Enthusiasm for Life

In this chapter I propose to deal with what seems to me the most universal and distinctive mark of happy men, namely zest.

In this chapter, I will discuss zest. To me, zest seems the most universal and distinctive quality of happy people.

Perhaps the best way to understand what is meant by zest will be to consider the different ways in which men behave when they sit down to a meal. There are those to whom a meal is merely a bore; no matter how excellent the food may be, they feel that it is uninteresting. They have had excellent food before, probably at almost every meal they have eaten. They have never known what it was to go without a meal until hunger became a raging passion, but have come to regard meals as merely conventional occurrences, dictated by the fashions of the society in which they live. Like everything else, meals are tiresome, but it is no use to make a fuss, because nothing else will be less tiresome. Then there are the invalids who eat from a sense of duty, because the doctor has told them that it is necessary to take a little nourishment in order to keep up their strength. Then there are the epicures, who start hopefully, but find that nothing has been quite so well cooked as it ought to have been. Then there are the gormandizers, who fall upon their food with eager rapacity, eat too much, and grow plethoric and stertorous. Finally there are those who begin with a sound appetite, are glad of their food, eat until they have had enough, and then stop. Those who are set down before the feast of life have similar attitudes towards the good things which it offers. The happy man corresponds to the last of our eaters. What hunger is in relation to food, zest is in relation to life. The man who is bored with his meals corresponds to the victim of Byronic unhappiness. The invalid who eats from a sense of duty corresponds to the ascetic, the gormandizer to the voluptuary. The epicure corresponds to the fastidious person who condemns half the pleasures of life as unæsthetic. Oddly enough, all these types, with the possible exception of the gormandizer, feel contempt for the man of healthy appetite and consider themselves his superior. It seems to them vulgar to enjoy food because you are hungry or to enjoy life because it offers a variety of interesting spectacles and surprising experiences. From the height of their disillusionment they look down upon those whom they despise as simple souls. For my part I have no sympathy with this outlook. All disenchantment is to me a malady, which, it is true, certain circumstances may render inevitable, but which none the less, when it occurs, is to be cured as soon as possible, not to be regarded as a higher form of wisdom. Suppose one man likes strawberries and another does not; in what respect is the latter superior? There is no abstract and impersonal proof either that strawberries are good or that they are not good. To the man who likes them they are good; to the man who dislikes them they are not. But the man who likes them has a pleasure which the other does not have; to that extent his life is more enjoyable and he is better adapted to the world in which both must live. What is true in this trivial instance is equally true in more important matters. The man who enjoys watching football is to that extent superior to the man who does not. The man who enjoys reading is still more superior to the man who does not, since opportunities for reading are more frequent than opportunities for watching football. The more things a man is interested in, the more opportunities of happiness he has, and the less he is at the mercy of fate, since if he loses one thing he can fall back upon another. Life is too short to be interested in everything, but it is good to be interested in as many things as are necessary to fill our days. We are all prone to the malady of the introvert, who, with the manifold spectacle of the world spread out before him, turns away and gazes only upon the emptiness within. But let us not imagine that there is anything grand about the introvert’s unhappiness.

Perhaps the best way to understand zest is to consider how differently people behave when they sit down to eat. Some find meals nothing but a bore. However excellent the food, they find it uninteresting. They have eaten excellent food before, probably at almost every meal. They have never missed meals until hunger became an overwhelming urge. Instead, they have come to see meals as mere social conventions, dictated by the customs of their society. Like everything else, meals are tiresome. But there is no point complaining, because nothing else will be any less tiresome. Then there are sick people who eat out of duty. Their doctor has told them they must eat a little to keep up their strength. Then there are food connoisseurs, who begin hopefully but find that nothing is cooked quite as well as it should be. Then there are gluttons, who attack their food greedily, eat too much, and become bloated and breathe noisily. Finally, some people begin with a healthy appetite, enjoy their food, eat enough, and then stop. People seated at life's feast have similar attitudes toward the good things life offers. The happy person resembles the last kind of eater. Zest is to life what hunger is to food. The person bored with meals resembles someone suffering from Byronic unhappiness, a mood of romantic disillusionment. The sick person who eats out of duty resembles the ascetic, who denies himself pleasure. The glutton resembles someone devoted to sensual pleasure. The food connoisseur resembles the person whose exacting tastes lead them to reject half of life's pleasures as lacking beauty. Strangely, all these types, with the possible exception of the glutton, look down on people with healthy appetites. They consider themselves superior. They think enjoying food because you are hungry is vulgar. They feel the same about enjoying life because it offers many interesting sights and surprising experiences. From the heights of their disillusionment, they look down on people they dismiss as simple souls. For my part, I have no sympathy with this outlook. I see all disillusionment as an illness. Certain circumstances may indeed make disillusionment inevitable. But when it occurs, disillusionment should still be cured as soon as possible, not treated as a higher wisdom. Suppose one person likes strawberries and another does not. In what way is the second person superior? No abstract, objective proof can establish that strawberries are good or that they are not. Strawberries are good to the person who likes them, but not to the person who dislikes them. Yet the person who likes strawberries has a pleasure the other lacks. To that extent, the strawberry lover enjoys life more and is better suited to the world both must live in. What is true of this small example is equally true of more important matters. Someone who enjoys watching football is, to that extent, superior to someone who does not. Someone who enjoys reading is even more superior to someone who does not. This is because opportunities to read come more often than opportunities to watch football. The more interests a person has, the more chances for happiness they have, and the less they depend on fate. If they lose one interest, they can turn to another. Life is too short to take an interest in everything. But it is good to have enough interests to fill our days. We are all prone to the illness of the inward-looking person. Although the world's varied sights lie before such people, they turn away and stare only at the emptiness within. But let us not imagine there is anything grand about their unhappiness.

There were once upon a time two sausage machines, exquisitely constructed for the purpose of turning pig into the most delicious sausages. One of these retained his zest for pig and produced sausages innumerable; the other said: “What is pig to me? My own works are far more interesting and wonderful than any pig.” He refused pig and set to work to study his inside. When bereft of its natural food, his inside ceased to function, and the more he studied it, the more empty and foolish it seemed to him to be. All the exquisite apparatus by which the delicious transformation had hitherto been made stood still, and he was at a loss to guess what it was capable of doing. This second sausage machine was like the man who has lost his zest, while the first was like the man who has retained it. The mind is a strange machine which can combine the materials offered to it in the most astonishing ways, but without materials from the external world it is powerless, and unlike the sausage machine it must seize its materials for itself, since events only become experiences through the interest that we take in them: if they do not interest us, we are making nothing of them. The man, therefore, whose attention is turned within finds nothing worthy of his notice, whereas the man whose attention is turned outward can find within, in those rare moments when he examines his soul, the most varied and interesting assortment of ingredients being dissected and recombined into beautiful or instructive patterns.

Once upon a time, there were two sausage machines, beautifully built to turn pig into the most delicious sausages. One kept his enthusiasm for pig and produced countless sausages. The other said: “What does pig matter to me? My own machinery is far more interesting and wonderful than any pig.” He refused pig and began studying his insides. Without their natural food, his insides stopped working. The more he studied them, the emptier and more foolish they seemed to him. All the beautifully designed machinery that had once made the delicious transformation possible stood still. He could not imagine what the machinery was capable of doing. This second sausage machine was like a man who has lost his enthusiasm for life. The first was like a man who has kept it. The mind is a strange machine that can combine the materials offered to it in the most astonishing ways. But without materials from the outside world, the mind is powerless. Unlike the sausage machine, the mind must gather its own materials. This is because events only become experiences through our interest in them. If events do not interest us, we make nothing of them. So a man who turns his attention inward finds nothing worth noticing. By contrast, a man who turns his attention outward can find a rich and varied collection of ingredients within himself. He discovers them in the rare moments when he examines his soul. There, those ingredients are being taken apart and recombined into beautiful or instructive patterns.

The forms of zest are innumerable. Sherlock Holmes, it may be remembered, picked up a hat which he happened to find lying in the street. After looking at it for a moment he remarked that its owner had come down in the world as the result of drink, and that his wife was no longer so fond of him as she used to be. Life could never be boring to a man to whom casual objects offered such a wealth of interest. Think of the different things that may be noticed in the course of a country walk. One man may be interested in the birds, another in the vegetation, another in the geology, yet another in the agriculture, and so on. Any one of these things is interesting if it interests you, and, other things being equal, the man who is interested in any one of them is a man better adapted to the world than the man who is not interested.

Zest takes countless forms. You may remember how Sherlock Holmes picked up a hat he happened to find lying in the street. After examining the hat briefly, he said its owner had fallen on hard times because of drinking. He added that the owner’s wife no longer loved her husband as much as she once had. Life could never bore a man who found so much to interest him in ordinary objects. Think of all the different things you might notice on a walk in the countryside. One person may be interested in birds, another in plants, another in geology, and another in farming, and so on. Any of these subjects is interesting if it interests you. Other things being equal, someone interested in any one of these subjects is better adapted to the world than someone who is not.

How extraordinarily different, again, are the attitudes of different people to their fellow-men. One man, in the course of a long train journey, will fail entirely to observe any of his fellow travellers, while another will have summed them all up, analysed their characters, made a shrewd guess at their circumstances, and perhaps even ascertained the most secret histories of several of them. People differ just as much in what they feel towards others as in what they ascertain about them. Some men find almost everybody boring, others quickly and easily develop a friendly feeling towards those with whom they are brought in contact, unless there is some definite reason for feeling otherwise. Take again such a matter as travel: some men will travel through many countries, going always to the best hotels, eating exactly the same food as they would eat at home, meeting the same idle rich whom they would meet at home, conversing on the same topics upon which they converse at their own dinner-table. When they return, their only feeling is one of relief at having done with the boredom of expensive locomotion. Other men wherever they go see what is characteristic, make the acquaintance of people who typify the locality, observe whatever is of interest either historically or socially, eat the food of the country, learn its manners and its language, and come home with a new stock of pleasant thoughts for winter evenings.

People also differ extraordinarily in their attitudes toward others. On a long train journey, one person may fail to notice any fellow passengers at all. Another will have sized up every passenger, analyzed their characters, and made shrewd guesses about their circumstances. Perhaps this second traveler will even have discovered the most private stories of several passengers’ lives. People differ just as much in their feelings toward others as in what they discover about them. Some people find almost everyone boring. Others quickly and easily feel friendly toward people they meet, unless there is a definite reason to feel otherwise. Consider travel, too. Some people travel through many countries, always staying at the best hotels. They eat exactly the same food they would eat at home. They meet the same idle rich people they would meet at home. They discuss the same topics they discuss at their own dinner tables. When these travelers return, their only feeling is relief that the boredom of expensive travel is over. Other travelers notice what makes each place distinctive, wherever they go. They get to know people who are typical of the area. They notice anything of historical or social interest, eat the local food, and learn the local customs and language. These travelers return home with a fresh store of pleasant thoughts for winter evenings.

In all these different situations the man who has the zest for life has the advantage over the man who has none. Even unpleasant experiences have their uses to him. I am glad to have smelt a Chinese crowd and a Sicilian village, though I cannot pretend that my pleasure was very great at the moment. Adventurous men enjoy shipwrecks, mutinies, earthquakes, conflagrations, and all kinds of unpleasant experiences, provided they do not go so far as to impair health. They say to themselves in an earthquake, for example, “So that is what an earthquake is like”, and it gives them pleasure to have their knowledge of the world increased by this new item. It would not be true to say that such men are not at the mercy of fate, for if they should lose their health they would be very likely to lose their zest at the same time, though this is by no means certain. I have known men die at the end of years of slow torture, and yet retain their zest almost till the last moment. Some forms of ill-health destroy zest, others do not. I do not know whether the biochemists are able as yet to distinguish between these kinds. Perhaps when biochemistry has made further advances we shall all be able to take tablets that will ensure our feeling an interest in everything, but until that day comes we are compelled to depend upon common-sense observation of life to judge what are the causes that enable some men to take an interest in everything, while compelling others to take an interest in nothing.

In all these different situations, a man with a zest for life has an advantage over one without it. Even unpleasant experiences have their uses for him. I am glad to have smelled a Chinese crowd and a Sicilian village. Though I cannot pretend I enjoyed either smell very much at the time. Adventurous men enjoy shipwrecks, mutinies, earthquakes, major fires, and all kinds of unpleasant experiences, provided these do not damage their health. During an earthquake, for example, they say to themselves, “So that is what an earthquake is like”. They take pleasure in knowing more about the world through this new experience. It would not be true to say that such men are free from the power of fate. If they lost their health, they would very likely lose their zest too, though this is by no means certain. I have known men who died after years of slow torture, yet kept their zest almost to the last moment. Some forms of ill health destroy zest, while others do not. I do not know whether biochemists can yet distinguish between these kinds of ill health. Perhaps, with further advances in biochemistry, we will all be able to take pills that ensure our interest in everything. But until that day comes, we must rely on common-sense observations of life. These observations must guide our judgment about what enables some men to take an interest in everything, while forcing others to take an interest in nothing.

Zest is sometimes general, sometimes specialized. It may be very specialized indeed. Readers of Borrow may remember a character who occurs in Lavengro. He had lost his wife, to whom he was devoted, and felt for a time that life had grown utterly barren. But by profession he was a tea merchant, and in order to endure life he taught himself unaided to read the Chinese inscriptions on the tea-chests that passed through his hands. In the end this gave him a new interest in life, and he began to study with avidity everything that concerned China. I have known men who were entirely absorbed in the endeavour to find out all about the Gnostic heresy, and other men whose principal interest lay in collating the manuscripts and early editions of Hobbes. It is quite impossible to guess in advance what will interest a man, but most men are capable of a keen interest in something or other, and when once such an interest has been aroused their life becomes free from tedium. Very specialized interests are, however, a less satisfactory source of happiness than a general zest for life, since they can hardly fill the whole of a man’s time, and there is always the danger that he may come to know all there is to know about the particular matter that has become his hobby.

Zest for life is sometimes broad and sometimes focused on a particular interest. That interest may be very narrow indeed. Readers of Borrow may remember a character in Lavengro. He had lost his wife, to whom he was devoted, and for a time felt that life had become utterly empty. But he was a tea merchant, and to make life bearable, he taught himself to read Chinese without any help. He learned by reading the inscriptions on the tea chests that passed through his hands. In the end, learning to read these inscriptions gave him a new interest in life. He began eagerly studying everything about China. I have known men completely absorbed in trying to learn all about the Gnostic heresy. I have known others whose main interest was comparing manuscripts and early editions of Hobbes. It is quite impossible to predict what will interest a man. But most men are capable of taking a keen interest in something. Once such an interest has been awakened, their lives become free from boredom. However, very specialized interests are a less satisfying source of happiness than a general zest for life. Such interests can hardly fill all of a man’s time. And there is always the danger that he may learn all there is to know about his particular hobby.

It will be remembered that among our different types at the banquet we included the gormandizer, whom we were not prepared to praise. The reader may think that the man with zest whom we have been praising does not differ in any definable way from the gormandizer. The time has come when we must try to make the distinction between the two types more definite.

You may remember that the types of people at our banquet included the glutton, whom we were unwilling to praise. The reader may think the man with zest we have praised is no different from the glutton in any clear way. Now we must try to make the distinction between these two types clearer.

The ancients, as everyone knows, regarded moderation as one of the essential virtues. Under the influence of romanticism and the French Revolution this view was abandoned by many, and overmastering passions were admired, even if, like those of Byron’s heroes, they were of a destructive and anti-social kind. The ancients, however, were clearly in the right. In the good life there must be a balance between different activities, and no one of them must be carried so far as to make the others impossible. The gormandizer sacrifices all other pleasures to that of eating, and by so doing diminishes the total happiness of his life. Many other passions besides eating may be carried to a like excess. The Empress Josephine was a gormandizer in regard to clothes. At first Napoleon used to pay her dressmaker’s bills, though with continually increasing protest. At last he told her that she really must learn moderation, and that in future he would only pay her bills when the amount seemed reasonable. When her next dressmaker’s bill came in, she was for a moment at her wits’ end, but presently she bethought herself of a scheme. She went to the War Minister and demanded that he should pay her bill out of the funds provided for the war. Since he knew that she had the power to get him dismissed, he did so, and the French lost Genoa in consequence. So at least some books say, though I am not prepared to vouch for the exact truth of the story. For our purpose it is equally apt whether true or an exaggeration, since it serves to show how far the passion for clothes may carry a woman who has the opportunity to indulge it. Dipsomaniacs and nymphomaniacs are obvious examples of the same kind of thing. The principle in these matters is fairly obvious. All our separate tastes and desires have to fit into the general framework of life. If they are to be a source of happiness they must be compatible with health, with the affection of those whom we love, and with the respect of the society in which we live. Some passions can be indulged to almost any extent without passing beyond these limits, others cannot. The man, let us say, who loves chess, if he happens to be a bachelor with independent means, need not restrict his passion in any degree, whereas if he has a wife and children and no independent means, he will have to restrict it very severely. The dipsomaniac and the gormandizer, even if they have no social ties, are unwise from a self-regarding point of view, since their indulgence interferes with health, and gives them hours of misery, in return for minutes of pleasure. Certain things form a framework within which any separate passion must live if it is not to become a source of misery. Such things are health, the general possession of one’s faculties, a sufficient income to provide for necessaries, and the most essential social duties, such as those towards wife and children. The man who sacrifices these things for chess is essentially as bad as the dipsomaniac. The only reason we do not condemn him so severely is that he is much less common, and that only a man of somewhat rare abilities is likely to be carried away by absorption in so intellectual a game. The Greek formula of moderation practically covers these cases. The man who likes chess sufficiently to look forward throughout his working day to the game that he will play in the evening is fortunate, but the man who gives up work in order to play chess all day has lost the virtue of moderation. It is recorded that Tolstoy, in his younger and unregenerate days, was awarded the military cross for valour in the field, but when the time came for him to be presented with it, he was so absorbed in a game of chess that he decided not to go. We can hardly find fault with Tolstoy on this account, since to him it might well be a matter of indifference whether he won military decorations or not, but in a lesser man such an act would have been one of folly.

As everyone knows, the ancients regarded moderation as one of the essential virtues. Under the influence of romanticism and the French Revolution, many people abandoned this view. Instead, they admired overwhelming passions, even destructive and antisocial ones like those of Byron’s heroes. The ancients, however, were clearly right. A good life must balance different activities. No activity should go so far that it makes the others impossible. Someone who eats excessively sacrifices all other pleasures to eating and so reduces the total happiness of his life. Many other passions can become just as excessive. The Empress Josephine had the same excessive appetite for clothes. At first, Napoleon paid her dressmaker’s bills, though he protested more and more. Finally, he told her that she really must learn moderation. In future, he would pay her bills only when the amount seemed reasonable. When her next dressmaker’s bill arrived, she briefly had no idea what to do. But soon she thought of a scheme. She went to the War Minister and demanded that he pay her bill from funds set aside for the war. He knew she had the power to have him dismissed, so he paid. As a result, the French lost Genoa. At least, some books say so, though I cannot vouch for the story’s exact truth. For our purposes, the story works equally well whether it is true or exaggerated. It shows how far a passion for clothes may carry a woman who has the opportunity to indulge it. People with compulsive urges to drink alcohol or, in women, to have sex are obvious examples of the same problem. The principle here is fairly obvious. All our individual tastes and desires must fit into the overall structure of life. To bring happiness, they must be compatible with health, the affection of those we love, and our society’s respect. Some passions can be indulged almost without limit while meeting these conditions. Others cannot. Consider a man who loves chess. If he is unmarried and has an income without needing to work, he need not limit his passion at all. But if he has a wife and children and must work for his income, he must limit it very strictly. Compulsive drinkers and excessive eaters are unwise even in terms of their own interests, regardless of any social ties. Their indulgence harms their health and brings hours of misery in exchange for minutes of pleasure. Every individual passion must stay within certain limits if it is not to become a source of misery. These limits include health, the general ability to use one’s mind and body, and enough income for necessities. They also include the most essential social duties, such as responsibilities to a wife and children. A man who sacrifices these things for chess is essentially as bad as a compulsive drinker. We judge him less harshly only because he is much less common. Also, only a man with somewhat rare abilities is likely to become so absorbed in such an intellectual game. The Greek principle of moderation covers practically all these cases. A man is fortunate if his love of chess lets him look forward all working day to his evening game. But a man who gives up work to play chess all day has lost the virtue of moderation. According to one account, Tolstoy received the military cross for bravery in battle during his younger, unreformed days. But when the time came to receive the award, he was so absorbed in chess that he decided not to go. We can hardly fault Tolstoy for this. He might well have been indifferent to whether he received military decorations. But in a lesser man, such an act would have been foolish.

As a limitation upon the doctrine that has just been set forth, it ought to be admitted that some performances are considered so essentially noble as to justify the sacrifice of everything else on their behalf. The man who loses his life in the defence of his country is not blamed if thereby his wife and children are left penniless. The man who is engaged in experiments with a view to some great scientific discovery or invention is not blamed afterwards for the poverty that he has made his family endure, provided that his efforts are crowned with ultimate success. If, however, he never succeeds in making the discovery or the invention that he was attempting, public opinion condemns him as a crank, which seems unfair, since no one in such an enterprise can be sure of success in advance. During the first millennium of the Christian era a man who abandoned his family for a saintly life was praised, though nowadays it would be held that he ought to make some provision for them.

We should admit one limit to the view just presented. Some actions are considered so noble in themselves that they justify sacrificing everything else. A man who dies defending his country is not blamed if his death leaves his wife and children penniless. A man conducting experiments to achieve a major scientific discovery or invention is not blamed afterwards for impoverishing his family. But he escapes blame only if his efforts ultimately succeed. If he never makes the discovery or invention he was attempting, public opinion condemns him as a crank. Such condemnation seems unfair, since no one undertaking such work can be sure of success in advance. During the first thousand years of the Christian era, a man who abandoned his family to live as a saint was praised. Today, though, people would say he ought to provide something for his family.

I think there is always some deep-seated psychological difference between the gormandizer and the man of healthy appetite. The man in whom one desire runs to excess at the expense of all others is usually a man with some deep-seated trouble, who is seeking to escape from a spectre. In the case of the dipsomaniac this is obvious: men drink in order to forget. If they had no spectres in their lives, they would not find drunkenness more agreeable than sobriety. As the legendary Chinaman said: “Me no drinkee for drinkee, me drinkee for drunkee.” This is typical of all excessive and one-sided passions. It is not pleasure in the object itself that is sought, but oblivion. There is, however, a very great difference according as oblivion is sought in a sottish manner or by the exercise of faculties in themselves desirable. Borrow’s friend who taught himself Chinese in order to be able to endure the loss of his wife was seeking oblivion, but he sought it in an activity that had no harmful effects, but on the contrary improved his intelligence and his knowledge. Against such forms of escape there is nothing to be said. It is otherwise with the man who seeks oblivion in drinking or gambling or any other form of unprofitable excitement. There are, it is true, border-line cases. What should we say of the man who runs mad risks in aeroplanes or on mountain tops, because life has become irksome to him? If his risks serve any public object, we may admire him, but if not, we shall have to place him only slightly above the gambler and drunkard.

I think there is always some deep psychological difference between someone who overeats and someone with a healthy appetite. A man whose single desire grows excessive at the expense of all others usually has some deep psychological trouble. He is trying to escape something that haunts him. In someone who drinks compulsively, the reason is obvious: men drink to forget. If nothing haunted their lives, they would not find being drunk more enjoyable than being sober. As the Chinese man in the old story said: “I don’t drink for the drinking. I drink to get drunk.” The same is true of all excessive passions that crowd out everything else. The aim is not pleasure in the activity itself, but escape from awareness. Yet there is a very great difference between seeking that escape through drunkenness and through worthwhile uses of one's abilities. Borrow’s friend taught himself Chinese so he could bear the loss of his wife. He was seeking escape from awareness, but through an activity that did no harm. On the contrary, learning Chinese improved his intelligence and knowledge. There is nothing to be said against such forms of escape. The same cannot be said of someone seeking escape through drinking, gambling, or any other form of pointless excitement. There are, admittedly, borderline cases. What should we say of a man who takes reckless risks in airplanes or on mountaintops because life has become burdensome? If his risks serve some public purpose, we may admire him. But if not, we must rank him only slightly above the gambler and the drunkard.

Genuine zest, not the sort that is really a search for oblivion, is part of the natural make-up of human beings except in so far as it has been destroyed by unfortunate circumstances. Young children are interested in everything that they see and hear; the world is full of surprises to them, and they are perpetually engaged with ardour in the pursuit of knowledge, not, of course, of scholastic knowledge, but of the sort that consists in acquiring familiarity with the objects that attract their attention. Animals, even when adult, retain their zest provided they are in health. A cat in an unfamiliar room will not sit down until it has sniffed at every corner on the off-chance that there may be a smell of mouse somewhere. The man who has never been fundamentally thwarted will retain his natural interest in the external world, and so long as he retains it he will find life pleasant unless his liberty is unduly curtailed. Loss of zest in civilized society is very largely due to the restrictions upon liberty which are essential to our way of life. The savage hunts when he is hungry, and in so doing is obeying a direct impulse. The man who goes to his work every morning at a certain hour is actuated fundamentally by the same impulse, namely the need to secure a living, but in his case the impulse does not operate directly and at the moment when it is felt: it operates indirectly through abstractions, beliefs and volitions. At the moment when the man starts off to his work he is not feeling hungry, since he has just had his breakfast. He merely knows that hunger will recur, and that going to his work is a means of satisfying future hunger. Impulses are irregular, whereas habits, in a civilized society, have to be regular. Among savages, even collective enterprises, in so far as they exist, are spontaneous and impulsive. When the tribe is going to war the tom-tom rouses military ardour, and herd excitement inspires each individual to the necessary activity. Modern enterprises cannot be managed in this way. When a train has to be started at a given moment it is impossible to inspire the porters, the engine-driver, and the signalman by means of barbaric music. They must each do their job merely because it has to be done; their motive, that is to say, is indirect: they have no impulse towards the activity, but only towards the ultimate reward of the activity. A great deal of social life has the same defect. People converse with each other, not from any wish to do so, but because of some ultimate benefit that they hope to derive from co-operation. At every moment of life the civilized man is hedged about by restrictions of impulse: if he happens to feel cheerful he must not sing or dance in the street, while if he happens to feel sad he must not sit on the pavement and weep, for fear of obstructing pedestrian traffic. In youth his liberty is restricted at school, in adult life it is restricted throughout his working hours. All this makes zest more difficult to retain, for the continual restraint tends to produce weariness and boredom. Nevertheless, a civilized society is impossible without a very considerable degree of restraint upon spontaneous impulse, since spontaneous impulse will only produce the simplest forms of social co-operation, not those highly complex forms which modern economic organization demands. In order to rise above these obstacles to zest a man needs health and superabundant energy, or else, if he has that good fortune, work that he finds interesting on its own account. Health, so far as statistics can show, has been steadily improving in all civilized countries during the last hundred years, but energy is more difficult to measure, and I am doubtful whether physical vigour in moments of health is as great as it was formerly. The problem here is to a great extent a social problem, and as such I do not propose to discuss it in the present volume. The problem has, however, a personal and psychological aspect which we have already discussed in connection with fatigue. Some men retain their zest in spite of the handicaps of civilized life, and many men could do so if they were free from the inner psychological conflicts upon which a great part of their energy is expended. Zest demands energy more that sufficient for the necessary work, and this in turn demands the smooth working of the psychological machine. Of the causes promoting the smooth working I shall have more to say in later chapters.

Genuine zest for life is a natural part of being human, except where unfortunate circumstances have destroyed it. This is not the kind of excitement that is really an attempt to forget everything. Young children are interested in everything they see and hear. The world is full of surprises for them, and they are constantly eager to learn. Of course, they are not pursuing academic knowledge. They are getting to know the things that attract their attention. Even adult animals retain their zest as long as they are healthy. A cat in an unfamiliar room will not settle down until it has sniffed every corner. There might, after all, be a trace of mouse scent somewhere. Anyone whose basic impulses have never been frustrated will retain a natural interest in the outside world. As long as that interest lasts, life will be pleasant, unless their freedom is too severely restricted. In modern society, the loss of zest is largely caused by restrictions on freedom that our way of life requires. A person in a tribal society hunts when hungry, directly following an impulse. Someone who goes to work at a fixed time each morning is driven by fundamentally the same impulse. Both need to earn a living. But the worker’s impulse does not lead directly to action at the moment it is felt. Instead, the impulse works indirectly, through abstract ideas, beliefs, and deliberate choices. When workers leave for work, they are not hungry, since they have just eaten breakfast. They simply know that hunger will return, and that working will provide food when hunger returns. Impulses are irregular, but habits in modern society have to be regular. In tribal societies, even group activities, where they exist, are spontaneous and impulsive. When a tribe goes to war, drumming stirs up enthusiasm for battle. The excitement of the group moves each person to take the necessary action. Modern activities cannot be organized this way. When a train must leave at a particular time, primitive music cannot inspire the porters, driver, and signal operator. Each must do the job simply because the job needs doing. Their motive, in other words, is indirect. They feel no impulse to do the work itself, only to gain its eventual reward. Much of social life has the same drawback. People talk to one another not because they want to, but because they hope cooperation will eventually benefit them. At every moment, people in modern society face restrictions on their impulses. If they feel cheerful, they must not sing or dance in the street. If they feel sad, they must not sit on the pavement and cry, for fear of blocking pedestrian traffic. In youth, their freedom is restricted at school. In adulthood, their freedom is restricted throughout working hours. All these restrictions make zest harder to retain, because constant restraint tends to produce weariness and boredom. Yet modern society is impossible without considerable restraint on spontaneous impulses. Such impulses can produce only the simplest forms of social cooperation. They cannot produce the highly complex forms that modern economic organization requires. To overcome these obstacles to zest, people need good health and an abundance of energy. Alternatively, if they are fortunate enough, they need work they find interesting for its own sake. As far as statistics can show, health has steadily improved in all modern societies over the past hundred years. But energy is harder to measure. I doubt whether people, when healthy, have as much physical vigor as they once did. This is largely a social problem, and I do not intend to discuss that side of it in this book. However, the problem also has a personal, psychological side, which we have already discussed in connection with fatigue. Some people retain their zest despite the disadvantages of modern life. Many others could retain theirs if they were free from the inner psychological conflicts that consume much of their energy. Zest requires more energy than is needed for essential work. That surplus, in turn, requires the mind to work smoothly. I will say more in later chapters about what helps the mind work smoothly.

In women, less nowadays than formerly, but still to a very large extent, zest has been greatly diminished by a mistaken conception of respectability. It was thought undesirable that women should take an obvious interest in men, or that they should display too much vivacity in public. In learning not to be interested in men they learned very frequently to be interested in nothing, or at any rate in nothing except a certain kind of correct behaviour. To teach an attitude of inactivity and withdrawal towards life is clearly to teach something very inimical to zest, and to encourage a certain kind of absorption in self which is characteristic of highly respectable women, especially when they are uneducated. They do not have the interest in sport that average men have, they care nothing about politics, towards men their attitude is one of prim aloofness, towards women their attitude is one of veiled hostility based upon the conviction that other women are less respectable than they are themselves. They boast that they keep themselves to themselves; that is to say, their lack of interest in their fellow creatures appears to them in the light of a virtue. For this, of course, they are not to blame; they are only accepting the moral teaching that has been current for thousands of years where women are concerned. They are, however, victims, much to be pitied, of a system of repression whose iniquity they have failed to perceive. To such women all that is ungenerous appears good and all that is generous appears evil. In their own social circle they do what they can to kill joy, in politics they love repressive legislation. Fortunately the type is growing less common, but it is still far more prevalent than is supposed by those who live in emancipated circles. I recommend anyone who doubts this statement to go the round of a number of lodging-houses seeking a lodging, and to take note of the landladies that he will meet during his search. He will find that they are living by a conception of female excellence which involves as an essential part the destruction of all zest for life, and that their minds and hearts are dwarfed and stunted as a result. Between male and female excellence rightly conceived there is no difference, or at any rate no difference such as tradition inculcates. For women as for men zest is the secret of happiness and well-being.

Women’s zest for life has been greatly reduced by a mistaken idea of respectability. This happens less today than in the past, but still to a very large extent. People thought women should not show an obvious interest in men or be too lively in public. In learning not to be interested in men, women very often learned to be interested in nothing. Or at least, they became interested in nothing except a certain kind of proper behavior. Teaching women to be passive and withdraw from life clearly undermines their zest for living. It also encourages a kind of self-absorption typical of highly respectable women, especially those without an education. These women lack the interest in sports that average men have, and they care nothing about politics. They treat men with stiff, proper detachment. They treat women with hidden hostility, convinced that other women are less respectable than themselves. They boast that they keep to themselves. In other words, they see their lack of interest in other people as a virtue. Of course, these women are not to blame. They are simply accepting the moral teachings applied to women for thousands of years. Yet they are victims, deserving great pity, of a repressive system whose injustice they have failed to recognize. To such women, everything ungenerous seems good, and everything generous seems evil. Within their own social circle, they do what they can to kill joy. In politics, they favor repressive laws. Fortunately, this type of woman is becoming less common. But such women are still far more common than people in liberated circles suppose. Anyone who doubts this should visit a number of boarding houses in search of a room. I recommend paying attention to the landladies encountered along the way. These landladies live by an ideal of womanhood that requires, as an essential part, destroying all zest for life. As a result, their minds and hearts have been stunted. Properly understood, there is no difference between excellence in men and excellence in women. Or at least, there is no difference of the kind tradition teaches. For women, as for men, zest for life is the secret of happiness and well-being.