep; you can’t expect your reader to be interested in a mere string of proper names of persons about whom you tell him so little. You have begun your story, I will admit, in fine style, and at first I was very favourably impressed, but you have altogether too much wish to tell it all. Pick out the high lights, take out the superfluous matter, and bring me back your manuscript when you have reduced it to a reasonable length.” So the modern publisher would speak, knowing the modern reader’s fear of boredom. He would say the same sort of thing about the Confucian classics, the Koran, Marx’s Capital, and all the other sacred books which have proved to be best sellers. Nor does this apply only to sacred books. All the best novels contain boring passages. A novel which sparkles from the first page to the last is pretty sure not to be a great book. Nor have the lives of great men been exciting except at a few great moments. Socrates could enjoy a banquet now and again, and must have derived considerable satisfaction from his conversations while the hemlock was taking effect, but most of his life he lived quietly with Xanthippe, taking a constitutional in the afternoon, and perhaps meeting a few friends by the way. Kant is said never to have been more than ten miles from Königsberg in all his life. Darwin, after going round the world, spent the whole of the rest of his life in his own house. Marx, after stirring up a few revolutions, decided to spend the remainder of his days in the British Museum. Altogether it will be found that a quiet life is characteristic of great men, and that their pleasures have not been of the sort that would look exciting to the outward eye. No great achievement is possible without persistent work, so absorbing and so difficult that little energy is left over for the more strenuous kinds of amusement, except such as serve to recuperate physical energy during holidays, of which Alpine climbing may serve as the best example.

All great books have boring parts, and all great lives have had dull stretches. Imagine a modern American publisher receiving the Old Testament as a new manuscript for the first time. It is easy to imagine his comments on the genealogies, for example. “My dear sir,” he would say, “this chapter lacks energy. You can’t expect your reader to care about a list of names when you say so little about the people. I admit that you began your story well, and at first I was very impressed. But you are far too eager to tell everything. Pick out the highlights, cut the unnecessary material, and bring back your manuscript when you’ve shortened it to a reasonable length.” That is how the modern publisher would speak, knowing the modern reader’s fear of boredom. He would say much the same about the Confucian classics, the Koran, and Marx’s Capital. He would also say it about all the other sacred books that have become bestsellers. Nor does this criticism apply only to sacred books. All the best novels contain boring passages. A novel that sparkles from the first page to the last is almost certainly not a great book. Nor have the lives of great men been exciting, except at a few great moments. Socrates could enjoy a banquet now and then. He must also have found considerable satisfaction in his conversations while the hemlock was taking effect. But he spent most of his life quietly with Xanthippe. He took an afternoon walk for exercise and perhaps met a few friends along the way. Kant is said never to have traveled more than ten miles from Königsberg in his entire life. After traveling around the world, Darwin spent the rest of his life at home. After stirring up a few revolutions, Marx decided to spend his remaining days in the British Museum. Overall, we find that great men typically lead quiet lives. Their pleasures have not been the kind that look exciting to an observer. No great achievement is possible without sustained work. Such work is so absorbing and difficult that little energy remains for more strenuous amusements. The exceptions are activities that help restore physical energy during holidays. Alpine climbing may be the best example.

The capacity to endure a more or less monotonous life is one which should be acquired in childhood. Modern parents are greatly to blame in this respect; they provide their children with far too many passive amusements, such as shows and good things to eat, and they do not realize the importance to a child of having one day like another, except, of course, for somewhat rare occasions. The pleasures of childhood should in the main be such as the child extracts himself from his environment by means of some effort and inventiveness. Pleasures which are exciting and at the same time involve no physical exertion, such, for example, as the theatre, should occur very rarely. The excitement is in the nature of a drug, of which more and more will come to be required, and the physical passivity during the excitement is contrary to instinct. A child develops best when, like a young plant, he is left undisturbed in the same soil. Too much travel, too much variety of impressions, are not good for the young, and cause them as they grow up to become incapable of enduring fruitful monotony. I do not mean that monotony has any merits of its own; I mean only that certain good things are not possible except where there is a certain degree of monotony. Take, say, Wordsworth’s Prelude. It will be obvious to every reader that whatever had any value in Wordsworth’s thoughts and feelings would have been impossible to a sophisticated urban youth. A boy or young man who has some serious constructive purpose will endure voluntarily a great deal of boredom if he finds that it is necessary by the way. But constructive purposes do not easily form themselves in a boy’s mind if he is living a life of distractions and dissipations, for in that case his thoughts will always be directed towards the next pleasure rather than towards the distant achievement. For all these reasons a generation that cannot endure boredom will be a generation of little men, of men unduly divorced from the slow processes of nature, of men in whom every vital impulse slowly withers, as though they were cut flowers in a vase.

The ability to endure a more or less monotonous life should be learned in childhood. Modern parents deserve much of the blame for neglecting this lesson. They give their children far too many passive pleasures, such as shows and good things to eat. They do not realize how important it is for children to have one day much like another. Of course, there should be occasional exceptions. Most childhood pleasures should come from what children find in their surroundings through their own effort and inventiveness. Exciting pleasures that involve no physical effort, such as going to the theatre, should be very rare. The excitement acts like a drug, creating a need for more and more. And being physically passive during such excitement goes against instinct. A child develops best when, like a young plant, he is left undisturbed in the same soil. Too much travel and too many different experiences are not good for the young. As they grow up, these things leave them unable to endure productive monotony. I do not mean that monotony has any value in itself. I mean only that certain good things are impossible without some degree of monotony. Take, for example, Wordsworth’s Prelude. Every reader will see that anything valuable in Wordsworth’s thoughts and feelings would have been impossible for a sophisticated city youth. A boy or young man with a serious, constructive goal will willingly endure a great deal of boredom. He will do so if he finds that boredom is a necessary part of reaching his goal. But constructive goals do not easily develop in a boy’s mind if his life is full of distractions and indulgence. In that case, his thoughts will always turn toward the next pleasure rather than a distant achievement. For all these reasons, a generation unable to endure boredom will be a generation of small-minded men. These men will be too far removed from nature’s slow processes. Every vital impulse in them will slowly wither, as though they were cut flowers in a vase.

I do not like mystical language, and yet I hardly know how to express what I mean without employing phrases that sound poetic rather than scientific. Whatever we may wish to think, we are creatures of Earth; our life is part of the life of the Earth, and we draw our nourishment from it just as the plants and animals do. The rhythm of Earth life is slow; autumn and winter are as essential to it as spring and summer, and rest is as essential as motion. To the child, even more than to the man, it is necessary to preserve some contact with the ebb and flow of terrestrial life. The human body has been adapted through the ages to this rhythm, and religion has embodied something of it in the festival of Easter. I have seen a boy of two years old, who had been kept in London, taken out for the first time to walk in green country. The season was winter, and everything was wet and muddy. To the adult eye there was nothing to cause delight, but in the boy there sprang up a strange ecstasy; he kneeled in the wet ground and put his face in the grass, and gave utterance to half-articulate cries of delight. The joy that he was experiencing was primitive, simple and massive. The organic need that was being satisfied is so profound that those in whom it is starved are seldom completely sane. Many pleasures, of which we may take gambling as a good example, have in them no element of this contact with Earth. Such pleasures, in the instant when they cease, leave a man feeling dusty and dissatisfied, hungry for he knows not what. Such pleasures bring nothing that can be called joy. Those, on the other hand, that bring us into contact with the life of the Earth have something in them profoundly satisfying; when they cease, the happiness that they have brought remains, although their intensity while they existed may have been less than that of more exciting dissipations. The distinction that I have in mind runs through the whole gamut from the simplest to the most civilized occupations. The two-year-old boy whom I spoke of a moment ago displayed the most primitive possible form of union with the life of Earth. But in a higher form the same thing is to be found in poetry. What makes Shakespeare’s lyrics supreme is that they are filled with this same joy that made the two-year-old embrace the grass. Consider “Hark, hark, the lark”, or “Come unto these yellow sands”; you will find in these poems the civilized expression of the same emotion that in our two-year-old could only find utterance in inarticulate cries. Or, again, consider the difference between love and mere sex attraction. Love is an experience in which our whole being is renewed and refreshed as is that of plants by rain after drought. In sex intercourse without love there is nothing of this. When the momentary pleasure is ended, there is fatigue, disgust, and a sense that life is hollow. Love is part of the life of Earth; sex without love is not.

I do not like mystical language. Yet I hardly know how to express my meaning without using phrases that sound poetic rather than scientific. Whatever we may wish to think, we are creatures of Earth. Our lives are part of the Earth’s life, and we draw nourishment from it just as plants and animals do. The rhythm of life on Earth is slow. Autumn and winter are as essential to that rhythm as spring and summer, and rest is as essential as movement. Children need to keep some contact with the ebb and flow of life on Earth, even more than adults do. Over the ages, the human body has adapted to this rhythm. Religion has expressed something of that rhythm in the festival of Easter. I once saw a two-year-old boy, who had been kept in London, taken for his first walk in green countryside. It was winter, and everything was wet and muddy. To an adult, there was nothing delightful to see, but a strange ecstasy suddenly filled the boy. He knelt on the wet ground, pressed his face into the grass, and made half-formed cries of delight. His joy was primal, simple, and immense. The bodily need being met was so deep that people deprived of this contact are seldom completely sane. Many pleasures, such as gambling, involve no contact with the Earth. As soon as such pleasures end, they leave a person feeling dusty and dissatisfied, hungry for something they cannot name. Such pleasures bring nothing that can be called joy. By contrast, pleasures that connect us with life on Earth are deeply satisfying. When these pleasures end, the happiness they brought remains. Yet they may have been less intense than more exciting forms of indulgence. The distinction I mean applies across the whole range of activities, from the simplest to the most culturally developed. The two-year-old boy I mentioned showed the most primal possible form of unity with life on Earth. But the same unity appears in a more developed form in poetry. Shakespeare’s lyrics are unsurpassed because they overflow with the same joy that made the two-year-old embrace the grass. Consider “Hark, hark, the lark”, or “Come unto these yellow sands”. In these poems, you will find a refined expression of the same feeling. Our two-year-old could express that feeling only through wordless cries. Or consider the difference between love and mere sexual attraction. Love renews and refreshes our whole being, just as rain renews and refreshes plants after a drought. Sex without love does nothing of the kind. When the brief pleasure ends, fatigue, disgust, and a sense that life is hollow follow. Love is part of life on Earth. Sex without love is not.

The special kind of boredom from which modern urban populations suffer is intimately bound up with their separation from the life of Earth. It makes life hot and dusty and thirsty, like a pilgrimage in the desert. Among those who are rich enough to choose their way of life, the particular brand of unendurable boredom from which they suffer is due, paradoxical as this may seem, to their fear of boredom. In flying from the fructifying kind of boredom, they fall a prey to the other far worse kind. A happy life must be to a great extent a quiet life, for it is only in an atmosphere of quiet that true joy can live.

The particular kind of boredom modern city dwellers suffer is closely tied to their separation from the life of Earth. This boredom makes life hot, dusty, and thirsty, like a pilgrimage through the desert. Some people are wealthy enough to choose how they live, yet suffer from unbearable boredom because they fear being bored. This may seem like a paradox. By fleeing the kind of boredom that encourages growth, they fall victim to the other, far worse kind. A happy life must be largely quiet, because true joy can live only in an atmosphere of quiet.