Interests Beyond Yourself

In this chapter I wish to consider not those major interests about which a man’s life is built, but those minor interests which fill his leisure and afford relaxation from the tenseness of his more serious pre-occupations. In the life of the average man his wife and children, his work and his financial position occupy the main part of his anxious and serious thought. Even if he has extra-matrimonial love affairs, they probably do not concern him as profoundly in themselves as in their possible effects upon his home life. The interests which are bound up with his work I am not for the present regarding as impersonal interests. A man of science, for example, must keep abreast of research in his own line. Towards such research his feelings have the warmth and vividness belonging to something intimately concerned with his career, but if he reads about research in some quite other science with which he is not professionally concerned he reads in quite a different spirit, not professionally, less critically, more disinterestedly. Even if he has to use his mind in order to follow what is said, his reading is nevertheless a relaxation, because it is not connected with his responsibilities. If the book interests him, his interest is impersonal in a sense which cannot be applied to the books upon his own subject. It is such interests lying outside the main activities of a man’s life that I wish to speak about in the present chapter.

In this chapter I want to consider not the major interests around which a man builds his life, but smaller interests. These fill his free time and offer relief from the strain of his more serious concerns. The average man devotes most of his anxious and serious thought to his wife and children, work, and financial situation. Even if he has affairs outside his marriage, the affairs probably matter less to him in themselves than for their possible effects on his home life. For now, I am not treating interests connected with a man’s work as impersonal interests. A scientist, for example, must keep up with research in his own field. His feelings about such research have the warmth and intensity of something closely tied to his career. But if he reads about research in a completely different science, outside his professional work, he reads differently. He reads not as a professional, but less critically and with less personal involvement. Even if he must make a mental effort to follow the discussion, his reading is still relaxing. That is because the reading is not connected with his responsibilities. If the book interests him, his interest is impersonal in a way his interest in books on his own subject cannot be. In this chapter, I want to discuss interests like these, outside the main activities of a man’s life.

One of the sources of unhappiness, fatigue, and nervous strain is inability to be interested in anything that is not of practical importance in one’s own life. The result of this is that the conscious mind gets no rest from a certain small number of matters, each of which probably involves some anxiety and some element of worry. Except in sleep the conscious mind is never allowed to lie fallow while subconscious thought matures its gradual wisdom. The result is excitability, lack of sagacity, irritability, and a loss of sense of proportion. All these are both causes and effects of fatigue. As a man gets more tired, his external interests fade, and as they fade he loses the relief which they afford him and becomes still more tired. This vicious circle is only too apt to end in a breakdown. What is restful about external interests is the fact that they do not call for any action. Making decisions and exercising volition are very fatiguing, especially if they have to be done hurriedly and without the help of the subconscious. Men who feel that they must “sleep on it” before coming to an important decision are profoundly right. But it is not only in sleep that the subconscious mental processes can work. They can work also while a man’s conscious mind is occupied elsewhere. The man who can forget his work when it is over and not remember it until it begins again next day is likely to do his work far better than the man who worries about it throughout the intervening hours. And it is very much easier to forget work at the times when it ought to be forgotten if a man has many interests other than his work than it is if he has not. It is, however, essential that these interests should not exercise those very faculties which have been exhausted by his day’s work. They should not involve will and quick decision, they should not, like gambling, involve any financial element, and they should as a rule not be so exciting as to produce emotional fatigue and preoccupy the subconscious as well as the conscious mind.

One source of unhappiness, fatigue, and nervous strain is being unable to take interest in anything without practical importance to your own life. As a result, your conscious mind gets no break from a few concerns. Each concern probably brings some anxiety and worry. Except during sleep, your conscious mind never gets to rest while subconscious thought slowly develops wisdom. The result is nervous excitement, poor judgment, irritability, and a loss of perspective. All these are both causes and effects of fatigue. As people become more tired, their outside interests fade. As those interests fade, people lose the relief those interests provide and become even more tired. This vicious circle is all too likely to end in a breakdown. Outside interests are restful because they require no action. Making decisions and exercising your will are very tiring. This is especially true when you must act quickly and without help from your subconscious. People who feel they must “sleep on it” before making an important decision are absolutely right. But subconscious mental processes do not work only during sleep. They can also work while your conscious mind is occupied with something else. Someone who forgets work afterward, until work begins again the next day, is likely to work far better. The comparison is with someone who worries about work throughout the hours between. Having many interests outside work makes forgetting work much easier when work ought to be forgotten. But those interests must not use the same mental abilities that the day’s work has exhausted. Outside interests should not require effort of will or quick decisions. They should not involve money, as gambling does. And, as a rule, outside interests should not be so exciting that they cause emotional fatigue. Nor should that excitement occupy the subconscious mind as well as the conscious mind.

A great many amusements fulfil all these conditions. Watching games, going to the theatre, playing golf, are all irreproachable from this point of view. For a man of a bookish turn of mind reading unconnected with his professional activities is very satisfactory. However important a worry may be, it should not be thought about throughout the whole of the waking hours.

Many leisure activities meet all these conditions. Watching games, going to the theatre, and playing golf are all perfectly acceptable from this point of view. For a man who enjoys books, reading unrelated to his work is very satisfying. However important a worry may be, he should not think about that worry throughout all his waking hours.

In this respect there is a great difference between men and women. Men on the whole find it very much easier to forget their work than women do. In the case of women whose work is in the home this is natural, since they do not have the change of place that a man has when he leaves the office to help them to acquire a new mood. But if I am not mistaken, women whose work is outside the home differ from men in this respect almost as much as those who work at home. They find it, that is to say, very difficult to be interested in anything that has for them no practical importance. Their purposes govern their thoughts and their activities, and they seldom become absorbed in some wholly irresponsible interest. I do not of course deny that exceptions exist, but I am speaking of what seems to me to be the usual rule. In a woman’s college, for example, the women teachers, if no man is present, talk shop in the evening, while in a man’s college the men do not. This characteristic appears to women as a higher degree of conscientiousness than that of men, but I do not think that in the long run it improves the quality of their work. And it tends to produce a certain narrowness of outlook leading not infrequently to a kind of fanaticism.

In this respect, there is a great difference between men and women. Men generally find it much easier than women to forget their work. For women who work at home, this difficulty is natural. They lack the change of setting that helps a man shift his mood when he leaves the office. But unless I am mistaken, women who work outside the home differ from men almost as much in this respect. In other words, women find it very difficult to take an interest in anything with no practical importance for them. Their goals govern their thoughts and activities. They rarely become absorbed in an interest that has nothing to do with their responsibilities. Of course, I do not deny that there are exceptions. But I am describing what seems to me to be the general rule. For example, at a women’s college, the women teachers talk about work in the evening if no man is present. At a men’s college, the men do not. Women see this habit as a sign that they are more conscientious than men. But I do not think it improves the quality of their work in the long run. And it tends to narrow their outlook, often leading to a kind of fanaticism.

All impersonal interests, apart from their importance as relaxation, have various other uses. To begin with, they help a man to retain his sense of proportion. It is very easy to become so absorbed in our own pursuits, our own circle, our own type of work, that we forget how small a part this is of the total of human activity and how many things in the world are entirely unaffected by what we do. Why should one remember this? you may ask. There are several answers. In the first place, it is good to have as true a picture of the world as is compatible with necessary activities. Each of us is in the world for no very long time, and within the few years of his life has to acquire whatever he is to know of this strange planet and its place in the universe. To ignore our opportunities for knowledge, imperfect as they are, is like going to the theatre and not listening to the play. The world is full of things that are tragic or comic, heroic or bizarre or surprising, and those who fail to be interested in the spectacle that it offers are forgoing one of the privileges that life has to offer.

All interests beyond our personal concerns have several uses besides helping us relax. To begin with, they help us keep a sense of proportion. We can easily become absorbed in our own activities, our own circle, and our own kind of work. We then forget how little these pursuits account for in the whole range of human activity. We also forget how many things in the world are entirely unaffected by what we do. Why should we remember how small a part we play, you may ask? There are several answers. First, it is good to have as accurate a picture of the world as our necessary activities allow. Each of us is in the world for only a short time. Within those few years, we must learn whatever we are going to know about this strange planet. We must also learn whatever we are going to know about its place in the universe. Our opportunities to learn are imperfect. But ignoring those opportunities is like going to the theater and not listening to the play. The world is full of tragic, comic, heroic, bizarre, and surprising things. Those who take no interest in the spectacle the world offers give up one of life's privileges.

Then again a sense of proportion is very valuable and at times very consoling. We are all inclined to get unduly excited, unduly strained, unduly impressed with the importance of the little corner of the world in which we live, and of the little moment of time comprised between our birth and death. In this excitement and over-estimation of our own importance there is nothing desirable. True, it may make us work harder, but it will not make us work better. A little work directed to a good end is better than a great deal of work directed to a bad end, though the apostles of the strenuous life seem to think otherwise. Those who care much for their work are always in danger of falling into fanaticism, which consists essentially in remembering one or two desirable things while forgetting all the rest, and in supposing that in the pursuit of these one or two any incidental harm of other sorts is of little account. Against this fanatical temper there is no better prophylactic than a large conception of the life of man and his place in the universe. This may seem a very big thing to invoke in such a connection, but apart from this particular use it is in itself a thing of great value.

A sense of proportion is also very valuable and can sometimes offer great comfort. We are all inclined to get too excited and too stressed. We give too much importance to our little corner of the world and the brief time between birth and death. There is nothing desirable about this excitement or this exaggerated sense of our own importance. True, these feelings may make us work harder, but they will not make us work better. A little work toward a good goal is better than a great deal of work toward a bad goal. Yet the champions of the strenuous life seem to think otherwise. Those who care deeply about their work are always in danger of becoming fanatical. Fanaticism means focusing on one or two desirable things while forgetting everything else. It also means assuming that any other harm caused while pursuing those goals matters little. The best protection against this fanaticism is a broad understanding of human life and our place in the universe. Such an understanding may seem a very grand thing to call on for this purpose. But beyond this particular use, it has great value in itself.

It is one of the defects of modern higher education that it has become too much a training in the acquisition of certain kinds of skill, and too little an enlargement of the mind and heart by an impartial survey of the world. You become absorbed, let us say, in a political contest, and work hard for the victory of your own party. So far, so good. But it may happen in the course of the contest that some opportunity of victory presents itself which involves the use of methods calculated to increase hatred, violence and suspicion in the world. For example, you may find that the best road to victory is to insult some foreign nation. If your mental purview is limited to the present, or if you have imbibed the doctrine that what is called efficiency is the only thing that matters, you will adopt such dubious means. Through them you will be victorious in your immediate purpose, while the more distant consequences may be disastrous. If, on the other hand, you have as part of the habitual furniture of your mind the past ages of man, his slow and partial emergence out of barbarism, and the brevity of his total existence in comparison with astronomical epochs—if, I say, such thoughts have moulded your habitual feelings, you will realize that the momentary battle upon which you are engaged cannot be of such importance as to risk a backward step towards the darkness out of which we have been slowly emerging. Nay, more, if you suffer defeat in your immediate objective, you will be sustained by the same sense of its momentariness that made you unwilling to adopt degrading weapons. You will have, beyond your immediate activities, purposes that are distant and slowly unfolding, in which you are not an isolated individual but one of the great army of those who have led mankind towards a civilized existence. If you have attained to this outlook, a certain deep happiness will never leave you, whatever your personal fate may be. Life will become a communion with the great of all ages, and personal death no more than a negligible incident.

One weakness of modern higher education is that it focuses too much on teaching particular skills. It does too little to broaden the mind and heart through an impartial view of the world. Suppose you become absorbed in a political contest and work hard to help your party win. So far, so good. But during the contest, an opportunity to win may arise through methods likely to increase hatred, violence, and suspicion worldwide. For example, you may find that the best way to win is to insult a foreign nation. If your outlook is limited to the present, you will adopt such questionable methods. You will also adopt them if you have absorbed the belief that so-called efficiency is all that matters. These methods will achieve your immediate goal, while their longer-term consequences may be disastrous. But suppose you regularly think about humanity’s past and its slow, incomplete emergence from barbarism. Suppose you also consider how brief humanity’s entire existence has been compared with astronomical spans of time. If such thoughts have shaped your everyday feelings, you will see your current struggle differently. You will recognize that this brief struggle cannot matter enough to justify risking a step back into darkness. We have been emerging from that darkness only slowly. Moreover, if you fail to achieve your immediate goal, the same sense of the struggle’s temporary nature will sustain you. That sense also made you unwilling to use degrading methods. Beyond your immediate activities, you will have long-term purposes that unfold slowly. In pursuing those purposes, you are not an isolated individual. You belong to the great army of people who have led humanity toward a civilized existence. If you have reached this outlook, a certain deep happiness will never leave you, whatever your personal fate. Life will become a shared bond with the great people of every age. Your own death will be no more than an insignificant event.

If I had the power to organize higher education as I should wish it to be, I should seek to substitute for the old orthodox religions—which appeal to few among the young, and those as a rule the least intelligent and the most obscurantist—something which is perhaps hardly to be called religion, since it is merely a focusing of attention upon well-ascertained facts. I should seek to make young people vividly aware of the past, vividly realizing that the future of man will in all likelihood be immeasurably longer than his past, profoundly conscious of the minuteness of the planet upon which we live and of the fact that life on this planet is only a temporary incident; and at the same time with these facts which tend to emphasize the insignificance of the individual I should present quite another set of facts designed to impress upon the mind of the young the greatness of which the individual is capable, and the knowledge that throughout all the depths of stellar space nothing of equal value is known to us. Spinoza long ago wrote of human bondage and human freedom; his form and his language make his thought difficult of access to all but students of philosophy, but the essence of what I wish to convey differs little from what he has said.

If I could organize higher education as I wished, I would try to replace the old orthodox religions with something else. Those religions appeal to few young people, usually the least intelligent and those most opposed to knowledge and understanding. The replacement could perhaps hardly be called religion, since it would simply focus attention on well-established facts. I would try to make young people vividly aware of the past. I would help them clearly grasp that humanity’s future will, in all likelihood, be immeasurably longer than its past. I would make them deeply aware of how tiny our planet is and how temporary life on it is. These facts tend to emphasize the individual’s insignificance. But alongside them, I would present quite another set of facts to show young people the greatness individuals can achieve. I would also teach them that nowhere in the vast depths of space do we know of anything equally valuable. Spinoza wrote long ago about human bondage and human freedom. His style and language make his ideas difficult to understand for anyone but students of philosophy. But the heart of what I want to convey differs little from what he said.

A man who has once perceived, however temporarily and however briefly, what makes greatness of soul, can no longer be happy if he allows himself to be petty, self-seeking, troubled by trivial misfortunes, dreading what fate may have in store for him. The man capable of greatness of soul will open wide the windows of his mind, letting the winds blow freely upon it from every portion of the universe. He will see himself and life and the world as truly as our human limitations will permit; realizing the brevity and minuteness of human life, he will realize also that in individual minds is concentrated whatever of value the known universe contains. And he will see that the man whose mind mirrors the world becomes in a sense as great as the world. In emancipation from the fears that beset the slave of circumstance he will experience a profound joy, and through all the vicissitudes of his outward life he will remain in the depths of his being a happy man.

Once a man has understood what makes greatness of soul, even briefly, he can no longer be happy living pettily. He cannot be happy if he lets himself become selfish, upset by minor setbacks, or afraid of what fate may bring. A man capable of greatness of soul will open his mind’s windows wide. He will let winds from every part of the universe blow freely through his mind. He will see himself, life, and the world as clearly as human limits allow. He will recognize how brief and small human life is. Yet he will also recognize that all the value the known universe contains is concentrated in individual minds. And he will see that a man whose mind reflects the world becomes, in a sense, as great as the world. Freedom from the fears that trouble anyone ruled by circumstances will bring him deep joy. And through all the ups and downs of his outer life, he will remain happy deep within himself.

Leaving these large speculations and returning to our more immediate subject, namely the value of impersonal interests, there is another consideration which makes them a great help towards happiness. Even in the most fortunate lives there are times when things go wrong. Few men except bachelors have never quarrelled with their wives; few parents have not endured grave anxiety owing to the illnesses of their children; few business men have avoided times of financial stress; few professional men have not known periods when failure stared them in the face. At such times a capacity to become interested in something outside the cause of anxiety is an immense boon. At such times, when in spite of anxiety there is nothing to be done at the moment, one man will play chess, another will read detective stories, a third will become absorbed in popular astronomy, a fourth will console himself by reading about the excavations at Ur of the Chaldees. Any one of these four is acting wisely, whereas the man who does nothing to distract his mind and allows his trouble to acquire a complete empire over him is acting unwisely and making himself less fit to cope with his troubles when the moment for action arrives. Very similar considerations apply to irreparable sorrows such as the death of some person deeply loved. No good is done to anyone by allowing oneself to become sunk in grief on such an occasion. Grief is unavoidable and must be expected, but everything that can be done should be done to minimize it. It is mere sentimentality to aim, as some do, at extracting the very uttermost drop of misery from misfortune. I do not of course deny that a man may be broken by sorrow, but I do say that every man should do his utmost to escape this fate, and should seek any distraction, however trivial, provided it is not in itself harmful or degrading. Among those that I regard as harmful and degrading I include such things as drunkenness and drugs, of which the purpose is to destroy thought, at least for the time being. The proper course is not to destroy thought but to turn it into new channels, or at any rate into channels remote from the present misfortune. It is difficult to do this if life has hitherto been concentrated upon a very few interests and those few have now become suffused with sorrow. To bear misfortune well when it comes, it is wise to have cultivated in happier times a certain width of interests, so that the mind may find prepared for it some undisturbed place suggesting other associations and other emotions than those which are making the present difficult to bear.

Leaving these broad speculations aside, let us return to our immediate subject: the value of interests outside ourselves. There is another reason why such interests can greatly contribute to happiness. Even in the luckiest lives, there are times when things go wrong. Few men, apart from bachelors, have never argued with their wives. Few parents have escaped serious anxiety over their children’s illnesses. Few businessmen have avoided periods of financial strain. Few professional men have not faced the threat of failure. At such times, the ability to take an interest in something unrelated to the anxiety is an enormous help. Sometimes, despite our anxiety, there is nothing we can do at the moment. At such times, one man will play chess, another will read detective stories, and a third will explore popular astronomy. A fourth will find comfort in reading about the excavations at Ur of the Chaldees. All four are acting wisely. By contrast, a man acts unwisely if he does nothing to distract himself and lets his trouble completely control him. He also makes himself less able to handle his troubles when the time for action comes. Much the same reasoning applies to sorrows that cannot be undone, such as the death of someone deeply loved. Letting oneself sink into grief on such an occasion does no one any good. Grief is unavoidable and must be expected, but we should do everything we can to lessen it. Some people try to draw every last drop of misery from misfortune. Such an aim is mere sentimentality. Of course, I do not deny that sorrow may break a man. But I do say that every man should do his utmost to avoid that fate. He should seek any distraction, however trivial, as long as the distraction is not itself harmful or degrading. Among the distractions I consider harmful and degrading are drunkenness and drugs used to stop thought, at least temporarily. The right approach is not to stop thinking but to direct thought toward new subjects. At the very least, those subjects should be far removed from the present misfortune. Turning our thoughts elsewhere is difficult if life has so far centered on only a few interests. The difficulty is greater when those few interests have now become filled with sorrow. To bear misfortune well when it comes, it is wise to develop a range of interests during happier times. Then the mind can find some undisturbed place already waiting for it. Such a place can bring associations and emotions different from those making the present hard to bear.

A man of adequate vitality and zest will surmount all misfortunes by the emergence after each blow of an interest in life and the world which cannot be narrowed down so much as to make one loss fatal. To be defeated by one loss or even by several is not something to be admired as a proof of sensibility, but something to be deplored as a failure in vitality. All our affections are at the mercy of death, which may strike down those whom we love at any moment. It is therefore necessary that our lives should not have that narrow intensity which puts the whole meaning and purpose of our life at the mercy of accident.

A man with enough energy and enthusiasm for life will overcome all misfortunes. After each blow, his interest in life and the world will revive. That interest cannot become so narrow that any single loss destroys him. Being defeated by one loss, or even several, is not admirable evidence of deep feeling. Instead, such defeat is a regrettable failure of the will to live. All our loves are at the mercy of death, which may take those we love at any moment. So our lives must not be so narrowly focused and intense that chance controls their entire meaning and purpose.

For all these reasons the man who pursues happiness wisely will aim at the possession of a number of subsidiary interests in addition to those central ones upon which his life is built.

For all these reasons, anyone who wisely pursues happiness will aim to develop several secondary interests. These interests will be in addition to the main ones their life is built around.