Feeling Sinful

Concerning the sense of sin we have already in Chapter I had occasion to say something, but we must now go into it more fully, since it is one of the most important of the underlying psychological causes of unhappiness in adult life.

We have already touched on the sense of sin in Chapter I, but we must now examine it more fully. The sense of sin is one of the most important underlying psychological causes of unhappiness in adult life.

There is a traditional religious psychology of sin which no modern psychologist can accept. It was supposed, especially by Protestants, that conscience reveals to every man when an act to which he is tempted is sinful, and that after committing such an act he may experience either of two painful feelings, one called remorse, in which there is no merit, and the other called repentance, which is capable of wiping out his guilt. In Protestant countries even many of those who lost their faith continued for a time to accept with greater or smaller modifications the orthodox view of sin. In our own day, partly owing to psycho-analysis, we have the opposite state of affairs: not only do the unorthodox reject the old doctrine of sin, but many of those who still consider themselves orthodox do so likewise. Conscience has ceased to be something mysterious which, because it was mysterious, could be regarded as the voice of God. We know that conscience enjoins different acts in different parts of the world, and that broadly speaking it is everywhere in agreement with tribal custom. What, then, is really happening when a man’s conscience pricks him?

There is a traditional religious understanding of sin that no modern psychologist can accept. People, especially Protestants, believed that conscience tells everyone when an act they are tempted to commit is sinful. After committing such an act, a person may experience either of two painful feelings. One is called remorse, and has no moral value. The other is called repentance, and can wipe away guilt. In Protestant countries, even many people who lost their faith continued for a time to accept the traditional view of sin. Some modified that view more than others. Today, partly because of psychoanalysis, the situation is reversed. People who reject traditional religious beliefs also reject the old doctrine of sin. But so do many people who still consider their beliefs traditional. Conscience is no longer something mysterious that, because of its mystery, could be seen as the voice of God. We know that conscience demands different actions in different parts of the world. Broadly speaking, conscience everywhere agrees with tribal customs. What, then, is really happening when someone feels a pang of conscience?

The word “conscience” covers, as a matter of fact, several different feelings; the simplest of these is the fear of being found out. You, reader, have, I am sure, lived a completely blameless life, but if you will ask someone who has at some time acted in a manner for which he would be punished if it became known, you will find that, when discovery seemed imminent, the person in question repented of his crime. I do not say that this would apply to the professional thief who expects a certain amount of prison as a trade risk, but it applies to what may be called the respectable offender, such as the Bank Manager who has embezzled in a moment of stress, or the clergyman who has been tempted by passion into some sensual irregularity. Such men can forget their crime when there seems little chance of detection, but when they are found out, or in grave danger of being so, they wish they had been more virtuous, and this wish may give them a lively sense of the enormity of their sin. Closely allied with this feeling is the fear of becoming an outcast from the herd. A man who cheats at cards or fails to pay his debts of honour has nothing within himself by which to stand up against the disapproval of the herd when he is found out. In this he is unlike the religious innovator, the anarchist, and the revolutionary, who all feel that, whatever may be their fate in the present, the future is with them and will honour them as much as they are execrated in the present. These men, in spite of the hostility of the herd, do not feel sinful, but the man who entirely accepts the morality of the herd while acting against it suffers great unhappiness when he loses caste, and the fear of this disaster, or the pain of it when it has happened, may easily cause him to regard his acts themselves as sinful.

The word “conscience” actually covers several different feelings. The simplest is the fear of being found out. You, reader, have, I am sure, lived a completely blameless life. But ask someone who has done something they would be punished for if anyone found out. You will find that, when discovery seemed close, that person regretted their crime. I do not say the same applies to professional thieves who expect some prison time as a risk of the trade. But it applies to what we might call respectable offenders. Examples include the bank manager who embezzled money under pressure, or the clergyman whose passion tempted him into sexual misconduct. Such men can forget their crime when there seems little chance of discovery. But when they are found out, or face a serious risk of discovery, they wish they had been more virtuous. That wish may make them feel intensely how terrible their sin was. Closely related to this feeling is the fear of being cast out of the group. A man who cheats at cards or fails to pay his debts of honour has no inner conviction to sustain him. When he is found out, he has nothing to set against the group’s disapproval. In this respect, he differs from religious innovators, anarchists, and revolutionaries. All of them feel that, whatever happens to them now, the future is on their side. They believe the future will honour them as much as the present despises them. Despite the group’s hostility, these men do not feel sinful. But a man who fully accepts the group’s morality while acting against it suffers greatly when he loses his standing. Fear of losing that standing, or the pain of having lost it, may easily make him see his actions themselves as sinful.

But the sense of sin in its most important forms is something which goes deeper. It is something which has its roots in the unconscious, and does not appear in consciousness as fear of other people’s disapproval. In consciousness certain kinds of acts are labelled Sin for no reason visible to introspection. When a man commits these acts he feels uncomfortable without quite knowing why. He wishes he were the kind of man who could abstain from what he believes to be sin. He gives moral admiration only to those whom he believes to be pure in heart. He recognizes with a greater or less degree of regret that it is not for him to be a saint; indeed, his conception of saintship is probably one which it is nearly impossible to carry out in an ordinary everyday life. Consequently he goes through life with a sense of guilt, feeling that the best is not for him, and that his highest moments are those of maudlin penitence.

But the sense of sin, in its most important forms, goes deeper. Its roots lie in the unconscious. It does not enter conscious awareness as fear of other people’s disapproval. Instead, certain kinds of acts are labeled Sin, for reasons that cannot be found by examining one’s own thoughts. When a man commits these acts, he feels uneasy without quite knowing why. He wishes he could be the kind of man who avoids what he believes to be sin. He admires only those he believes are pure in heart for their moral character. With some degree of regret, he accepts that he cannot be a saint. Indeed, his idea of sainthood is probably almost impossible to live up to in ordinary daily life. So he goes through life feeling guilty. He feels that the best is beyond his reach, and that his finest moments are those of tearful, self-indulgent repentance.

The source of all this in practically every case is the moral teaching which the man received before he was six years old at the hands of his mother or his nurse. He learned before that age that it is wicked to swear, and not quite nice to use any but the most ladylike language, that only bad men drink, and that tobacco is incompatible with the highest virtue. He learned that one should never tell a lie. And above all he learned that any interest in the sexual parts is an abomination. He knew these to be the view of his mother, and believed them to be those of his Creator. To be affectionately treated by his mother, or, if she was neglectful, by his nurse, was the greatest pleasure of his life, and was only obtainable when he had not been known to sin against the moral code. He therefore came to associate something vaguely awful with any conduct of which his mother or nurse would disapprove. Gradually as he grew older he forgot where his moral code had come from and what had originally been the penalty for disobeying it, but he did not throw off the moral code or cease to feel that something dreadful was liable to happen to him if he infringed it.

In almost every case, all this comes from the moral lessons a man received before he was six. His mother or nurse taught him those lessons. Before that age, he learned that swearing is wicked and anything but the most ladylike language is not quite proper. He learned that only bad men drink alcohol, and that smoking tobacco is incompatible with the highest virtue. He learned that one should never lie. Above all, he learned that any interest in sexual body parts is disgusting and wicked. He knew these were his mother’s views and believed they were also his Creator’s. Being treated affectionately by his mother was the greatest pleasure in his life. If his mother neglected him, his nurse’s affection took that place. He could receive this affection only when he had not been caught breaking the moral code. So he came to associate a vague sense of something terrible with any behavior his mother or nurse would disapprove of. As he grew older, he gradually forgot where his moral code had come from. He also forgot what the original punishment for breaking the code had been. But he did not abandon the moral code. Nor did he stop feeling that something dreadful might happen to him if he broke it.

Now very large parts of this infantile moral teaching are devoid of all rational foundation and such as cannot be applied to the ordinary behaviour of ordinary men. A man who uses what is called “bad language”, for example, is not from a rational point of view any worse than a man who does not. Nevertheless, practically everybody in trying to imagine a saint would consider abstinence from swearing as essential. Considered in the light of reason this is simply silly. The same applies to alcohol and tobacco. With regard to alcohol the feeling does not exist in Southern countries, and indeed there is an element of impiety about it, since it is known that Our Lord and the Apostles drank wine. With regard to tobacco it is easier to maintain a negative position, since all the greatest saints lived before its use was known. But here also no rational argument is possible. The view that no saint would smoke is based in the last analysis upon the view that no saint would do anything solely because it gave him pleasure. This ascetic element in ordinary morality has become almost unconscious, but it operates in all kinds of ways that make our moral code irrational. In a rational ethic it will be held laudable to give pleasure to anyone, even to oneself, provided there is no counter-balancing pain to oneself or to others. The ideally virtuous man, if we had got rid of asceticism, would be the man who permits the enjoyment of all good things whenever there is no evil consequence to outweigh the enjoyment. Take again the question of lying. I do not deny that there is a great deal too much lying in the world, and that we should all be the better for an increase of truthfulness, but I do deny, as I think every rational person must, that lying is in no circumstances justified. I once in the course of a country walk saw a tired fox at the last stages of exhaustion still forcing himself to run. A few minutes afterwards I saw the hunt. They asked me if I had seen the fox, and I said I had. They asked me which way he had gone, and I lied to them. I do not think I should have been a better man if I had told the truth.

Now, very large parts of this moral teaching given in childhood have no rational basis at all. Nor can they be applied to the everyday behavior of ordinary people. For example, someone who uses what is called “bad language” is, rationally speaking, no worse than someone who does not. Yet practically everyone, when imagining a saint, would consider it essential that the saint never swear. Judged by reason, this is simply silly. The same applies to alcohol and tobacco. In Southern countries, people do not feel this way about alcohol. Indeed, condemning alcohol is somewhat irreverent, since we know that Our Lord and the Apostles drank wine. It is easier to condemn tobacco, since all the greatest saints lived before its use was known. But here, too, no rational argument can be made. Ultimately, the belief that no saint would smoke rests on another belief. This is that no saint would do anything simply because it gave him pleasure. This emphasis on self-denial in ordinary morality has become almost unconscious. Yet it works in all kinds of ways to make our moral code irrational. A rational moral code would praise giving pleasure to anyone, even yourself. The condition is that no pain to yourself or others should outweigh that pleasure. If we abandoned this ideal of self-denial, the perfectly virtuous person would allow the enjoyment of all good things. He would do so whenever no harmful consequence outweighed the enjoyment. Take, again, the question of lying. I do not deny that there is far too much lying in the world. Nor do I deny that we would all be better off if people were more truthful. But I do deny that lying is never justified, as I think every rational person must. Once, while walking in the countryside, I saw a tired fox, almost completely exhausted, still forcing himself to run. A few minutes later, I saw the people hunting him. They asked whether I had seen the fox, and I said I had. They asked which way he had gone, and I lied to them. I do not think I would have been a better man if I had told the truth.

But it is above all in the realm of sex that early moral teaching does harm. If a child has been conventionally educated by somewhat stern parents or nurses, the association between sin and the sex organs is so firmly established by the time he is six years old that it is unlikely ever to be completely undone throughout the rest of his life. This feeling is, of course, reinforced by the Œdipus complex, since the woman most loved in childhood is one with whom all sexual freedoms are impossible. The result is that many adult men feel women to be degraded by sex, and cannot respect their wives unless their wives hate sexual intercourse. But the man whose wife is cold will be driven by instinct to seek instinctive satisfaction elsewhere. His instinctive satisfaction, however, even if he momentarily finds it, will be poisoned by the sense of guilt, so that he cannot be happy in any relation with a woman, whether in marriage or outside it. On the woman’s side the same sort of thing happens if she has been very emphatically taught to be what is called “pure”. She instinctively holds herself back in her sexual relations with her husband, and is afraid of deriving any pleasure from them. In the present day, however, there is very much less of this on the part of women than there was fifty years ago. I should say that at present among educated people the sex life of men is more contorted and more poisoned by the sense of sin than that of women.

But early moral teaching does harm above all in matters of sex. If a child is raised conventionally by fairly strict parents or caregivers, he firmly links sin with his sex organs. By age six, this connection is so strong that he is unlikely ever to overcome it completely. This feeling is, of course, reinforced by the Œdipus complex. The woman he loves most in childhood is someone with whom any sexual freedom is impossible. As a result, many adult men feel that sex degrades women. They cannot respect their wives unless their wives hate sexual intercourse. But a man whose wife is sexually unresponsive will be driven by instinct to seek sexual satisfaction elsewhere. Yet even if he briefly finds satisfaction, guilt will poison it. So he cannot be happy in any relationship with a woman, whether inside or outside marriage. Something similar happens to a woman if she has been taught very firmly to be what is called “pure”. She instinctively holds back in sexual relations with her husband and fears taking any pleasure in them. Today, however, this inhibition is far less common among women than it was fifty years ago. I would say that, among educated people today, men’s sex lives are more distorted than women’s. Men’s sex lives are also more poisoned by a sense of sin.

There is beginning to be widespread awareness, though not of course on the part of public authorities, of the evils of traditional sex education in regard to the very young. The right rule is simple: until a child is nearing the age of puberty teach him or her no sexual morality whatever, and carefully avoid instilling the idea that there is anything disgusting in the natural bodily functions. As the time approaches when it becomes necessary to give moral instruction, be sure that it is rational, and that at every point you can give good grounds for what you say. But it is not on education that I wish to speak in this book. In this book I am concerned rather with what the adult can do to minimize the evil effects of unwise education in causing an irrational sense of sin.

People are beginning to recognize widely the harm traditional sex education does to very young children. Public authorities, of course, are not. The right rule is simple: teach children no sexual morality at all until they are nearing puberty. Carefully avoid teaching them that natural bodily functions are in any way disgusting. As the time for moral instruction approaches, make sure the instruction is rational. Make sure, too, that you can give good reasons for everything you say. But education is not the subject I want to discuss in this book. Instead, I am concerned with what adults can do to reduce the harm caused by misguided education. In particular, I mean the irrational sense of sin such education creates.

The problem here is the same as has confronted us in earlier chapters, namely that of compelling the unconscious to take note of the rational beliefs that govern our conscious thought. Men must not allow themselves to be swayed by their moods, believing one thing at one moment and another at another. The sense of sin is especially prominent at moments when the conscious will is weakened by fatigue, by illness, by drink, or by any other cause. What a man feels at these moments (unless caused by drink) is supposed to be a revelation from his higher self. “The devil was sick, the devil a saint would be.” But it is absurd to suppose that moments of weakness give more insight than moments of strength. In moments of weakness it is difficult to resist infantile suggestions, but there is no reason whatsoever for regarding such suggestions as preferable to the beliefs of the adult man when in full possession of his faculties. On the contrary, what a man deliberately believes with his whole reason when he is vigorous ought to be to him the norm as to what he had better believe at all times. It is quite possible to overcome infantile suggestions of the unconscious, and even to change the contents of the unconscious, by employing the right kind of technique. Whenever you begin to feel remorse for an act which your reason tells you is not wicked, examine the causes of your feeling of remorse, and convince yourself in detail of their absurdity. Let your conscious beliefs be so vivid and emphatic that they make an impression upon your unconscious strong enough to cope with the impressions made by your nurse or your mother when you were an infant. Do not be content with an alternation between moments of rationality and moments of irrationality. Look into the irrationality closely, with a determination not to respect it, and not to let it dominate you. Whenever it thrusts foolish thoughts or feelings into your consciousness, pull them up by the roots, examine them, and reject them. Do not allow yourself to remain a vacillating creature, swayed half by reason and half by infantile folly. Do not be afraid of irreverence towards the memory of those who controlled your childhood. They seemed to you then strong and wise because you were weak and foolish; now that you are neither, it is your business to examine their apparent strength and wisdom, to consider whether they deserve that reverence that from force of habit you still bestow upon them. Ask yourself seriously whether the world is the better for the moral teaching traditionally given to the young. Consider how much of unadulterated superstition goes into the make-up of the conventionally virtuous man, and reflect that, while all kinds of imaginary moral dangers were guarded against by incredibly foolish prohibitions, the real moral dangers to which an adult is exposed were practically unmentioned. What are the really harmful acts to which the average man is tempted? Sharp practice in business of the sort not punished by law, harshness towards employees, cruelty towards wife and children, malevolence towards competitors, ferocity in political conflicts—these are the really harmful sins that are common among respectable and respected citizens. By means of these sins a man spreads misery in his immediate circle and does his bit towards destroying civilization. Yet these are not the things that make him, when he is ill, regard himself as an outcast who has forfeited all claim to divine favour. These are not the things that cause him in nightmares to see visions of his mother bending reproachful glances upon him. Why is his subconscious morality thus divorced from reason? Because the ethic believed in by those who had charge of his infancy was silly; because it was not derived from any study of the individual’s duty to the community; because it was made up of old scraps of irrational taboos; and because it contained within itself elements of morbidness derived from the spiritual sickness that troubled the dying Roman Empire. Our nominal morality has been formulated by priests and mentally enslaved women. It is time that men who have to take a normal part in the normal life of the world learned to rebel against this sickly nonsense.

The problem here is the same one we faced in earlier chapters. We must make the unconscious take notice of the rational beliefs that guide our conscious thinking. Men must not let their moods sway them into believing one thing now and another later. The sense of sin is especially strong when fatigue, illness, alcohol, or anything else weakens the conscious will. What a man feels at such moments is supposed to be a revelation from his higher self. Feelings caused by alcohol are the exception. “When the devil was sick, he wanted to be a saint.” But it is absurd to suppose that moments of weakness offer greater insight than moments of strength. In moments of weakness, suggestions rooted in childhood are hard to resist. But there is no reason at all to prefer those suggestions to an adult man's beliefs when his mind is fully functioning. On the contrary, his standard should be what he deliberately believes, using his full powers of reason, when he feels strong. Those beliefs should guide what he believes at all times. With the right techniques, we can overcome childhood suggestions in the unconscious and even change what the unconscious contains. Whenever you feel remorse for something your reason tells you is not wicked, examine what causes that remorse. Convince yourself, in detail, that those causes are absurd. Make your conscious beliefs vivid and forceful enough to leave a strong impression on your unconscious. That impression must be strong enough to counter those your nurse or mother made when you were an infant. Do not settle for alternating between rational and irrational moments. Examine your irrationality closely, determined not to respect it or let it control you. Whenever irrationality pushes foolish thoughts or feelings into your consciousness, pull them up by the roots, examine them, and reject them. Do not remain someone who wavers, swayed half by reason and half by childish foolishness. Do not be afraid to question your reverence for the memory of those who controlled your childhood. They seemed strong and wise then because you were weak and foolish. Now that you are neither, you must examine their supposed strength and wisdom. Consider whether they deserve the reverence you still give them out of habit. Ask yourself seriously whether the world benefits from the moral teaching traditionally given to the young. Consider how much pure superstition shapes the conventionally virtuous man. Reflect on how incredibly foolish rules guarded against all kinds of imaginary moral dangers. Meanwhile, the real moral dangers adults face were barely mentioned. What truly harmful acts tempt the average man? Dishonest business practices that the law does not punish, harsh treatment of employees, cruelty toward his wife and children, ill will toward competitors, and viciousness in political conflicts. These are the truly harmful sins common among respectable and respected citizens. Through these sins, a man spreads misery among those around him and does his part to destroy civilization. Yet these are not the things that make him see himself as an outcast when he is ill. They do not make him feel he has lost all claim to divine favor. These are not the things that make him dream of his mother looking at him reproachfully. Why is his subconscious morality so disconnected from reason? Because the moral code believed by those who cared for him in infancy was foolish. Because that code did not come from any study of an individual's duty to the community. Because it consisted of old scraps of irrational taboos. And because it contained unhealthy elements drawn from the spiritual sickness that troubled the dying Roman Empire. The morality we claim to follow was shaped by priests and mentally enslaved women. It is time for men who must take a normal part in the world's normal life to rebel against this sickly nonsense.

But if the rebellion is to be successful in bringing individual happiness and in enabling a man to live consistently by one standard, not to vacillate between two, it is necessary that he should think and feel deeply about what his reason tells him. Most men, when they have thrown off superficially the superstitions of their childhood, think that there is no more to be done. They do not realize that these superstitions are still lurking underground. When a rational conviction has been arrived at, it is necessary to dwell upon it, to follow out its consequences, to search out in oneself whatever beliefs inconsistent with the new conviction might otherwise survive, and when the sense of sin grows strong, as from time to time it will, to treat it not as a revelation and a call to higher things, but as a disease and a weakness, unless of course it is caused by some act which a rational ethic would condemn. I am not suggesting that a man should be destitute of morality, I am only suggesting that he should be destitute of superstitious morality, which is a very different thing.

But if rebellion is to bring personal happiness, a man must think and feel deeply about what reason tells him. The same is necessary if rebellion is to let him live consistently by one standard, rather than waver between two. Most men think nothing more needs doing once they have rejected their childhood superstitions on the surface. They do not realize that those superstitions still linger beneath the surface. Once a man reaches a belief through reason, he must reflect on that belief and work through its consequences. He must search within himself for any conflicting beliefs that might otherwise survive. And when his sense of sin grows strong, as it sometimes will, he must not treat that feeling as a revelation. Nor should he treat the feeling as a call to higher things. Instead, he must treat his sense of sin as an illness and a weakness. The exception, of course, is when that feeling comes from an act that a rational moral code would condemn. I am not suggesting that a man should have no morality. I am only suggesting that he should have no superstitious morality, which is a very different thing.

But even when a man has offended against his own rational code, I doubt whether a sense of sin is the best method of arriving at a better way of life. There is in the sense of sin something abject, something lacking in self-respect. No good was ever done to anyone by the loss of self-respect. The rational man will regard his own undesirable acts as he regards those of others, as acts produced by certain circumstances, and to be avoided either by a fuller realization that they are undesirable, or, where this is possible, by avoidance of the circumstances that caused them.

But even when someone violates their own rational principles, I doubt that a sense of sin is the best path to a better life. There is something degrading about a sense of sin, something that shows a lack of self-respect. Losing self-respect has never done anyone any good. A rational person will view their own undesirable actions just as they view other people’s undesirable actions. They will see these actions as the result of particular circumstances. To avoid repeating such actions, they will try to understand more fully why the actions are undesirable. Or, where possible, they will avoid the circumstances that caused the actions.

As a matter of fact the sense of sin, so far from being a cause of a good life, is quite the reverse. It makes a man unhappy and it makes him feel inferior. Being unhappy, he is likely to make claims upon other people which are excessive and which prevent him from enjoying happiness in personal relations. Feeling inferior, he will have a grudge against those who seem superior. He will find admiration difficult and envy easy. He will become a generally disagreeable person, and will find himself more and more solitary. An expansive and generous attitude towards other people not only gives happiness to others, but is an immense source of happiness to its possessor, since it causes him to be generally liked. But such an attitude is scarcely possible to the man haunted by a sense of sin. It is an outcome of poise and self-reliance; it demands what may be called mental integration, by which I mean that the various layers of a man’s nature, conscious, subconscious, and unconscious, work together harmoniously and are not engaged in perpetual battle. To produce such harmony is possible in most cases by wise education, but where education has been unwise it is a more difficult process. It is the process which the psycho-analysts attempt, but I believe that in a very great many cases the patient can himself perform the work which in more extreme cases requires the help of the expert. Do not say: “I have no time for such psychological labours; my life is a busy one filled with affairs, and I must leave my unconscious to its tricks.” Nothing so much diminishes not only happiness but efficiency as a personality divided against itself. The time spent in producing harmony between the different parts of one’s personality is time usefully employed. I do not suggest that a man should set apart, say, an hour a day for self-examination. This is to my mind by no means the best method, since it increases self-absorption, which is part of the disease to be cured, for a harmonious personality is directed outward. What I suggest is that a man should make up his mind with emphasis as to what he rationally believes, and should never allow contrary irrational beliefs to pass unchallenged or obtain a hold over him, however brief. This is a question of reasoning with himself in those moments in which he is tempted to become infantile, but the reasoning, if it is sufficiently emphatic, may be very brief. The time involved, therefore, should be negligible.

In fact, a sense of sin does not lead to a good life. It does quite the opposite. It makes a person unhappy and makes them feel inferior. Because they are unhappy, they are likely to demand too much of others. These demands prevent them from finding happiness in personal relationships. Because they feel inferior, they will resent those who seem superior. They will find it hard to admire others and easy to envy them. They will become generally unpleasant and increasingly isolated. An open and generous attitude toward others not only makes others happy. It also brings great happiness to the person who has this attitude, because it makes them generally well liked. But such an attitude is hardly possible for someone haunted by a sense of sin. It grows out of emotional balance and self-reliance. It requires what we might call mental integration. By this I mean that the different layers of a person’s nature, conscious, subconscious, and unconscious, work together harmoniously. They are not constantly fighting one another. Wise education can create this harmony in most cases. But when education has been unwise, achieving harmony is harder. Psychoanalysts try to bring about this harmony. But I believe that in very many cases, patients can do this work themselves. In more extreme cases, the work requires an expert’s help. Do not say: “I have no time for this psychological work. My life is busy and full of responsibilities, and I must leave my unconscious to its tricks.” Nothing reduces both happiness and effectiveness as much as a personality at war with itself. Time spent bringing the different parts of your personality into harmony is time well spent. I do not suggest setting aside, say, an hour a day to examine yourself. In my view, this is far from the best method, because it increases self-absorption. Self-absorption is part of the problem to be cured, since a harmonious personality focuses outward. Instead, I suggest firmly deciding what you believe on rational grounds. Never let opposing irrational beliefs go unchallenged or gain a hold over you, even briefly. This means reasoning with yourself whenever you are tempted to think or act childishly. But if your reasoning is firm enough, it may be very brief. So the time required should be negligible.

There is in many people a dislike of rationality, and where this exists the kind of thing that I have been saying will seem irrelevant and unimportant. There is an idea that rationality, if allowed free play, will kill all the deeper emotions. This belief appears to me to be due to an entirely erroneous conception of the function of reason in human life. It is not the business of reason to generate emotions, though it may be part of its function to discover ways of preventing such emotions as are an obstacle to well-being. To find ways of minimizing hatred and envy is no doubt part of the function of a rational psychology. But it is a mistake to suppose that in minimizing these passions we shall at the same time diminish the strength of those passions which reason does not condemn. In passionate love, in parental affection, in friendship, in benevolence, in devotion to science or art, there is nothing that reason should wish to diminish. The rational man, when he feels any or all of these emotions, will be glad that he feels them and will do nothing to lessen their strength, for all these emotions are parts of the good life, the life, that is, that makes for happiness both in oneself and in others. There is nothing irrational in the passions as such, and many irrational people feel only the most trivial passions. No man need fear that by making himself rational he will make his life dull. On the contrary, since rationality consists in the main of internal harmony, the man who achieves it is freer in his contemplation of the world and in the use of his energies to achieve external purposes than is the man who is perpetually hampered by inward conflicts. Nothing is so dull as to be encased in self, nothing so exhilarating as to have attention and energy directed outwards.

Many people dislike rationality. To those people, the kinds of things I have been saying will seem irrelevant and unimportant. Some believe that rationality, if given free rein, will kill all deeper emotions. This belief seems to me to come from a completely mistaken understanding of reason’s role in human life. Reason’s job is not to create emotions. But part of its role may be to find ways to prevent emotions that stand in the way of well-being. Finding ways to reduce hatred and envy is certainly part of the role of a rational approach to psychology. But reducing these passions does not mean weakening the passions that reason does not condemn. Passionate love, parental affection, friendship, kindness, and devotion to science or art contain nothing that reason should want to weaken. When rational people feel any or all of these emotions, they will be glad to feel them. They will do nothing to weaken them, because all these emotions are parts of a good life. Such a life promotes happiness both in oneself and in others. There is nothing irrational about strong emotions in themselves, and many irrational people feel only the most trivial passions. No one needs to fear that becoming rational will make life dull. On the contrary, rationality consists mainly of inner harmony. People who achieve this harmony are freer to reflect on the world and use their energies to pursue external goals. They have more freedom than people who are constantly held back by inner conflicts. Nothing is as dull as being trapped within yourself. Nothing is as exhilarating as directing your attention and energy outward.

Our traditional morality has been unduly self-centred, and the conception of sin is part of this unwise focusing of attention upon self. To those who have never passed through the subjective moods induced by this faulty morality, reason may be unnecessary. But to those who have once acquired the sickness, reason is necessary in effecting a cure. And perhaps the sickness is a necessary stage in mental development. I am inclined to think that the man who has passed beyond it by the help of reason has reached a higher level than the man who has never experienced either the sickness or the cure. The hatred of reason which is common in our time is very largely due to the fact that the operations of reason are not conceived in a sufficiently fundamental way. The man divided against himself looks for excitement and distraction; he loves strong passions, not for sound reasons, but because for the moment they take him outside himself and prevent the painful necessity of thought. Any passion is to him a form of intoxication, and since he cannot conceive of fundamental happiness, all relief from pain appears to him solely possible in the form of intoxication. This, however, is the symptom of a deep-seated malady. Where there is no such malady, the greatest happiness comes with the most complete possession of one’s faculties. It is in the moments when the mind is most active and the fewest things are forgotten that the most intense joys are experienced. This, indeed, is one of the best touchstones of happiness. The happiness that requires intoxication of no matter what sort is a spurious and unsatisfying kind. The happiness that is genuinely satisfying is accompanied by the fullest exercise of our faculties, and the fullest realization of the world in which we live.

Our traditional morality has been too self-centered. The idea of sin is part of this unwise focus on ourselves. People who have never experienced the inward-looking moods caused by this flawed morality may not need reason. But for those who have developed this sickness, reason is necessary for a cure. And perhaps this sickness is a necessary stage in mental development. I tend to think that someone who has overcome it through reason has reached a higher level. Such a person has gone further than someone who has experienced neither the sickness nor the cure. The hatred of reason common today largely comes from not understanding how deeply reason can work. A person at war with himself seeks excitement and distraction. He loves intense passions, not for sound reasons, but because they briefly take him outside himself. They spare him the painful necessity of thinking. For him, any passion is a form of intoxication. And because he cannot imagine a deep, lasting happiness, he sees intoxication as the only possible relief from pain. But this dependence on intoxication is a symptom of a deep-rooted illness. Without such an illness, the greatest happiness comes when we have the fullest command of our abilities. We experience the most intense joys when our minds are most active and we forget the fewest things. Indeed, this is one of the best tests of happiness. Happiness that requires intoxication of any kind is false and unsatisfying. Truly satisfying happiness comes with the fullest use of our abilities and the fullest awareness of the world around us.