Affection

One of the chief causes of lack of zest is the feeling that one is unloved, whereas conversely the feeling of being loved promotes zest more than anything else does. A man may have the feeling of being unloved for a variety of reasons. He may consider himself such a dreadful person that no one could possibly love him; he may in childhood have had to accustom himself to receiving less love than fell to the share of other children; or he may in fact be a person whom nobody loves. But in this latter event the cause probably lies in a lack of self-confidence due to early misfortune. The man who feels himself unloved may take various attitudes as a result. He may make desperate efforts to win affection, probably by means of exceptional acts of kindness. In this, however, he is very likely to be unsuccessful, since the motive of the kindnesses is easily perceived by their beneficiaries, and human nature is so constructed that it gives affection most readily to those who seem least to demand it. The man, therefore, who endeavours to purchase affection by benevolent actions becomes disillusioned by experience of human ingratitude. It never occurs to him that the affection which he is trying to buy is of far more value than the material benefits which he offers as its price, and yet the feeling that this is so is at the basis of his actions. Another man, observing that he is unloved, may seek revenge upon the world, either by stirring up wars and revolutions, or by a pen dipped in gall, like Dean Swift. This is an heroic reaction to misfortune, requiring a force of character sufficient to enable a man to pit himself against the rest of the world. Few men are able to reach such heights; the great majority, both of men and women, if they feel themselves unloved, sink into a timid despair relieved only by occasional gleams of envy and malice. As a rule, the lives of such people become extremely self-centred, and the absence of affection gives them a sense of insecurity from which they instinctively seek to escape by allowing habit to dominate their lives utterly and completely. For those who make themselves the slaves of unvarying routine are generally actuated by fear of a cold outer world, and by the feeling that they will not bump into it if they walk along the same paths that they have walked along on previous days.

One of the main causes of a lack of enthusiasm for life is the feeling that one is unloved. Conversely, feeling loved encourages enthusiasm more than anything else does. A man may feel unloved for various reasons. He may think he is such a dreadful person that no one could possibly love him. As a child, he may have had to get used to receiving less love than other children. Or he may actually be someone nobody loves. But in that last case, the cause is probably a lack of self-confidence resulting from early misfortune. A man who feels unloved may respond in various ways. He may make desperate efforts to win affection, probably through exceptional acts of kindness. But these efforts are very likely to fail, since the people receiving his kindness can easily see his motive. Human nature is such that people give affection most readily to those who seem to demand it least. So the man who tries to buy affection through kind acts becomes disillusioned by people's ingratitude. He never considers that the affection he is trying to buy is worth far more than the material benefits he offers. Yet a feeling that affection is worth more underlies his actions. Another man who sees that he is unloved may seek revenge on the world. He may stir up wars and revolutions, or write with biting bitterness, like Dean Swift. This is a heroic response to misfortune. It requires enough strength of character for a man to set himself against the rest of the world. Few men can reach such heights. The vast majority of both men and women, if they feel unloved, sink into a timid despair. Only occasional flashes of envy and malice relieve their despair. As a rule, these people's lives become extremely self-centered. The lack of affection makes them feel insecure. They instinctively try to escape this insecurity by letting habit take complete control of their lives. People who become slaves to an unchanging routine are generally driven by fear of a cold outside world. They feel they will not run into that world if they follow the same paths they have followed before.

Those who face life with a feeling of security are much happier than those who face it with a feeling of insecurity, at any rate so long as their sense of security does not lead them to disaster. And in a very great many cases, though not in all, a sense of security will itself help a man to escape dangers to which another would succumb. If you are walking over a chasm on a narrow plank, you are much more likely to fall if you feel fear than if you do not. And the same thing applies to the conduct of life. The fearless man may, of course, meet with sudden disaster, but it is likely that he will pass unscathed through many difficult situations in which a timid man would come to grief. This useful kind of self-confidence has, of course, innumerable forms. One man is confident on mountains, another on the sea, and yet another in the air. But general self-confidence towards life comes more than anything else from being accustomed to receive as much of the right sort of affection as one has need for. And it is this habit of mind considered as a source of zest that I wish to speak about in the present chapter.

People who face life feeling secure are much happier than those who feel insecure. At least, they are happier as long as their sense of security does not lead them into disaster. And in very many cases, though not all, feeling secure itself helps people avoid dangers that would overcome others. If you are crossing a deep gap on a narrow plank, fear makes you much more likely to fall. The same is true of how you live your life. A fearless person may, of course, face sudden disaster. But they are likely to get through many difficult situations unharmed where a timid person would come to grief. This useful kind of self-confidence takes countless forms, of course. One person feels confident on mountains, another at sea, and another in the air. But general confidence in facing life comes above all from regularly receiving enough of the right kind of affection. In this chapter, I want to discuss how this habit of confidence gives us enthusiasm for life.

It is affection received, not affection given, that causes this sense of security, though it arises most of all from affection which is reciprocal. Strictly speaking, it is not only affection but also admiration that has this effect. Persons whose trade is to secure public admiration, such as actors, preachers, speakers, and politicians, come to depend more and more upon applause. When they receive their due meed of public approbation their life is full of zest; when they do not, they become discontented and self-centred. The diffused good will of a multitude does for them what is done for others by the more concentrated affection of the few. The child whose parents are fond of him accepts their affection as a law of nature. He does not think very much about it, although it is of great importance to his happiness. He thinks about the world, about the adventures that come his way and the more marvellous adventures that will come his way when he is grown up. But behind all these external interests there is the feeling that he will be protected from disaster by parental affection. The child from whom for any reason parental affection is withdrawn is likely to become timid and unadventurous, filled with fears and self-pity, and no longer able to meet the world in a mood of gay exploration. Such a child may set to work at a surprisingly early age to meditate on life and death and human destiny. He becomes an introvert, melancholy at first, but seeking ultimately the unreal consolations of some system of philosophy or theology. The world is a higgledy-piggledy place, containing things pleasant and things unpleasant in haphazard sequence. And the desire to make an intelligible system or pattern out of it is at bottom an outcome of fear, in fact a kind of agoraphobia or dread of open spaces. Within the four walls of his library the timid student feels safe. If he can persuade himself that the universe is equally tidy, he can feel almost equally safe when he has to venture forth into the streets. Such a man, if he had received more affection, would have feared the real world less, and would not have had to invent an ideal world to take its place in his beliefs.

Receiving affection, not giving it, creates this sense of security, though mutual affection creates it most strongly. Strictly speaking, admiration has this effect too, not just affection. People whose work involves winning public admiration, such as actors, preachers, speakers, and politicians, grow increasingly dependent on applause. When they receive their proper share of public approval, their lives are full of enthusiasm. When they do not, they become dissatisfied and self-centered. The widespread goodwill of a crowd does for them what the deeper affection of a few does for others. A child whose parents love him accepts their affection as a law of nature. He does not think much about their affection, although it matters greatly to his happiness. He thinks about the world and the adventures he has. He also thinks about the even more wonderful adventures he will have when he grows up. But behind all these interests in the outside world lies a feeling that his parents’ affection will protect him from disaster. A child whose parents withdraw their affection for any reason is likely to become timid and unwilling to explore. He is likely to be filled with fears and self-pity, no longer able to explore the world with cheerful curiosity. Such a child may begin thinking deeply about life, death, and human destiny at a surprisingly early age. He turns inward, feeling sad at first, but eventually seeking the false comforts of some philosophical or religious system. The world is a jumbled place, where pleasant and unpleasant things follow one another in no particular order. The desire to find an understandable system or pattern in the world is rooted in fear. In fact, this desire is a kind of agoraphobia, or fear of open spaces. The timid scholar feels safe within the four walls of his library. If he can convince himself that the universe is equally orderly, he can feel almost as safe outside. Even when he has to venture into the streets, that sense of order can reassure him. If such a man had received more affection, he would have feared the real world less. He would not have needed to invent an ideal world to replace the real one in his beliefs.

By no means all affection, however, has this effect in encouraging adventurousness. The affection given must be itself robust rather than timid, desiring excellence even more than safety on the part of its object, though of course by no means indifferent to safety. The timid mother or nurse, who is perpetually warning children against disasters that may occur, who thinks that every dog will bite and that every cow is a bull, may produce in them a timidity equal to her own, and may cause them to feel that they are never safe except in her immediate neighbourhood. To the unduly possessive mother this feeling on the part of a child may be agreeable: she may desire his dependence upon herself more than his capacity to cope with the world. In that case her child is probably worse off in the long run than he would be if he were not loved at all. The habits of mind formed in early years are likely to persist through life. Many people when they fall in love look for a little haven of refuge from the world, where they can be sure of being admired when they are not admirable, and praised when they are not praiseworthy. To many men home is a refuge from the truth: it is their fears and their timidities that make them enjoy a companionship in which these feelings are put to rest. They seek from their wives what they obtained formerly from an unwise mother, and yet they are surprised if their wives regard them as grown-up children.

But not all affection encourages a sense of adventure. The affection itself must be strong rather than fearful. It must value excellence in the person loved even more than safety, though of course safety must still matter. A fearful mother or nanny constantly warns children about things that might go wrong. She thinks every dog will bite and every cow is a bull. She may make the children as fearful as she is. She may also make them feel safe only when she is close by. An overly possessive mother may welcome her child’s feeling of dependence. She may want him to depend on her more than she wants him to handle the world for himself. In that case, her child is probably worse off in the long run than if he were not loved at all. Habits of thought formed in childhood are likely to last throughout life. Many people, when they fall in love, look for a little shelter from the world. There, they can be sure of being admired when they are not admirable, and praised when they deserve no praise. For many men, home is a refuge from the truth. Their fears and anxieties make them enjoy companionship that puts those feelings to rest. They seek from their wives what they once received from an unwise mother. Yet they are surprised if their wives see them as grown-up children.

To define the best kind of affection is not altogether easy, since clearly there will be some protective element in it. We do not feel indifferent to the hurts of people whom we love. I think, however, that apprehension of misfortune, as opposed to sympathy with a misfortune that has actually occurred, should play as small a part as possible in affection. Fear for others is only a shade better than fear for ourselves. Moreover, it is very often a camouflage for possessiveness. It is hoped that by rousing their fears a more complete empire over them can be obtained. This, of course, is one of the reasons why men have liked timid women, since by protecting them they came to own them. The amount of solicitude of which a person can be the object without damage to himself depends upon his character: a person who is hardy and adventurous can endure a great deal without damage, whereas a timid person should be encouraged to expect little in this way.

Defining the best kind of affection is not entirely easy, since affection clearly includes some desire to protect. We are not indifferent to the suffering of people we love. But I think fear of future misfortune should play as small a part as possible in affection. Such fear is different from sympathy for a misfortune that has actually happened. Fear for others is only slightly better than fear for ourselves. Moreover, fear for others very often disguises possessiveness. People hope that by stirring up fear in those they love, they can gain more complete control over them. This desire for control is, of course, one reason why men have liked timid women. By protecting these women, men came to own them. How much protective concern a person can receive without being harmed depends on their character. A tough, adventurous person can receive a great deal without harm. A timid person, however, should be encouraged to expect little of this concern.

Affection received has a two-fold function. We have spoken of it hitherto in connection with security, but in adult life it has an even more essential biological purpose, namely parenthood. To be unable to inspire sex love is a grave misfortune to any man or woman, since it deprives him or her of the greatest joys that life has to offer. This deprivation is almost sure sooner or later to destroy zest and produce introversion. Very frequently, however, previous misfortunes in childhood have produced defects of character which are the cause of failure to obtain love in later years. This is perhaps more true where men are concerned than it is as regards women, for on the whole women tend to love men for their character while men tend to love women for their appearance. In this respect, it must be said, men show themselves the inferiors of women, for the qualities that men find pleasing in women are on the whole less desirable than those that women find pleasing in men. I am not at all sure, however, that it is easier to acquire a good character than a good appearance; at any rate, the steps necessary for the latter are better understood and more readily pursued by women than are the steps necessary for the former by men.

Receiving affection serves two purposes. So far, we have discussed affection in relation to security. But in adult life, affection has an even more essential biological purpose: parenthood. Being unable to inspire sexual love is a serious misfortune for any man or woman. It deprives them of the greatest joys life has to offer. Sooner or later, this loss is almost certain to destroy their enthusiasm for life and turn their attention inward. Very often, however, earlier misfortunes in childhood have caused character flaws that prevent people from finding love later in life. This is perhaps more often true of men than of women. On the whole, women tend to love men for their character, while men tend to love women for their appearance. In this respect, it must be said, men show themselves to be inferior to women. The qualities men find attractive in women are, on the whole, less desirable than those women find attractive in men. However, I am not at all sure that developing a good character is easier than improving one's appearance. At any rate, women understand better how to improve their appearance than men understand how to improve their character. Women are also more willing to take the necessary steps.

We have been speaking hitherto of the affection of which a person is the object. I wish now to speak of the affection that a person gives. This also is of two different kinds, one of which is perhaps the most important expression of a zest for life, while the other is an expression of fear. The former seems to me wholly admirable, while the latter is at best a consolation. If you are sailing in a ship on a fine day along a beautiful coast, you admire the coast and feel pleasure in it. This pleasure is one derived entirely from looking outward, and has nothing to do with any desperate need of your own. If, on the other hand, your ship is wrecked and you swim towards the coast, you acquire for it a new kind of love: it represents security against the waves, and its beauty or ugliness becomes an unimportant matter. The better sort of affection corresponds to the feeling of the man whose ship is secure, the less excellent sort corresponds to that of the shipwrecked swimmer. The first of these kinds of affection is only possible in so far as a man feels safe, or at any rate is indifferent to such dangers as beset him; the latter kind, on the contrary, is caused by the feeling of insecurity. The feeling caused by insecurity is much more subjective and self-centred than the other, since the loved person is valued for services rendered, not for intrinsic qualities. I do not, however, wish to suggest that this kind of affection has no legitimate part to play in life. In fact, almost all real affection contains something of both kinds in combination, and in so far as affection does really cure the sense of insecurity, it sets a man free to feel again that interest in the world which in moments of danger and fear is obscured. But while recognizing the part that such affection has to play in life, we must still hold that it is less excellent than the other kind, since it depends upon fear, and fear is an evil, and also because it is more self-centred. In the best kind of affection a man hopes for a new happiness rather than for escape from an old unhappiness.

So far, we have been discussing the affection a person receives. Now I want to discuss the affection a person gives. This affection also comes in two kinds. One is perhaps the most important expression of a zest for life. The other expresses fear. The first seems to me entirely admirable, while the second is at best a comfort. If you sail along a beautiful coast on a fine day, you admire the coast and take pleasure in it. This pleasure comes entirely from looking outward and has nothing to do with any desperate need of your own. But if your ship is wrecked and you swim toward the coast, you feel a new kind of love for it. The coast offers safety from the waves, and whether it is beautiful or ugly becomes unimportant. The better kind of affection resembles the feeling of someone whose ship is safe. The less admirable kind resembles the feeling of the shipwrecked swimmer. The first kind is possible only when a person feels safe, or at least is unconcerned about whatever dangers they face. The second kind, by contrast, comes from feeling insecure. Affection born of insecurity is much more subjective and self-centered than the other kind. The loved person is valued for the help they provide, not for their own qualities. Still, I do not mean that affection born of insecurity has no rightful place in life. In fact, almost all real affection contains a mixture of both kinds. To the extent that affection truly overcomes insecurity, it frees a person to take an interest in the world again. Danger and fear cloud that interest. But while recognizing the role such affection plays in life, we must still consider it less admirable than the other kind. This is because it depends on fear, and fear is an evil, and because it is more self-centered. In the best kind of affection, a person hopes for new happiness rather than escape from an old unhappiness.

The best type of affection is reciprocally life-giving; each receives affection with joy and gives it without effort, and each finds the whole world more interesting in consequence of the existence of this reciprocal happiness. There is, however, another kind, by no means uncommon, in which one person sucks the vitality of the other, one receives what the other gives, but gives almost nothing in return. Some very vital people belong to this bloodsucking type. They extract the vitality from one victim after another, but while they prosper and grow interesting, those upon whom they live grow pale and dim and dull. Such people use others as means to their own ends, and never consider them as ends in themselves. Fundamentally they are not interested in those whom for the moment they think they love; they are interested only in the stimulus to their own activities, perhaps of a quite impersonal sort. Evidently this springs from some defect in their nature, but it is one not altogether easy either to diagnose or to cure. It is a characteristic frequently associated with great ambition, and is rooted, I should say, in an unduly one-sided view of what makes human happiness. Affection in the sense of a genuine reciprocal interest of two persons in each other, not solely as means to each other’s good, but rather as a combination having a common good, is one of the most important elements of real happiness, and the man whose ego is so enclosed within steel walls that this enlargement of it is impossible misses the best that life has to offer, however successful he may be in his career. Ambition which excludes affection from its purview is generally the result of some kind of anger or hatred against the human race, produced by unhappiness in youth, by injustices in later life, or by any of the causes which lead to persecution mania. A too powerful ego is a prison from which a man must escape if he is to enjoy the world to the full. A capacity for genuine affection is one of the marks of the man who has escaped from this prison of self. To receive affection is by no means enough; affection which is received should liberate the affection which is to be given, and only where both exist in equal measure does affection achieve its best possibilities.

The best kind of affection gives life to both people. Each receives affection with joy and gives it effortlessly. Because of their shared happiness, each finds the whole world more interesting. But another kind of affection is by no means uncommon. One person drains the other’s vitality, receiving what the other gives but giving almost nothing in return. Some very energetic people belong to this bloodsucking type. They drain the vitality from one victim after another. But while they thrive and become more interesting, the people they feed on become pale, lifeless, and dull. Such people use others to achieve their own goals and never value them for their own sake. Deep down, they have no interest in the people they think they love at the time. They care only about the stimulus those people give to their own activities, which may be quite impersonal. Clearly, this behavior comes from some flaw in their nature, but the flaw is not easy to identify or cure. This trait often goes with great ambition. I would say it comes from a far too one-sided view of what makes people happy. Genuine affection means two people taking an interest in each other. They do not simply see each other as a way to improve their own lives. Instead, they see themselves as a partnership whose happiness they share. Such affection is one of the most important parts of real happiness. But some people’s egos are so tightly enclosed within steel walls that they cannot expand to include another person. They miss the best life has to offer, however successful their careers may be. Ambition that leaves no room for affection generally comes from some kind of anger or hatred toward humanity. That anger or hatred comes from unhappiness in youth, injustices later in life, or anything that causes delusions of persecution. An overpowering ego is a prison people must escape if they are to enjoy the world fully. The ability to feel genuine affection is one sign that someone has escaped this prison of the self. Receiving affection is by no means enough. The affection we receive should free us to give affection in return. Only when giving and receiving exist in equal measure does affection reach its fullest potential.

Obstacles, psychological and social, to the blossoming of reciprocal affection are a grave evil, from which the world has always suffered and still suffers. People are slow to give admiration for fear it should be misplaced; they are slow to bestow affection for fear that they should be made to suffer either by the person upon whom they bestow it or by a censorious world. Caution is enjoined both in the name of morality and in the name of worldly wisdom, with the result that generosity and adventurousness are discouraged where the affections are concerned. All this tends to produce timidity and anger against mankind, since many people miss throughout life what is really a fundamental need, and to nine out of ten an indispensable condition of a happy and expansive attitude towards the world. It is not to be supposed that those who are what is called immoral are in this respect superior to those who are not. In sex relations there is very often almost nothing that can be called real affection; not infrequently there is even a fundamental hostility. Each is trying not to give himself or herself away, each is preserving fundamental loneliness, each remains intact and therefore unfructified. In such experiences there is no fundamental value. I do not say that they should be carefully avoided, since the steps necessary to this end would be likely to interfere also with the occasions where a more valuable and profound affection could grow up. But I do say that the only sex relations that have real value are those in which there is no reticence and in which the whole personality of both becomes merged in a new collective personality. Of all forms of caution, caution in love is perhaps the most fatal to true happiness.

Psychological and social barriers to mutual affection are a serious evil. The world has always suffered from these barriers and still does. People hesitate to express admiration because they fear it may be misplaced. They hesitate to give affection because they fear being hurt, either by the recipient or by a judgmental world. Both morality and practical wisdom urge caution. As a result, generosity and a willingness to take risks are discouraged in matters of affection. All this tends to make people timid and angry at humanity, because many go through life without a fundamental need being met. For nine out of ten people, meeting this need is essential to a happy, open attitude toward the world. We should not assume that people called immoral are any better in this respect than those who are not. Sexual relationships very often contain almost nothing that could be called real affection. Quite often, there is even a deep hostility. Each person tries not to reveal too much of themselves. Each preserves a deep loneliness. Each remains unchanged and therefore fails to grow. Such experiences have no deep value. I am not saying that people should take care to avoid them. The precautions needed would probably also prevent opportunities for deeper, more valuable affection to develop. But I do say that only sexual relationships without reserve have real value. In these relationships, both people's whole personalities merge into a new shared personality. Of all forms of caution, caution in love is perhaps the most destructive of true happiness.