Effort and Acceptance

The golden mean is an uninteresting doctrine, and I can remember when I was young rejecting it with scorn and indignation, since in those days it was heroic extremes that I admired. Truth, however, is not always interesting, and many things are believed because they are interesting although, in fact, there is little other evidence in their favour. The golden mean is a case in point: it may be an uninteresting doctrine, but in a very great many matters it is a true one.

The golden mean is an uninteresting principle. I remember rejecting it with scorn and anger when I was young, because I admired heroic extremes in those days. Truth, however, is not always interesting. People believe many things because they are interesting, although there is actually little other evidence to support those beliefs. The golden mean is a case in point. It may be an uninteresting principle, but in a great many matters, it is true.

One respect in which it is necessary to preserve the golden mean is as regards the balance between effort and resignation. Both doctrines have had extreme advocates. The doctrine of resignation has been preached by saints and mystics; the doctrine of effort has been preached by efficiency experts and muscular Christians. Each of these opposing schools has had a part of the truth, but not the whole. I want in this chapter to try and strike the balance, and I shall begin with the case in favour of effort.

We need to find a middle ground between effort and resignation. Both approaches have had extreme supporters. Saints and mystics have preached resignation, while efficiency experts and muscular Christians have preached effort. Each of these opposing schools of thought has held part of the truth, but not the whole truth. In this chapter, I want to try to find the right balance. I will begin with the case for effort.

Happiness is not, except in very rare cases, something that drops into the mouth, like a ripe fruit, by the mere operation of fortunate circumstances. That is why I have called this book The Conquest of Happiness. For in a world so full of avoidable and unavoidable misfortunes, of illness and psychological tangles, of struggle and poverty and ill will, the man or woman who is to be happy must find ways of coping with the multitudinous causes of unhappiness by which each individual is assailed. In some rare cases no great effort may be required. A man of easy good nature, who inherits an ample fortune and enjoys good health together with simple tastes, may slip through life comfortably and wonder what all the fuss is about; a good-looking woman of an indolent disposition, if she happens to marry a well-to-do husband who demands no exertion from her, and if after marriage she does not mind growing fat, may equally enjoy a certain lazy comfort, provided she has good luck as regards her children. But such cases are exceptional. Most people are not rich; many people are not born good-natured; many people have uneasy passions which make a quiet and well-regulated life seem intolerably boring; health is a blessing which no one can be sure of preserving; marriage is not invariably a source of bliss. For all these reasons, happiness must be, for most men and women, an achievement rather than a gift of the gods, and in this achievement effort, both inward and outward, must play a great part. The inward effort may include the effort of necessary resignation; for the present, therefore, let us consider only outward effort.

Except in very rare cases, happiness does not simply drop into your mouth like ripe fruit because circumstances are favorable. That is why I have called this book The Conquest of Happiness. The world is full of misfortunes, both avoidable and unavoidable, illness, psychological troubles, struggle, poverty, and ill will. So anyone who is to be happy must find ways to cope with the many causes of unhappiness that threaten everyone. In some rare cases, little effort may be needed. An easygoing, good-natured man who inherits a large fortune, enjoys good health, and has simple tastes may live comfortably. He may wonder what all the fuss is about. A good-looking, lazy woman may also enjoy a certain lazy comfort if she marries a wealthy husband who requires no effort from her. This also depends on her not minding getting fat after marriage and having good luck with her children. But such cases are exceptional. Most people are not rich. Many people are not born good-natured. Many have restless passions that make a quiet, orderly life seem unbearably boring. Good health is a blessing no one can be sure of keeping. Marriage does not always bring happiness. For all these reasons, most men and women must achieve happiness rather than receive it as a gift from the gods. Both inner effort and outward effort must play a large part in achieving happiness. Inner effort may include the effort needed to accept what cannot be changed. So, for now, let us consider only outward effort.

In the case of any person, whether man or woman, who has to work for a living, the need of effort in this respect is too obvious to need emphasizing. The Indian fakir, it is true, can make a living without effort by merely offering a bowl for the alms of the faithful, but in Western countries the authorities do not view with a favourable eye this method of obtaining an income. Moreover, the climate makes it less pleasant than in hotter and dryer countries: in the winter-time, at any rate, few people are so lazy as to prefer idleness out of doors to work in heated rooms. Resignation alone, therefore, is not in the West one of the roads to fortune.

For anyone, man or woman, who must work for a living, the need for effort is too obvious to emphasize. The Indian fakir, admittedly, can earn a living without effort simply by holding out a bowl for believers to give alms. But in Western countries, the authorities frown on this way of earning an income. The climate also makes begging less pleasant than in hotter, drier countries. In winter, at least, few people are so lazy that they prefer idleness outdoors to work in heated rooms. Simply accepting one's lot, therefore, is not a road to wealth in the West.

To a very large percentage of men in Western countries, more than a bare living is necessary to happiness, since they desire the feeling of being successful. In some occupations, such, for example, as scientific research, this feeling can be obtained by men who do not earn a large income, but in the majority of occupations income has become the measure of success. At this point we touch upon a matter in regard to which an element of resignation is desirable in most cases, since in a competitive world conspicuous success is possible only for a minority.

For a very large proportion of men in Western countries, happiness requires more than just earning enough to live. They want to feel successful. In some occupations, such as scientific research, men can feel successful without earning a large income. But in most occupations, income has become the measure of success. On this point, some acceptance of limits is usually desirable, because in a competitive world, only a minority can achieve outstanding success.

Marriage is a matter in regard to which effort may or may not be necessary, according to circumstances. Where one sex is in the minority, as men are in England and women are in Australia, members of that sex require, as a rule, little effort in order to marry as they wish. For members of the sex which is in the majority, however, the opposite is the case. The amount of effort and thought expended in this direction by women where they are in the majority is obvious to anyone who will study the advertisements in women’s magazines. Men, where they are in a majority, frequently adopt more expeditious methods, such as skill with the revolver. This is natural, since a majority of men occurs most frequently on the border-line of civilization. I do not know what men would do if a discriminating pestilence caused them to become a majority in England; they might have to revert to the manners of gallants in a bygone age.

Marriage may or may not require effort, depending on the circumstances. Where one sex is in the minority, its members generally need little effort to marry as they wish. This is true of men in England and women in Australia. But for members of the sex in the majority, the opposite is true. Where women are in the majority, anyone studying advertisements in women’s magazines can see the effort and thought women devote to marriage. Where men are in the majority, they often choose quicker methods, such as skill with a revolver. This is natural, since men most often form a majority on the fringes of civilization. I do not know what men would do if a plague selectively killed women, leaving men in the majority in England. Men might have to return to the ways of gallants from an earlier age.

The amount of effort involved in the successful rearing of children is so evident that probably no one would deny it. Countries which believe in resignation and what is mistakenly called a “spiritual” view of life are countries with a high infant mortality. Medicine, hygiene, asepsis, suitable diet, are things not achieved without mundane pre-occupations; they require energy and intelligence directed to the material environment. Those who think that matter is an illusion are apt to think the same of dirt, and by so thinking to cause their children to die.

The effort needed to raise children successfully is so obvious that probably no one would deny it. Countries that believe in accepting their fate and a mistakenly called “spiritual” outlook have high infant death rates. Medicine, hygiene, sterile conditions, and a suitable diet cannot be achieved without attention to practical, worldly matters. They require energy and intelligence focused on the material world. People who think matter is an illusion tend to think dirt is an illusion too. By thinking this way, they cause their children to die.

Speaking more generally, one may say that some kind of power forms the normal and legitimate aim of every person whose natural desires are not atrophied. The kind of power that a man desires depends upon his predominant passions; one man desires power over the actions of men, another desires power over their thoughts, a third power over their emotions. One man desires to change the material environment, another desires the sense of power that comes from intellectual mastery. Every kind of public work involves desire for some kind of power, unless it is undertaken solely with a view to the wealth obtainable by corruption. The man who is actuated by purely altruistic suffering caused by the spectacle of human misery will, if his suffering is genuine, desire power to alleviate misery. The only man totally indifferent to power is the man totally indifferent to his fellow-men. Some form of desire for power is therefore to be accepted as part of the equipment of the kind of men out of whom a good community can be made. And every form of desire for power involves, so long as it is not thwarted, a correlative form of effort. To the mentality of the West this conclusion may seem a commonplace, but there are not a few in Western countries who coquette with what is called “the wisdom of the East” just at the moment when the East is abandoning it. To them perhaps what we have been saying may appear questionable, and if so, it has been worth saying.

More generally, we may say that some kind of power is a normal and legitimate goal for everyone whose natural desires have not withered. The kind of power a person wants depends on their strongest passions. One person wants power over others’ actions, another over their thoughts, and a third over their emotions. One wants to change the physical environment. Another wants the sense of power that comes from mastering a subject intellectually. Every kind of public work involves a desire for some kind of power. The only exception is work undertaken solely for the wealth available through corruption. Someone may be moved purely by unselfish distress at the sight of human misery. If that distress is genuine, they will want the power to relieve misery. The only person completely indifferent to power is someone completely indifferent to other people. Some desire for power must therefore be accepted as part of the makeup of people who can build a good community. And every form of desire for power leads to a corresponding kind of effort, as long as that desire is not blocked. To the Western mind, this conclusion may seem obvious. But quite a few people in Western countries flirt with what is called “the wisdom of the East”. They do so just as the East is abandoning that wisdom. To those people, perhaps, what we have been saying may seem questionable. If so, it has been worth saying.

Resignation, however, has also its part to play in the conquest of happiness, and it is a part no less essential than that played by effort. The wise man, though he will not sit down under preventable misfortunes, will not waste time and emotion upon such as are unavoidable, and even such as are in themselves avoidable he will submit to if the time and labour required to avoid them would interfere with the pursuit of some more important object. Many people get into a fret or a fury over every little thing that goes wrong, and in this way waste a great deal of energy that might be more usefully employed. Even in the pursuit of really important objects it is unwise to become so deeply involved emotionally that the thought of possible failure becomes a constant menace to peace of mind. Christianity taught submission to the will of God, and even for those who cannot accept this phraseology there should be something of the same kind pervading all their activities. Efficiency in a practical task is not proportional to the emotion that we put into it; indeed, emotion is sometimes an obstacle to efficiency. The attitude required is that of doing one’s best while leaving the issue to fate. Resignation is of two sorts, one rooted in despair, the other in unconquerable hope. The first is bad; the second is good. The man who has suffered such fundamental defeat that he has given up hope of serious achievement may learn the resignation of despair, and, if he does, he will abandon all serious activity. He may camouflage his despair by religious phrases, or by the doctrine that contemplation is the true end of man, but whatever disguise he may adopt to conceal his inward defeat, he will remain essentially useless and fundamentally unhappy. The man whose resignation is based on unconquerable hope acts in quite a different way. Hope which is to be unconquerable must be large and impersonal. Whatever my personal activities, I may be defeated by death, or by certain kinds of diseases; I may be overcome by my enemies; I may find that I have embarked upon an unwise course which cannot lead to success. In a thousand ways the failure of purely personal hopes may be unavoidable, but if personal aims have been part of larger hopes for humanity, there is not the same utter defeat when failure comes. The man of science who desires to make great discoveries himself may fail to do so, or may have to abandon his work owing to a blow on the head, but if he desires profoundly the progress of science and not merely his personal contribution to this object, he will not feel the same despair as would be felt by a man whose research had purely egoistic motives. The man who is working for some much needed reform may find all his efforts side-tracked by a war, and may be forced to realize that what he has worked for will not come about in his lifetime. But he need not on that account sink into complete despair, provided that he is interested in the future of mankind apart from his own participation in it.

Acceptance, however, also has a role in achieving happiness, and that role is just as essential as effort. A wise person will not passively accept misfortunes that can be prevented. But they will not waste time and emotion on misfortunes that cannot be avoided. They will even accept avoidable misfortunes if preventing them would take time and effort away from a more important goal. Many people become anxious or furious over every little thing that goes wrong. In doing so, they waste a great deal of energy that could be used more productively. Even when pursuing truly important goals, it is unwise to become too emotionally involved. The thought of possible failure should not become a constant threat to peace of mind. Christianity taught submission to the will of God. Even those who cannot accept that way of speaking should bring something of the same attitude to all their activities. Our effectiveness at a practical task is not proportional to the emotion we invest in the task. In fact, emotion sometimes makes us less effective. The attitude we need is to do our best while leaving the outcome to fate. There are two kinds of acceptance, one rooted in despair, the other in hope that cannot be defeated. The first is bad, and the second is good. Someone who has suffered a defeat so profound that they no longer hope for any substantial achievement may learn despairing acceptance. If they do, they will abandon all serious activity. They may disguise their despair with religious language, or with the belief that contemplation is humanity’s true purpose. But whatever disguise they use to hide their inner defeat, they will remain essentially useless and fundamentally unhappy. Someone whose acceptance rests on undefeatable hope acts very differently. To be undefeatable, hope must reach beyond the individual and their personal interests. Whatever I am doing, death or certain kinds of disease may defeat me. My enemies may overcome me. I may discover that I have chosen an unwise course that cannot lead to success. In a thousand ways, the failure of purely personal hopes may be unavoidable. But if personal goals have formed part of larger hopes for humanity, failure does not bring the same total defeat. A scientist who wants to make great discoveries may fail to do so. Or a blow to the head may force the scientist to give up their work. But suppose the scientist deeply desires scientific progress, not merely their own contribution to that progress. They will not feel the same despair as someone whose research was driven by purely selfish motives. Someone working for a much-needed reform may find that a war pushes all their efforts aside. They may be forced to recognize that the reform they have worked for will not happen in their lifetime. But they need not sink into complete despair because of that. They can avoid such despair if they care about humanity’s future, apart from their own role in it.

The cases we have been considering are those in which resignation is most difficult; there are a number of others in which it is much easier. These are the cases in which only subsidiary purposes suffer a check, while the major purposes of life continue to offer a prospect of success. A man, for example, who is engaged in important work shows a failure in the desirable kind of resignation if he is distracted by matrimonial unhappiness; if his work is really absorbing, he should regard such incidental troubles in the way in which one regards a wet day, that is to say, as a nuisance about which it would be foolish to make a fuss.

The cases we have been considering are those in which accepting setbacks is hardest. There are several other cases in which acceptance is much easier. In these cases, only secondary goals face setbacks, while life’s main goals still offer a prospect of success. For example, a man doing important work fails to show the right kind of acceptance if marital unhappiness distracts him. If his work truly absorbs him, he should treat such incidental troubles as he would a rainy day. They are a nuisance, and making a fuss about them would be foolish.

Some people are unable to bear with patience even those minor troubles which make up, if we permit them to do so, a very large part of life. They are furious when they miss a train, transported with rage if their dinner is badly cooked, sunk in despair if the chimney smokes, and vowing vengeance against the whole industrial order when their clothes fail to return from the sanitary steam laundry. The energy that such people waste on trivial troubles would be sufficient, if more wisely directed, to make and unmake empires. The wise man fails to observe the dust that the housemaid has not dusted, the potato that the cook has not cooked, and the soot that the sweep has not swept. I do not mean that he takes no steps to remedy these matters, provided he has time to do so; I mean only that he deals with them without emotion. Worry and fret and irritation are emotions which serve no purpose. Those who feel them strongly may say that they are incapable of overcoming them, and I am not sure that they can be overcome by anything short of that fundamental resignation of which we spoke earlier. The same kind of concentration upon large impersonal hopes which enables a man to bear personal failure in his work, or the troubles of an unhappy marriage, will also make it possible for him to be patient when he misses a train or drops his umbrella in the mud. If he is of a fretful disposition, I am not sure that anything less than this will cure him.

Some people cannot patiently bear even the minor troubles that can, if we let them, fill much of life. They are furious when they miss a train and fly into a rage if their dinner is badly cooked. They sink into despair if the chimney smokes. They vow revenge against the whole industrial system when their clothes fail to come back from the steam laundry. If directed more wisely, the energy these people waste on trivial troubles would be enough to build and destroy empires. A wise person does not notice the dust the cleaner missed, the potato the cook left uncooked, or the soot the chimney sweep left behind. I do not mean that wise people do nothing to fix these problems, provided they have time. I mean only that they deal with these problems without emotion. Worry, fretting, and irritation serve no purpose. People who feel these emotions strongly may say they cannot overcome them. I am not sure these emotions can be overcome without the fundamental acceptance we discussed earlier. Focusing on broad, impersonal hopes can help a person bear failure in their work or the troubles of an unhappy marriage. The same focus will also help them stay patient when they miss a train or drop their umbrella in the mud. If someone tends to fret, I am not sure anything less will cure them.

The man who has become emancipated from the empire of worry will find life a much more cheerful affair than it used to be while he was perpetually being irritated. Personal idiosyncrasies of acquaintances, which formerly made him wish to scream, will now seem merely amusing. When Mr. A. for the three hundred and forty-seventh time relates the anecdote of the Bishop of Tierra del Fuego, he amuses himself by noting the score, and feels no inclination to attempt a vain diversion by an anecdote of his own. When his bootlace breaks just as he is in a hurry to catch an early morning train, he reflects, after the appropriate expletives, that in the history of the cosmos the event in question has no very great importance. When he is interrupted in a proposal of marriage by a visit of a tedious neighbour, he considers that all mankind have been liable to this disaster, with the exception of Adam, and that even he had his troubles. There is no limit to what can be done in the way of finding consolation from minor misfortunes by means of bizarre analogies and quaint parallels. Every civilized man or woman has, I suppose, some picture of himself or herself, and is annoyed when anything happens that seems to spoil this picture. The best cure is to have not only one picture, but a whole gallery, and to select the one appropriate to the incident in question. If some of the portraits are a trifle laughable, so much the better; it is not wise to see oneself all day long as a hero of high tragedy. I do not suggest that one should see oneself always as a clown in comedy, for those who do this are even more irritating; a little tact is required in choosing a rôle appropriate to the situation. Of course, if you can forget yourself and not play a part at all that is admirable. But if playing a part has become second nature, consider that you act in repertory, and so avoid monotony.

A man who has freed himself from worry will find life much more cheerful than when he was constantly irritated. The personal quirks of acquaintances that once made him want to scream will now seem merely amusing. When Mr. A. tells the story of the Bishop of Tierra del Fuego for the three hundred and forty-seventh time, he enjoys keeping count. He feels no urge to make a useless attempt to change the subject with a story of his own. When his shoelace breaks as he hurries to catch an early morning train, he swears as the occasion demands. Then he reflects that, in the history of the universe, a broken shoelace matters very little. When a boring neighbour interrupts his marriage proposal with a visit, he considers that everyone has faced this possible disaster. Adam was the only exception, and even he had his troubles. There is no limit to the comfort that strange comparisons and odd parallels can offer for minor misfortunes. Every civilized man or woman has, I suppose, some image of themselves. They become annoyed when something seems to spoil that image. The best cure is to have not just one self-portrait but a whole gallery. Then choose the portrait that suits the occasion. If some portraits are a little ridiculous, so much the better. Seeing yourself all day long as the hero of a grand tragedy is unwise. I am not suggesting that you should always see yourself as a clown in a comedy. People who always see themselves as clowns are even more irritating. Choosing a role that suits the situation requires a little tact. Of course, if you can forget yourself and play no role at all, that is admirable. But if playing a role has become second nature, think of yourself as an actor with many parts to play. That way, you can avoid monotony.

Many active people are of opinion that the slightest grain of resignation, the faintest gleam of humour, would destroy the energy with which they do their work and the determination by which, as they believe, they achieve success. These people, in my opinion, are mistaken. Work that is worth doing can be done even by those who do not deceive themselves either as to its importance or as to the ease with which it can be done. Those who can only do their work when upheld by self-deception had better first take a course in learning to endure the truth before continuing their career, since sooner or later the need of being sustained by myths will cause their work to become harmful instead of beneficial. It is better to do nothing than to do harm. Half the useful work in the world consists of combating the harmful work. A little time spent in learning to appreciate facts is not time wasted, and the work that will be done afterwards is far less likely to be harmful than the work done by those who need a continual inflation of their ego as a stimulant to their energy. A certain kind of resignation is involved in willingness to face the truth about ourselves; this kind, though it may involve pain in the first moments, affords ultimately a protection—indeed the only possible protection—against the disappointments and disillusionments to which the self-deceiver is liable. Nothing is more fatiguing nor, in the long run, more exasperating than the daily effort to believe things which daily become more incredible. To be done with this effort is an indispensable condition of secure and lasting happiness.

Many active people believe that even the slightest acceptance of limitations or hint of humor would destroy their energy for work. They also believe it would destroy the determination that, in their view, brings them success. In my opinion, these people are mistaken. Worthwhile work can be done without deceiving ourselves about its importance or how easily it can be done. People who can work only by deceiving themselves should first learn to bear the truth before continuing their careers. Sooner or later, their need to rely on myths will make their work harmful rather than helpful. It is better to do nothing than to do harm. Half the useful work in the world consists of fighting harmful work. A little time spent learning to appreciate facts is not wasted. Work done afterward is far less likely to cause harm than work by people who constantly need their egos inflated. Such people depend on that inflated sense of themselves to fuel their energy. Being willing to face the truth about ourselves involves a certain acceptance of our limitations. Although this acceptance may hurt at first, it ultimately protects us against the disappointment and disillusionment that threaten self-deceivers. Indeed, accepting the truth is the only possible protection. Nothing is more exhausting than the daily effort to believe things that grow less believable every day. In the long run, nothing is more frustrating either. Giving up this effort is essential to secure and lasting happiness.