Fatigue

Fatigue is of many sorts, some of which are a much graver obstacle to happiness than others. Purely physical fatigue, provided it is not excessive, tends if anything to be a cause of happiness; it leads to sound sleep and a good appetite, and gives zest to the pleasures that are possible on holidays. But when it is excessive it becomes a very grave evil. Peasant women in all but the most advanced communities are old at thirty, worn out with excessive toil. Children in the early days of industrialism were stunted in their growth and frequently killed by overwork in early years. The same thing still happens in China and Japan, where industrialism is new; to some extent also in the Southern States of America. Physical labour carried beyond a certain point is atrocious torture, and it has very frequently been carried so far as to make life all but unbearable. In the most advanced parts of the modern world, however, physical fatigue has been much minimized through the improvement of industrial conditions. The kind of fatigue that is most serious in the present day in advanced communities is nervous fatigue. This kind, oddly enough, is most pronounced among the well-to-do, and tends to be much less among wage-earners than it is among business men and brain-workers.

Fatigue comes in many forms, and some are much greater obstacles to happiness than others. Purely physical fatigue, as long as it is not excessive, tends, if anything, to make people happier. It leads to sound sleep and a good appetite, and adds enjoyment to the pleasures available during holidays. But excessive physical fatigue becomes a very serious harm. In all but the most advanced communities, peasant women are old at thirty, worn out by excessive work. In the early days of industrialization, overwork stunted children’s growth and often killed them at an early age. The same thing still happens in China and Japan, where industrialization is new. It also happens to some extent in the Southern States of America. Physical labor beyond a certain point is terrible torture. It has very often been pushed so far that life becomes almost unbearable. In the most advanced parts of the modern world, however, improved working conditions have greatly reduced physical fatigue. In advanced communities today, the most serious kind of fatigue is nervous exhaustion. Oddly enough, nervous exhaustion is most severe among the wealthy. It tends to be much less severe among wage earners than among businesspeople and people who do mental work.

To escape from nervous fatigue in modern life is a very difficult thing. In the first place, all through working hours, and still more in the time spent between work and home, the urban worker is exposed to noise, most of which, it is true, he learns not to hear consciously, but which none the less wears him out, all the more owing to the subconscious effort involved in not hearing it. Another thing which causes fatigue without our being aware of it is the constant presence of strangers. The natural instinct of man, as of other animals, is to investigate every stranger of his species, with a view to deciding whether to behave to him in a friendly or hostile manner. This instinct has to be inhibited by those who travel in the underground in the rush hour, and the result of inhibiting it is that they feel a general diffused rage against all the strangers with whom they are brought into this involuntary contact. Then there is the hurry to catch the morning train, with the resulting dyspepsia. Consequently, by the time the office is reached and the day’s work begins, the black-coated worker already has frayed nerves and a tendency to view the human race as a nuisance. His employer, arriving in the same mood, does nothing to dissipate it in the employee. Fear of the sack compels respectful behaviour, but this unnatural conduct only adds to the nervous strain. If once a week employees were allowed to pull the employer’s nose and otherwise indicate what they thought of him, the nervous tension for them would be relieved, but for the employer, who also has his troubles, this would not mend matters. What the fear of dismissal is to the employee, the fear of bankruptcy is to the employer. Some, it is true, are big enough to be above this fear, but to reach a great position of this kind they have generally had to pass through years of strenuous struggle, during which they had to be actively aware of events in all parts of the world and constantly foiling the machinations of their competitors. The result of all this is that when sound success comes a man is already a nervous wreck, so accustomed to anxiety that he cannot shake off the habit of it when the need for it is past. There are, it is true, rich men’s sons, but they generally succeed in manufacturing for themselves anxieties as similar as possible to those that they would have suffered if they had not been born rich. By betting and gambling, they incur the displeasure of their fathers; by cutting short their sleep for the sake of their amusements, they debilitate their physique; and by the time they settle down, they have become as incapable of happiness as their fathers were before them. Voluntarily or involuntarily, of choice or of necessity, most moderns lead a nerve-racking life, and are continually too tired to be capable of enjoyment without the help of alcohol.

Escaping nervous exhaustion in modern life is very difficult. First, city workers face noise throughout their working hours, and even more while traveling between work and home. They do learn not to hear most of it consciously. But the noise still wears them out, especially because of the unconscious effort needed to block it out. Another source of fatigue we do not notice is the constant presence of strangers. Humans, like other animals, naturally want to examine every stranger of their own species. The purpose is to decide whether to treat the stranger as a friend or an enemy. People traveling on the subway at rush hour have to suppress this instinct. As a result, they feel a vague, general anger toward all the strangers they are forced into contact with. Then there is the rush to catch the morning train, and the indigestion that follows. So by the time office workers arrive and begin their day, their nerves are already frayed. They are already inclined to see the human race as a nuisance. Their employer arrives in the same mood and does nothing to improve theirs. Fear of being fired forces employees to behave respectfully, but this unnatural behavior only adds to their nervous strain. If employees could pull their employer’s nose once a week, and otherwise show what they thought of him, their tension would ease. But the employer also has his troubles, and this treatment would not improve matters for him. The employer’s fear of bankruptcy is like the employee’s fear of being fired. Some employers, admittedly, run businesses large enough to be beyond this fear. But to reach such a powerful position, they have generally had to struggle hard for years. During those years, they had to keep track of events throughout the world and constantly thwart their competitors’ schemes. As a result, by the time a man achieves lasting success, he is already a nervous wreck. He is so used to anxiety that he cannot break the habit even when there is no longer any need. There are, of course, rich men’s sons. But they generally manage to create anxieties as close as possible to those they would have faced without inherited wealth. Through betting and gambling, they earn their fathers’ disapproval. By cutting their sleep short for entertainment, they weaken their bodies. By the time they settle down, they have become as incapable of happiness as their fathers were before them. Willingly or unwillingly, by choice or necessity, most people today lead lives that wear down their nerves. They are constantly too tired to enjoy themselves without the help of alcohol.

Leaving on one side those rich men who are merely fools, let us consider the commoner case of those whose fatigue is associated with strenuous work for a living. To a great extent fatigue in such cases is due to worry, and worry could be prevented by a better philosophy of life and a little more mental discipline. Most men and women are very deficient in control over their thoughts. I mean by this that they cannot cease to think about worrying topics at times when no action can be taken in regard to them. Men take their business worries to bed with them, and in the hours of the night, when they should be gaining fresh strength to cope with to-morrow’s troubles, they are going over and over again in their minds problems about which at the moment they can do nothing, thinking about them, not in a way to produce a sound line of conduct on the morrow, but in that half-insane way that characterizes the troubled meditations of insomnia. Something of the midnight madness still clings about them in the morning, clouding their judgment, spoiling their temper, and making every obstacle infuriating. The wise man thinks about his troubles only when there is some purpose in doing so; at other times he thinks about other things, or, if it is night, about nothing at all. I do not mean to suggest that at a great crisis, for example, when ruin is imminent, or when a man has reason to suspect that his wife is deceiving him, it is possible, except to a few exceptionally disciplined minds, to shut out the trouble at moments when nothing can be done about it. But it is quite possible to shut out the ordinary troubles of ordinary days, except while they have to be dealt with. It is amazing how much both happiness and efficiency can be increased by the cultivation of an orderly mind, which thinks about a matter adequately at the right time rather than inadequately at all times. When a difficult or worrying decision has to be reached, as soon as all the data are available give the matter your best thought and make your decision; having made the decision, do not revise it unless some new fact comes to your knowledge. Nothing is so exhausting as indecision, and nothing is so futile.

Setting aside rich men who are simply fools, let us consider the more common case. These are people whose exhaustion is linked to working hard for a living. Much of their exhaustion comes from worry. A better philosophy of life and a little more mental discipline could prevent that worry. Most men and women have very little control over their thoughts. By this I mean they cannot stop thinking about their worries when they can do nothing about them. Men take their business worries to bed. During the night, they should be rebuilding their strength to face tomorrow’s troubles. Instead, they keep going over problems they can do nothing about at that moment. Their thinking does not help them decide on a sensible course of action for the next day. Instead, their thoughts have the half-mad quality typical of sleepless worry. Some of this midnight madness lingers into the morning. It clouds their judgment, spoils their temper, and makes every obstacle infuriating. A wise person thinks about troubles only when doing so serves a purpose. At other times, a wise person thinks about other things, or, at night, about nothing at all. I do not mean that people can shut out their troubles during a major crisis whenever nothing can be done. Only a few exceptionally disciplined minds can do that. Such a crisis might involve facing financial ruin or having reason to suspect that one’s wife is being unfaithful. But people can certainly shut out everyday troubles except when those troubles need attention. It is amazing how much an orderly mind can improve both happiness and efficiency. Such a mind gives a matter enough thought at the right time, rather than too little thought all the time. When you face a difficult or worrying decision, wait until all the facts are available. Then give the matter your best thought and make your decision. Once you have decided, do not reconsider unless you learn some new fact. Nothing is as exhausting as indecision, and nothing is as pointless.

A great many worries can be diminished by realizing the unimportance of the matter which is causing the anxiety. I have done in my time a considerable amount of public speaking; at first every audience terrified me, and nervousness made me speak very badly; I dreaded the ordeal so much that I always hoped I might break my leg before I had to make a speech, and when it was over I was exhausted from the nervous strain. Gradually I taught myself to feel that it did not matter whether I spoke well or ill, the universe would remain much the same in either case. I found that the less I cared whether I spoke well or badly, the less badly I spoke, and gradually the nervous strain diminished almost to vanishing point. A great deal of nervous fatigue can be dealt with in this way. Our doings are not so important as we naturally suppose; our successes and failures do not after all matter very much. Even great sorrows can be survived; troubles which seem as if they must put an end to happiness for life fade with the lapse of time until it becomes almost impossible to remember their poignancy. But over and above these self-centred considerations is the fact that one’s ego is no very large part of the world. The man who can centre his thoughts and hopes upon something transcending self can find a certain peace in the ordinary troubles of life which is impossible to the pure egoist.

Many worries can be reduced by realizing how little the source of our anxiety matters. I have done a considerable amount of public speaking in my time. At first, every audience terrified me, and nervousness made me speak very badly. I dreaded speaking so much that I always hoped I might break my leg before I had to give a speech. Afterward, I was exhausted by the nervous strain. Gradually, I taught myself that whether I spoke well or badly did not matter. The universe would remain much the same either way. I found that the less I cared about how well I spoke, the less badly I spoke. Gradually, the nervous strain almost disappeared. A great deal of nervous exhaustion can be handled this way. Our actions are not as important as we naturally suppose. Our successes and failures do not, after all, matter very much. Even great sorrows can be survived. Troubles that seem as if they must end our happiness for life fade over time. Eventually, remembering how painful those troubles were becomes almost impossible. But beyond these concerns about ourselves, there is the fact that each of us is only a small part of the world. Someone who focuses their thoughts and hopes on something beyond themselves can find some peace amid life's ordinary troubles. Such peace is impossible for someone concerned only with themselves.

What might be called hygiene of the nerves has been much too little studied. Industrial psychology, it is true, has made elaborate investigations into fatigue, and has proved by careful statistics that if you go on doing something for a sufficiently long time you will ultimately get rather tired—a result which might have been guessed without so much parade of science. The study of fatigue by psychologists is mainly concerned with muscular fatigue, although there are also a certain number of studies of fatigue in school children. None of these, however, touch upon the important problem. The important kind of fatigue is always emotional in modern life; purely intellectual fatigue, like purely muscular fatigue, produces its own remedy in sleep. Any person who has a great deal of intellectual work devoid of emotion to do—say, for example, elaborate computations—will sleep off at the end of each day the fatigue that that day has brought. The harm that is attributed to overwork is hardly ever due to that cause, but to some kind of worry or anxiety. The trouble with emotional fatigue is that it interferes with rest. The more tired a man becomes, the more impossible he finds it to stop. One of the symptoms of approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important, and that to take a holiday would bring all kinds of disaster. If I were a medical man, I should prescribe a holiday to any patient who considered his work important. The nervous break-down which appears to be produced by the work is, in fact, in every case that I have ever known of personally, produced by some emotional trouble from which the patient attempts to escape by means of his work. He is loath to give up his work because, if he does so, he will no longer have anything to distract him from the thoughts of his misfortune, whatever it may be. Of course, the trouble may be fear of bankruptcy, and in that case his work is directly connected with his worry, but even then worry is likely to lead him to work so long that his judgment becomes clouded and bankruptcy comes sooner than if he worked less. In every case it is the emotional trouble, not the work, that causes the breakdown.

What we might call care of the nervous system has received far too little study. Industrial psychology, admittedly, has investigated fatigue in great detail. Careful statistics have proved that if you keep doing something long enough, you will eventually get rather tired. We might have guessed as much without such a grand display of science. Psychologists studying fatigue mainly focus on muscle fatigue, although there have also been some studies of fatigue in schoolchildren. None of these studies, however, address the important problem. In modern life, the important kind of fatigue is always emotional. Purely mental fatigue, like purely muscular fatigue, provides its own remedy through sleep. Anyone doing a great deal of mental work without emotional involvement will sleep off each day’s fatigue that night. The work might involve, for example, complicated calculations. The harm blamed on overwork is hardly ever caused by overwork itself, but by some kind of worry or anxiety. The trouble with emotional fatigue is that it interferes with rest. The more tired a man becomes, the harder he finds it to stop. One sign of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important. Another part of that belief is that taking a holiday would bring all kinds of disaster. If I were a doctor, I would prescribe a holiday to any patient who considered his work important. A nervous breakdown may seem to be caused by work. But in every case I have personally known, the cause was some emotional trouble the patient tried to escape through work. He is reluctant to stop working because work distracts him from thoughts of his misfortune, whatever that may be. If he stops, he will no longer have anything to distract him. Of course, his trouble may be fear of bankruptcy. In that case, his work is directly connected to his worry. But even then, worry is likely to make him work so long that his judgment becomes clouded. Bankruptcy then comes sooner than if he worked less. In every case, the emotional trouble, not the work, causes the breakdown.

The psychology of worry is by no means simple. I have spoken already of mental discipline, namely the habit of thinking of things at the right time. This has its importance, first because it makes it possible to get through the day’s work with less expenditure of thought, secondly because it affords a cure for insomnia, and thirdly because it promotes efficiency and wisdom in decisions. But methods of this kind do not touch the subconscious or the unconscious, and when a trouble is grave no method is of much avail unless it penetrates below the level of consciousness. There has been a great deal of study by psychologists of the operation of the unconscious upon the conscious, but much less of the operation of the conscious upon the unconscious. Yet the latter is of vast importance in the subject of mental hygiene, and must be understood if rational convictions are ever to operate in the realm of the unconscious. This applies in particular in the matter of worry. It is easy enough to tell oneself that such and such a misfortune would not be so very terrible if it happened, but so long as this remains merely a conscious conviction it will not operate in the watches of the night, or prevent the occurrence of nightmares. My own belief is that a conscious thought can be planted into the unconscious if a sufficient amount of vigour and intensity is put into it. Most of the unconscious consists of what were once highly emotional conscious thoughts, which have now become buried. It is possible to do this process of burying deliberately, and in this way the unconscious can be led to do a lot of useful work. I have found, for example, that if I have to write upon some rather difficult topic the best plan is to think about it with very great intensity—the greatest intensity of which I am capable—for a few hours or days, and at the end of that time give orders, so to speak, that the work is to proceed underground. After some months I return consciously to the topic and find that the work has been done. Before I had discovered this technique, I used to spend the intervening months worrying because I was making no progress; I arrived at the solution none the sooner for this worry, and the intervening months were wasted, whereas now I can devote them to other pursuits. A process in many ways analogous can be adopted with regard to anxieties. When some misfortune threatens, consider seriously and deliberately what is the very worst that could possibly happen. Having looked this possible misfortune in the face, give yourself sound reasons for thinking that after all it would be no such very terrible disaster. Such reasons always exist, since at the worst nothing that happens to oneself has any cosmic importance. When you have looked for some time steadily at the worst possibility and have said to yourself with real conviction, “Well, after all, that would not matter so very much”, you will find that your worry diminishes to a quite extraordinary extent. It may be necessary to repeat the process a few times, but in the end, if you have shirked nothing in facing the worst possible issue, you will find that your worry disappears altogether, and is replaced by a kind of exhilaration.

The psychology of worry is far from simple. I have already discussed mental discipline, the habit of thinking about things at the right time. This habit matters for three reasons. First, it lets us get through the day’s work with less mental effort. Second, it offers a cure for insomnia. Third, it helps us make decisions more efficiently and wisely. But these methods do not reach the subconscious or the unconscious. When a problem is serious, no method helps much unless it reaches below conscious awareness. Psychologists have studied extensively how the unconscious affects the conscious mind. But they have studied much less how the conscious mind affects the unconscious. Yet this second process is enormously important for mental health. We must understand this process if rational beliefs are ever to influence the unconscious. This is especially true of worry. We can easily tell ourselves that a particular misfortune would not be so terrible if it happened. But as long as this belief remains merely conscious, it will not help during sleepless nights or prevent nightmares. I believe that a conscious thought can be planted in the unconscious if we give the thought enough force and intensity. Most of the unconscious consists of buried thoughts that were once conscious and highly emotional. We can deliberately bury thoughts in this way and put the unconscious to useful work. For example, I have found a method that works best when I must write about a fairly difficult subject. I think about the subject as intensely as I possibly can for a few hours or days. Then I give orders, so to speak, for the work to continue beneath conscious awareness. After some months, I consciously return to the subject and find that the work has been done. Before discovering this technique, I spent the intervening months worrying because I was making no progress. Worry brought me no closer to a solution, and those months were wasted. Now I can devote those months to other pursuits. We can use a similar process in many ways to deal with anxiety. When some misfortune threatens, consider seriously and deliberately the very worst that could possibly happen. After facing this possible misfortune, give yourself sound reasons for believing that it would not be such a terrible disaster. Such reasons always exist. Even at worst, nothing that happens to us has any importance on a cosmic scale. Spend some time steadily facing the worst possibility. Then tell yourself with real conviction, “Well, after all, that would not matter so very much”. You will find that your worry decreases to an extraordinary degree. You may need to repeat the process a few times. But in the end, if you have avoided nothing in facing the worst possible outcome, your worry will disappear altogether. A kind of exhilaration will replace your worry.

This is part of a more general technique for the avoidance of fear. Worry is a form of fear, and all forms of fear produce fatigue. A man who has learnt not to feel fear will find the fatigue of daily life enormously diminished. Now fear, in its most harmful form, arises where there is some danger which we are unwilling to face. At odd moments horrible thoughts dart into our minds; what they are depends upon the person, but almost everybody has some kind of lurking fear. With one man it is cancer, with another financial ruin, with a third the discovery of some disgraceful secret, a fourth is tormented by jealous suspicions, a fifth is haunted at night by the thought that perhaps the tales of hell-fire told him when he was young may be true. Probably all these people employ the wrong technique for dealing with their fear; whenever it comes into their mind, they try to think of something else; they distract their thoughts with amusement or work, or what not. Now every kind of fear grows worse by not being looked at. The effort of turning away one’s thoughts is a tribute to the horribleness of the spectre from which one is averting one’s gaze; the proper course with every kind of fear is to think about it rationally and calmly, but with great concentration, until it has become completely familiar. In the end familiarity will blunt its terrors; the whole subject will become boring, and our thoughts will turn away from it, not, as formerly, by an effort of will, but through mere lack of interest in the topic. When you find yourself inclined to brood on anything, no matter what, the best plan always is to think about it even more than you naturally would, until at last its morbid fascination is worn off.

This is part of a broader technique for avoiding fear. Worry is a form of fear, and all forms of fear cause fatigue. Someone who has learned not to feel fear will find daily life enormously less tiring. Fear is most harmful when we are unwilling to face some danger. At unexpected moments, horrible thoughts flash through our minds. These thoughts vary from person to person, but almost everyone has some hidden fear. One person fears cancer, another financial ruin, and a third the discovery of some shameful secret. A fourth is tormented by jealous suspicions. A fifth lies awake at night, haunted by the thought that childhood stories of hellfire may perhaps be true. Probably all these people deal with their fear in the wrong way. Whenever the fear enters their minds, they try to think of something else. They distract themselves with entertainment, work, or anything else. But every kind of fear grows worse when we refuse to examine it. The effort to turn our thoughts away pays tribute to how terrifying we find the thing we fear. The right approach to every kind of fear is to think about it calmly and rationally, but with intense concentration. Keep doing so until the fear has become completely familiar. Eventually, familiarity will dull its terror. The whole subject will become boring, and our thoughts will turn away from it. Unlike before, we will not need an effort of will. We will simply lose interest in the subject. Whenever you feel inclined to brood over anything, the best approach is always to think about it even more. Think about the subject more than you naturally would, until its unhealthy fascination finally wears off.

One of the matters in which modern morality is most defective is this question of fear. It is true that physical courage, especially in war, is expected of men, but other forms of courage are not expected of them, and no form of courage is expected of women. A woman who is courageous has to conceal the fact if she wishes men to like her. The man who is courageous in any matter except physical danger is also thought ill of. Indifference to public opinion, for example, is regarded as a challenge, and the public does what it can to punish the man who dares to flout its authority. All this is quite opposite to what it should be. Every form of courage, whether in men or women, should be admired as much as physical courage is admired in a soldier. The commonness of physical courage among young men is a proof that courage can be produced in response to a public opinion that demands it. Given more courage there would be less worry, and therefore less fatigue; for a very large proportion of the nervous fatigues from which men and women suffer at present are due to fears, conscious or unconscious.

One of the greatest weaknesses in modern morality is its attitude toward fear. Men are expected to show physical courage, especially in war, but they are not expected to show other kinds. Women are not expected to show courage of any kind. A courageous woman has to hide her courage if she wants men to like her. A man who shows courage in anything except physical danger is also judged harshly. Disregard for public opinion, for example, is seen as a challenge. So the public does whatever it can to punish a man who dares to defy its authority. All these attitudes are the exact opposite of what they should be. Every kind of courage, in men or women, should be admired as much as a soldier’s physical courage. Physical courage is common among young men. This proves that courage can be developed when public opinion demands it. With more courage, there would be less worry and therefore less fatigue. This is because a very large share of the nervous exhaustion men and women suffer today comes from fear, conscious or unconscious.

A very frequent source of fatigue is love of excitement. If a man could spend his leisure in sleep, he would keep fit, but his working hours are dreary, and he feels the need of pleasure during his hours of freedom. The trouble is that the pleasures which are easiest to obtain and most superficially attractive are mostly of a sort to wear out the nerves. Desire for excitement, when it goes beyond a point, is a sign either of a twisted disposition or of some instinctive dissatisfaction. In the early days of a happy marriage most men feel no need of excitement, but in the modern world marriage often has to be postponed for such a long time that when at last it becomes financially possible excitement has become a habit which can only be kept at bay for a short time. If public opinion allowed men to marry at twenty-one without incurring the financial burdens at present involved in matrimony, many men would never get into the way of demanding pleasures as fatiguing as their work. To suggest that this should be made possible is, however, immoral, as may be seen from the fate of Judge Lindsey, who has suffered obloquy, in spite of a long and honourable career, for the sole crime of wishing to save young people from the misfortunes that they incur as a result of their elders’ bigotry. I shall not, however, pursue this topic any further at present, since it comes under the heading of Envy, with which we shall be concerned in a later chapter.

A love of excitement is a very common cause of fatigue. If a man could spend his free time sleeping, he would stay fit. But his working hours are dull, and he feels he needs pleasure in his free time. The trouble is that the easiest and most immediately appealing pleasures are mostly the kind that exhaust the nerves. Beyond a certain point, the desire for excitement signals either a distorted character or some deep, instinctive dissatisfaction. In the early days of a happy marriage, most men feel no need for excitement. But in the modern world, marriage often has to be delayed for a very long time. By the time a man can finally afford marriage, excitement has become a habit. He can resist that habit only briefly. If public opinion allowed men to marry at twenty-one without marriage’s current financial burdens, many would never develop another habit: demanding pleasures as tiring as their work. To suggest making such marriages possible is, however, immoral, as Judge Lindsey’s fate shows. Despite a long and honorable career, he has faced public condemnation for just one crime. He wanted to spare young people the misfortunes they suffer because of their elders’ bigotry. However, I shall not pursue this topic any further now. It falls under the heading of Envy, which we shall discuss in a later chapter.

For the private individual, who cannot alter the laws and institutions under which he lives, it is difficult to cope with the situation that oppressive moralists created and perpetuate. It is, however, worth while to realize that exciting pleasures are not a road to happiness, although so long as more satisfying joys remain unattainable a man may find it hardly possible to endure life except by the help of excitement. In such a situation the only thing that a prudent man can do is to ration himself, and not to allow himself such an amount of fatiguing pleasure as will undermine his health or interfere with his work. The radical cure for the troubles of the young lies in a change of public morals. In the meantime a young man does well to reflect that he will ultimately be in a position to marry, and that he will be unwise if he lives in such a way as to make a happy marriage impossible, which may easily happen through frayed nerves and an acquired incapacity for the gentler pleasures.

An ordinary individual cannot change the laws and institutions he lives under. So he finds it difficult to cope with the situation oppressive moralists have created and continue to maintain. Still, it is worth recognizing that exciting pleasures are not a path to happiness. Yet as long as more satisfying joys remain out of reach, a man may find life almost unbearable without excitement. In such a situation, the only sensible course is to limit his pleasures. He must not let exhausting pleasures damage his health or interfere with his work. The fundamental solution to young people's troubles is a change in society's moral standards. In the meantime, a young man would do well to remember that he will eventually be able to marry. He would be unwise to live in ways that make a happy marriage impossible. Worn-out nerves and a learned inability to enjoy gentler pleasures can easily make a happy marriage impossible.

One of the worst features of nervous fatigue is that it acts as a sort of screen between a man and the outside world. Impressions reach him, as it were, muffled and muted; he no longer notices people except to be irritated by small tricks or mannerisms; he derives no pleasure from his meals or from the sunshine, but tends to become tensely concentrated upon a few objects and indifferent to all the rest. This state of affairs makes it impossible to rest, so that fatigue continually increases until it reaches a point where medical treatment is required. All this is at bottom a penalty for having lost that contact with Earth of which we spoke in the preceding chapter. But how such contact is to be preserved in our great modern urban agglomerations of population, it is by no means easy to see. However, here again we find ourselves upon the fringe of large social questions with which in this volume it is not my intention to deal.

One of the worst effects of nervous exhaustion is that it creates a kind of barrier between a person and the outside world. Impressions seem to reach the exhausted person muffled and muted. They no longer notice people except to feel irritated by small habits or mannerisms. They take no pleasure in meals or sunshine. Instead, they tend to focus tensely on a few things and become indifferent to everything else. This state makes rest impossible, so exhaustion keeps increasing until medical treatment becomes necessary. All this is ultimately the price of losing the contact with Earth discussed in the previous chapter. But it is far from clear how to preserve that contact in our large, densely populated modern cities. Here again, however, we are approaching broad social questions that I do not intend to address in this book.