Is Happiness Still Possible?

So far we have been considering the unhappy man; we now have the pleasanter task of considering the happy man. From the conversation and the books of some of my friends I have been almost led to conclude that happiness in the modern world has become an impossibility. I find, however, that this view tends to be dissipated by introspection, foreign travel, and the conversation of my gardener. The unhappiness of my literary friends I have considered in an earlier chapter; in the present chapter I wish to make a survey of the happy people that I have come across in the course of my life.

So far we have considered the unhappy person. Now we have the more pleasant task of considering the happy person. Conversations with some of my friends, and their books, have almost convinced me that happiness is impossible in the modern world. Yet reflecting on my own experience, traveling abroad, and talking with my gardener tend to dispel this belief. I discussed the unhappiness of my literary friends in an earlier chapter. In this chapter, I want to look at the happy people I have met throughout my life.

Happiness is of two sorts, though, of course, there are intermediate degrees. The two sorts I mean might be distinguished as plain and fancy, or animal and spiritual, or of the heart and of the head. The designation to be chosen among these alternatives depends, of course, upon the thesis to be proved. I am at the moment not concerned to prove any thesis, but merely to describe. Perhaps the simplest way to describe the difference between the two sorts of happiness is to say that one sort is open to any human being, and the other only to those who can read and write. When I was a boy I knew a man bursting with happiness whose business was digging wells. He was of enormous height and of incredible muscles; he could neither read nor write, and when in the year 1885 he got a vote for Parliament, he learnt for the first time that such an institution existed. His happiness did not depend upon intellectual sources; it was not based upon belief in natural law, or the perfectibility of the species, or the public ownership of public utilities, or the ultimate triumph of the Seventh Day Adventists, or any of the other creeds which intellectuals consider necessary to their enjoyment of life. It was based upon physical vigour, a sufficiency of work, and the overcoming of not insuperable obstacles in the shape of rock. The happiness of my gardener is of the same species; he wages a perennial war against rabbits, of which he speaks exactly as Scotland Yard speaks of Bolsheviks; he considers them dark, designing and ferocious, and is of opinion that they can only be met by means of a cunning equal to their own. Like the heroes of Valhalla who spent every day hunting a certain wild boar, which they killed every evening but which miraculously came to life again in the morning, my gardener can slay his enemy one day without any fear that the enemy will have disappeared the next day. Although well over seventy, he works all day and bicycles sixteen hilly miles to and from his work, but the fount of joy is inexhaustible, and it is “they rabbits” that supply it.

Happiness comes in two kinds, though of course there are degrees in between. We might call the two kinds plain and fancy, animal and spiritual, or happiness of the heart and the head. Which labels we choose depends, of course, on the point we want to prove. At the moment, I am not trying to prove anything, only to describe. Perhaps the simplest distinction is that one kind of happiness is open to anyone. The other is open only to people who can read and write. When I was a boy, I knew a man who dug wells and was bursting with happiness. He was enormously tall and incredibly muscular. He could neither read nor write. In 1885, when he gained the right to vote for Parliament, he learned for the first time that Parliament existed. His happiness did not come from intellectual sources. It was not based on belief in natural law, or the possibility of perfecting the human species. Nor did it depend on public ownership of public utilities, or the eventual triumph of the Seventh Day Adventists. It needed none of the other creeds that intellectuals consider necessary to their enjoyment of life. His happiness rested on physical strength and energy, enough work, and overcoming obstacles in the form of rock. These obstacles were not impossible to overcome. My gardener’s happiness is of the same kind. He wages a never-ending war against rabbits, speaking of them exactly as Scotland Yard speaks of Bolsheviks. He considers rabbits sinister, scheming, and ferocious. He believes they can only be dealt with through cunning equal to their own. The heroes of Valhalla spent every day hunting a certain wild boar. They killed the boar every evening, but it miraculously came back to life each morning. Like those heroes, my gardener can kill his enemy one day without fearing that the enemy will disappear the next. Although he is well over seventy, he works all day and cycles sixteen miles over hills to and from work. But his source of joy never runs out, and “they rabbits” supply it.

But, you will say, these simple delights are not open to superior people like ourselves. What joy can we experience in waging war on such puny creatures as rabbits? The argument, to my mind, is a poor one. A rabbit is very much larger than a yellow-fever bacillus, and yet a superior person can find happiness in making war upon the latter. Pleasures exactly similar to those of my gardener so far as their emotional content is concerned are open to the most highly educated people. The difference made by education is only in regard to the activities by which these pleasures are to be obtained. Pleasures of achievement demand difficulties such that beforehand success seems doubtful although in the end it is usually achieved. This is perhaps the chief reason why a not excessive estimate of one’s own powers is a source of happiness. The man who underestimates himself is perpetually being surprised by success, whereas the man who overestimates himself is just as often surprised by failure. The former kind of surprise is pleasant, the latter unpleasant. It is therefore wise to be not unduly conceited, though also not too modest to be enterprising.

But, you will say, these simple pleasures are not available to superior people like us. What joy can we find in waging war on creatures as puny as rabbits? To my mind, the argument is weak. A rabbit is much larger than a yellow-fever bacterium. Yet a superior person can find happiness in waging war on the bacterium. Even the most highly educated people can enjoy pleasures with exactly the same emotional content as my gardener’s. Education changes only the activities through which people find these pleasures. The pleasure of achievement requires challenges that make success seem doubtful beforehand, although success usually comes in the end. Perhaps this is the main reason why a restrained view of your own abilities is a source of happiness. Someone who underestimates himself is constantly surprised by success. Someone who overestimates himself is just as often surprised by failure. Surprise at success is pleasant, while surprise at failure is unpleasant. So it is wise not to think too highly of yourself, though not so little that you hesitate to act.

Of the more highly educated sections of the community, the happiest in the present day are the men of science. Many of the most eminent of them are emotionally simple, and obtain from their work a satisfaction so profound that they can derive pleasure from eating and even marrying. Artists and literary men consider it de rigueur to be unhappy in their marriages, but men of science quite frequently remain capable of old-fashioned domestic bliss. The reason of this is that the higher parts of their intelligence are wholly absorbed by their work, and are not allowed to intrude into regions where they have no functions to perform. In their work they are happy because in the modern world science is progressive and powerful, and because its importance is not doubted either by themselves or by laymen. They have therefore no necessity for complex emotions, since the simpler emotions meet with no obstacles. Complexity in emotions is like foam in a river. It is produced by obstacles which break the smoothly flowing current. But so long as the vital energies are unimpeded, they produce no ripple on the surface, and their strength is not evident to the unobservant.

Among the more highly educated members of society, scientists are the happiest today. Many of the most distinguished scientists are emotionally simple. Their work gives them such deep satisfaction that they can enjoy eating and even getting married. Artists and writers consider unhappiness in marriage a social requirement, but scientists quite often remain capable of old-fashioned domestic happiness. The reason is that their work fully absorbs the higher powers of their minds. They do not let those powers intrude into areas where they serve no purpose. Scientists are happy in their work because science in the modern world is advancing and powerful. Neither scientists nor the general public doubt its importance. So scientists have no need for complex emotions, since nothing gets in the way of their simpler emotions. Emotional complexity is like foam in a river. Obstacles create the foam by breaking up the smoothly flowing current. But as long as life's energies flow freely, they cause no ripple on the surface. Their strength is therefore invisible to anyone who is not paying attention.

All the conditions of happiness are realized in the life of the man of science. He has an activity which utilizes his abilities to the full, and he achieves results which appear important not only to himself but to the general public, even when it cannot in the smallest degree understand them. In this he is more fortunate than the artist. When the public cannot understand a picture or a poem, they conclude that it is a bad picture or a bad poem. When they cannot understand the theory of relativity they conclude (rightly) that their education has been insufficient. Consequently Einstein is honoured while the best painters are left to starve in garrets, and Einstein is happy while the painters are unhappy. Very few men can be genuinely happy in a life involving continual self-assertion against the scepticism of the mass of mankind, unless they can shut themselves up in a coterie and forget the cold outer world. The man of science has no need of a coterie, since he is thought well of by everybody except his colleagues. The artist, on the contrary, is in the painful situation of having to choose between being despised and being despicable. If his powers are of the first order, he must incur one or the other of these misfortunes—the former if he uses his powers, the latter if he does not. This has not been the case always and everywhere. There have been times when even good artists, even when they were young, were thought well of. Julius II, though he might ill-treat Michael Angelo, never supposed him incapable of painting pictures. The modern millionaire, though he may shower wealth upon elderly artists after they have lost their powers, never imagines that their work is as important as his own. Perhaps these circumstances have something to do with the fact that artists are on the average less happy than men of science.

All the conditions for happiness are met in the life of a scientist. His work makes full use of his abilities. He achieves results that seem important not only to him but also to the public. The public considers his results important even when it cannot understand them at all. In this respect, he is more fortunate than the artist. When people cannot understand a painting or poem, they conclude that it is a bad painting or poem. When they cannot understand the theory of relativity, they conclude (rightly) that their education has been inadequate. As a result, Einstein is honored while the best painters are left to starve in attic rooms. And Einstein is happy while the painters are unhappy. Very few people can be genuinely happy while constantly defending their worth against the skepticism of most of humanity. They can manage only if they shut themselves away in a small, exclusive circle and forget the cold outside world. The scientist needs no such circle, since everyone thinks well of him except his colleagues. The artist, by contrast, faces the painful choice between being despised and deserving contempt. If his abilities are of the highest order, he must suffer one misfortune or the other. He will be despised if he uses his abilities, and deserve contempt if he does not. This has not been true at all times and in all places. There have been times when even good artists were respected, even when they were young. Though Julius II might mistreat Michael Angelo, he never thought Michael Angelo incapable of painting pictures. The modern millionaire may shower wealth on elderly artists after they have lost their abilities. Yet he never imagines that their work is as important as his own. Perhaps these circumstances help explain why artists are, on average, less happy than scientists.

It must, I think, be admitted that the most intelligent young people in Western countries tend to have that kind of unhappiness that comes of finding no adequate employment for their best talents. This, however, is not the case in Eastern countries. The intelligent young at the present day are probably happier in Russia than anywhere else in the world. They have there a new world to create, and an ardent faith in accordance with which to create it. The old have been executed, starved, exiled, or in some other way disinfected, so that they cannot, as in every Western country, compel the young to choose between doing harm and doing nothing. To the sophisticated Occidental the faith of the young Russian may seem crude, but, after all, what is there to be said against it? He is creating a new world; the new world is to his liking; the new world will almost certainly, when created, make the average Russian happier than he was before the Revolution. It may not be a world in which the sophisticated Western intellectual would be happy, but the sophisticated Western intellectual does not have to live in it. By any pragmatic test, therefore, the faith of young Russia is justified, and to condemn it as crude can have no justification except on a basis of theory.

I think we must admit that the most intelligent young people in Western countries tend to suffer a particular unhappiness. They cannot find an adequate outlet for their best talents. But this is not the case in Eastern countries. Today, intelligent young people are probably happier in Russia than anywhere else in the world. They have a new world to create and a passionate faith to guide its creation. The older generation have been executed, starved, exiled, or otherwise disinfected. So they cannot force the young to choose between doing harm and doing nothing, as happens in every Western country. To a sophisticated Westerner, the young Russian's faith may seem crude. But after all, what can be said against that faith? He is creating a new world. The new world is to his liking. Once created, it will almost certainly make the average Russian happier than he was before the Revolution. It may not be a world where the sophisticated Western intellectual would be happy. But the sophisticated Western intellectual does not have to live there. By any practical test, then, the faith of young Russians is justified. Condemning that faith as crude can only be justified on theoretical grounds.

In India, China, and Japan, external circumstances of a political sort interfere with the happiness of the young intelligentsia, but there is no such internal obstacle as exists in the West. There are activities which appear important to the young, and, in so far as these activities succeed, the young are happy. They feel that they have an important part to play in the national life, and aims to pursue which, though difficult, are not impossible to realize. Cynicism such as one finds very frequently among the most highly educated young men and women of the West results from the combination of comfort with powerlessness. Powerlessness makes people feel that nothing is worth doing, and comfort makes the painfulness of this feeling just endurable. Throughout the East the University student can hope for more influence upon public opinion than he can have in the modern West, but he has much less opportunity than in the West of securing a substantial income. Being neither powerless nor comfortable, he becomes a reformer or a revolutionary, not a cynic. The happiness of the reformer or revolutionary depends upon the course of public affairs, but probably even while he is being executed he enjoys more real happiness than is possible for the comfortable cynic. I remember a young Chinese visitor to my school who was going home to found a similar school in a reactionary part of China. He expected the result to be that his head would be cut off. Nevertheless he enjoyed a quiet happiness that I could only envy.

In India, China, and Japan, political circumstances interfere with the happiness of young intellectuals. But these young people face no internal obstacle like the one found in the West. They have activities that seem important to them, and they are happy to the extent that these activities succeed. They feel they have an important part to play in national life. They have goals that, though difficult, are not impossible to achieve. The cynicism so common among the most highly educated young men and women in the West comes from comfort combined with powerlessness. Powerlessness makes people feel that nothing is worth doing. Comfort makes the pain of that feeling just bearable. Throughout the East, university students can hope to influence public opinion more than students in the modern West can. But students in the East have far fewer opportunities to earn a substantial income. Neither powerless nor comfortable, they become reformers or revolutionaries, not cynics. The happiness of reformers and revolutionaries depends on the course of public affairs. But even while being executed, they probably experience more real happiness than a comfortable cynic can. I remember a young Chinese visitor to my school. He was returning home to establish a similar school in a reactionary part of China. He expected to have his head cut off as a result. Nevertheless, he had a quiet happiness that I could only envy.

I do not wish to suggest, however, that these high-flown kinds of happiness are the only possible ones. They are in fact open only to a minority, since they require a kind of ability and a width of interest which cannot be very common. It is not only eminent scientists who can derive pleasure through work, nor is it only leading statesmen who can derive pleasure through advocacy of a cause. The pleasure of work is open to anyone who can develop some specialized skill, provided that he can get satisfaction from the exercise of his skill without demanding universal applause. I knew a man who had lost the use of both legs in early youth, but he had remained serenely happy throughout a long life; he had achieved this by writing a work in five volumes on rose blight, on which I always understood he was the leading expert. I have not had the pleasure of knowing any large number of conchologists, but from those who have I have always understood that the study of shells brings contentment to those who engage in it. I knew a man once who was the best compositor in the world, and was sought out by all those who devoted themselves to inventing artistic types; he derived joy, not so much from the very genuine respect in which he was held by persons whose respect was not lightly bestowed, as from the actual delight in the exercise of his craft, a delight not wholly unlike that which good dancers derive from dancing. I have known also compositors who were experts in setting up mathematical type, or Nestorian script, or cuneiform, or anything else that was out of the way and difficult. I did not discover whether these men’s private lives were happy, but in their working hours their constructive instincts were fully gratified.

Still, I do not mean that these lofty forms of happiness are the only ones possible. In fact, they are available only to a minority. They require a kind of ability and a breadth of interest that cannot be very common. Famous scientists are not the only people who can find pleasure in work. Nor are leading statesmen the only people who can find pleasure in promoting a cause. Anyone who can develop a specialized skill can enjoy work. But they must find satisfaction in using their skill without demanding applause from everyone. I knew a man who had lost the use of both legs early in life. Yet he remained calmly happy throughout his long life. He achieved this happiness by writing a five-volume work on rose blight. I always understood that he was the leading expert on the subject. I have not had the pleasure of knowing many conchologists, who study shells. But people who have known many have always told me that studying shells brings contentment to those who do it. I once knew a man who was the best compositor, or typesetter, in the world. Everyone devoted to designing artistic typefaces sought him out. He was genuinely respected by people who did not give their respect lightly. But his joy came less from their respect than from the sheer pleasure of practicing his craft. His pleasure was not entirely unlike the pleasure good dancers find in dancing. I have also known compositors who specialized in setting mathematical type, Nestorian script, cuneiform, or anything else unusual and difficult. I never found out whether these men were happy in their private lives. But during their working hours, their desire to create was fully satisfied.

It is customary to say that in our machine age there is less room than formerly for the craftsman’s joy in skilled work. I am not at all sure that this is true: the skilled workman nowadays works, it is true, at quite different things from those that occupied the attention of the mediæval guilds, but he is still very important and quite essential in the machine economy. There are those who make scientific instruments and delicate machines, there are designers, there are aeroplane mechanics, chauffeurs, and hosts of others who have a trade in which skill can be developed to almost any extent. The agricultural labourer and the peasant in comparatively primitive communities is not, so far as I have been able to observe, nearly as happy as a chauffeur or an engine-driver. It is true that the work of the peasant who cultivates his own land is varied; he ploughs, he sows, he reaps. But he is at the mercy of the elements, and is very conscious of his dependence, whereas the man who works a modern mechanism is conscious of power, and acquires the sense that man is the master, not the slave, of natural forces. It is true, of course, that work is very uninteresting to the large body of mere machine-minders who repeat some mechanical operation over and over again with the minimum of variation, but the more uninteresting the work becomes, the more possible it is to get it performed by a machine. The ultimate goal of machine production—from which, it is true, we are as yet far removed—is a system in which everything uninteresting is done by machines, and human beings are reserved for the work involving variety and initiative. In such a world the work will be less boring and less depressing than it has been at any time since the introduction of agriculture. In taking to agriculture mankind decided that they would submit to monotony and tedium in order to diminish the risk of starvation. When men obtained their food by hunting, work was a joy, as one can see from the fact that the rich still pursue these ancestral occupations for amusement. But with the introduction of agriculture mankind entered upon a long period of meanness, misery, and madness, from which they are only now being freed by the beneficent operation of the machine. It is all very well for sentimentalists to speak of contact with the soil and the ripe wisdom of Hardy’s philosophic peasants, but the one desire of every young man in the countryside is to find work in towns where he can escape from the slavery of wind and weather and the solitude of dark winter evenings into the reliable and human atmosphere of the factory and the cinema. Companionship and co-operation are essential elements in the happiness of the average man, and these are to be obtained in industry far more fully than in agriculture.

People often say that our machine age offers less room than the past for the craftsman’s pleasure in skilled work. I am not at all sure this is true. Skilled workers today do work very different from the work of medieval guilds. But skilled workers remain very important and essential to an economy based on machines. They include makers of scientific instruments and delicate machines, designers, airplane mechanics, chauffeurs, and many others. In these trades, workers can develop their skills almost without limit. As far as I have observed, agricultural laborers and peasants in relatively primitive communities are much less happy than chauffeurs or train drivers. It is true that peasants who farm their own land have varied work. They plow, sow, and harvest. But they are at the mercy of the weather and keenly aware of their dependence on it. By contrast, people operating modern machinery feel a sense of power. They come to feel that humanity is the master of natural forces, not their slave. Of course, work is very uninteresting for the many workers who merely tend machines. They repeat the same mechanical operation over and over, with very little variation. But the more uninteresting the work becomes, the easier it is to have a machine do it. The ultimate goal of machine production is a system where machines do everything uninteresting. Human beings would do only work involving variety and initiative. Admittedly, we are still far from that goal. In such a world, work will be less boring and depressing than at any time since farming began. By taking up farming, humanity chose to accept monotony and boredom to reduce the risk of starvation. When people got their food by hunting, work was a pleasure. We can see this from the fact that the rich still pursue these ancestral activities for amusement. But farming brought humanity into a long period of deprivation, misery, and madness. Only now are the benefits of machines freeing humanity from that condition. Sentimentalists may talk all they like about contact with the soil and the mature wisdom of Hardy’s philosophical peasants. But every young man in the countryside has one desire: to find work in a town. He wants to escape being ruled by wind and weather and spending dark winter evenings alone. He seeks instead the dependable, human atmosphere of the factory and the cinema. Companionship and cooperation are essential to the average person’s happiness. Industry offers both far more fully than agriculture does.

Belief in a cause is a source of happiness to large numbers of people. I am not thinking only of revolutionaries, socialists, nationalists in oppressed countries, and such; I am thinking also of many humbler kinds of belief. The men I have known who believed that the English were the lost ten tribes were almost invariably happy, while as for those who believed that the English were only the tribes of Ephraim and Manasseh, their bliss knew no bounds. I am not suggesting that the reader should adopt this creed, since I cannot advocate any happiness based upon what seem to me to be false beliefs. For the same reason I cannot urge the reader to believe that men should live exclusively upon nuts, although, so far as my observation goes, this belief invariably ensures perfect happiness. But it is easy to find some cause which is in no degree fantastic, and those whose interest in any such cause is genuine are provided with an occupation for their leisure hours and a complete antidote to the feeling that life is empty.

Belief in a cause brings happiness to many people. I am not thinking only of revolutionaries, socialists, nationalists in oppressed countries, and others like them. I am also thinking of many more modest kinds of belief. The men I have known who believed the English were the lost ten tribes were almost always happy. Those who believed the English were only the tribes of Ephraim and Manasseh were happy beyond measure. I am not suggesting that readers should adopt this belief. I cannot recommend any happiness based on beliefs that seem false to me. For the same reason, I cannot urge readers to believe that people should live on nuts alone. Yet, as far as I have observed, this belief always guarantees perfect happiness. But it is easy to find a cause that is not at all far-fetched. People with a genuine interest in such a cause have something to do in their free time. Their interest also provides a complete antidote to the feeling that life is empty.

Not so very far removed from the devotion to obscure causes is absorption in a hobby. One of the most eminent of living mathematicians divides his time equally between mathematics and stamp-collecting. I imagine that the latter affords consolation at the moments when he can make no progress with the former. The difficulty of proving propositions in the theory of numbers is not the only sorrow that stamp-collecting can cure, nor are stamps the only things that can be collected. Consider what a vast field of ecstasy opens before the imagination when one thinks of old china, snuff-boxes, Roman coins, arrow-heads, and flint implements. It is true that many of us are too “superior” for these simple pleasures. We have all experienced them in boyhood, but have thought them, for some reason, unworthy of a grown man. This is a complete mistake; any pleasure that does no harm to other people is to be valued. For my part, I collect rivers: I derive pleasure from having gone down the Volga and up the Yangtse, and regret very much having never seen the Amazon or the Orinoco. Simple as these emotions are, I am not ashamed of them. Or consider again the passionate joy of the baseball fan: he turns to his newspaper with avidity, and the radio affords him the keenest thrills. I remember meeting for the first time one of the leading literary men of America, a man whom I had supposed from his books to be filled with melancholy. But it so happened that at that moment the most crucial baseball results were coming through on the radio; he forgot me, literature, and all the other sorrows of our sublunary life, and yelled with joy as his favourites achieved victory. Ever since this incident I have been able to read his books without feeling depressed by the misfortunes of his characters.

Being absorbed in a hobby is not so different from devotion to little-known causes. One of the most distinguished living mathematicians divides his time equally between mathematics and stamp collecting. I imagine stamp collecting comforts him when he can make no progress in mathematics. Difficulty proving statements in number theory is not the only sorrow that stamp collecting can ease. Nor are stamps the only things worth collecting. Think of the vast possibilities for delight in collecting old china, snuffboxes, Roman coins, arrowheads, and flint tools. It is true that many of us are too “superior” for these simple pleasures. We have all enjoyed them as boys, but for some reason we have thought them beneath a grown man. We are completely mistaken. Any pleasure that does no harm to other people deserves to be valued. For my part, I collect rivers. I take pleasure in having traveled down the Volga and up the Yangtse. I very much regret never having seen the Amazon or the Orinoco. These feelings are simple, but I am not ashamed of them. Or consider the passionate joy of the baseball fan. He eagerly opens his newspaper, and the radio gives him the greatest thrills. I remember meeting one of America’s leading literary figures for the first time. From his books, I had imagined him to be full of sadness. But just then, the most crucial baseball results were coming through on the radio. He forgot me, literature, and all the other sorrows of our earthly life. He shouted with joy as his favorites won. Ever since that meeting, I have been able to read his books without feeling depressed by his characters’ misfortunes.

Fads and hobbies, however, are in many cases, perhaps most, not a source of fundamental happiness, but a means of escape from reality, of forgetting for the moment some pain too difficult to be faced. Fundamental happiness depends more than anything else upon what may be called a friendly interest in persons and things.

However, in many cases, perhaps most, fads and hobbies are not a source of deep happiness. Instead, they offer an escape from reality, a way to briefly forget some pain too difficult to face. Deep happiness depends more than anything else on what we might call a friendly interest in people and things.

A friendly interest in persons is a form of affectionateness, but not the form which is grasping and possessive and seeking always an emphatic response. This latter form is very frequently a source of unhappiness. The kind that makes for happiness is the kind that likes to observe people and finds pleasure in their individual traits, that wishes to afford scope for the interests and pleasures of those with whom it is brought into contact without desiring to acquire power over them or to secure their enthusiastic admiration. The person whose attitude towards others is genuinely of this kind will be a source of happiness and a recipient of reciprocal kindness. His relations with others, whether slight or serious, will satisfy both his interests and his affections; he will not be soured by ingratitude, since he will seldom suffer it and will not notice when he does. The same idiosyncrasies which would get on another man’s nerves to the point of exasperation will be to him a source of gentle amusement. He will achieve without effort results which another man, after long struggles, will find to be unattainable. Being happy in himself, he will be a pleasant companion, and this in turn will increase his happiness. But all this must be genuine; it must not spring from an idea of self-sacrifice inspired by a sense of duty. A sense of duty is useful in work, but offensive in personal relations. People wish to be liked, not to be endured with patient resignation. To like many people spontaneously and without effort is perhaps the greatest of all sources of personal happiness.

A friendly interest in people is a form of affection. But it is not the kind that clings, tries to possess people, and always seeks a strong response. That possessive kind of affection is very often a source of unhappiness. The kind that brings happiness enjoys observing people and takes pleasure in their individual traits. It seeks to give people room to pursue their interests and pleasures. It does not seek power over them or their enthusiastic admiration. Someone who genuinely feels this way toward others will bring happiness and receive kindness in return. Their relationships, whether casual or close, will satisfy both their interests and their affections. They will not become bitter about ingratitude, because they will rarely encounter it and will not notice when they do. The same quirks that would drive someone else to exasperation will gently amuse them. They will effortlessly achieve results that someone else will find impossible even after a long struggle. Because they are happy in themselves, they will be pleasant company, and being pleasant company will increase their happiness. But all this must be genuine. It must not come from an idea of self-sacrifice inspired by a sense of duty. A sense of duty is useful in work, but offensive in personal relationships. People want to be liked, not patiently put up with. Liking many people naturally and effortlessly is perhaps the greatest of all sources of personal happiness.

I spoke also in the last paragraph of what I call a friendly interest in things. This phrase may perhaps seem forced; it may be said that it is impossible to feel friendly to things. Nevertheless, there is something analogous to friendliness in the kind of interest that a geologist takes in rocks, or an archæologist in ruins, and this interest ought to be an element in our attitude to individuals or societies. It is possible to have an interest in things which is hostile rather than friendly. A man might collect facts concerning the habitats of spiders because he hated spiders and wished to live where they were few. This kind of interest would not afford the same satisfaction as the geologist derives from his rocks. An interest in impersonal things, though perhaps less valuable as an ingredient in everyday happiness than a friendly attitude towards our fellow creatures, is nevertheless very important. The world is vast and our own powers are limited. If all our happiness is bound up entirely in our personal circumstances it is difficult not to demand of life more than it has to give. And to demand too much is the surest way of getting even less than is possible. The man who can forget his worries by means of a genuine interest in, say, the Council of Trent, or the life history of stars, will find that, when he returns from his excursion into the impersonal world, he has acquired a poise and calm which enable him to deal with his worries in the best way, and he will in the meantime have experienced a genuine even if temporary happiness.

In the last paragraph, I also mentioned what I call a friendly interest in things. This phrase may perhaps seem unnatural. Some may say that feeling friendly toward things is impossible. Still, something like friendliness exists in a geologist’s interest in rocks or an archaeologist’s interest in ruins. This kind of interest should also be part of our attitude toward individuals or societies. An interest in things can be hostile rather than friendly. A man might gather facts about where spiders live because he hates spiders and wants to live somewhere with few. This kind of interest would not give him the same satisfaction a geologist gets from rocks. An interest in things outside our personal lives is nevertheless very important. It is perhaps less valuable to everyday happiness than a friendly attitude toward our fellow creatures. The world is vast, and our own abilities are limited. If all our happiness depends entirely on our personal circumstances, we can easily demand more from life than it offers. And demanding too much is the surest way to get even less than we could. Someone may forget his worries through a genuine interest in, say, the Council of Trent or the lives of stars. When he returns from exploring subjects outside his personal life, he will find that he has gained balance and calm. This balance and calm will help him deal with his worries in the best way. And in the meantime, he will have experienced genuine happiness, even if only temporarily.

The secret of happiness is this: let your interests be as wide as possible, and let your reactions to the things and persons that interest you be as far as possible friendly rather than hostile.

The secret of happiness is to have as wide a range of interests as possible. Respond to the things and people that interest you as warmly as possible, rather than with hostility.

This preliminary survey of the possibilities of happiness will be expanded in subsequent chapters, together with suggestions as to ways of escaping from psychological sources of misery.

Later chapters will expand on this initial overview of the possibilities for happiness. They will also suggest ways to escape the psychological causes of misery.