The Happy Man

Happiness, as is evident, depends partly upon external circumstances and partly upon oneself. We have been concerned in this volume with the part which depends upon oneself, and we have been led to the view that so far as this part is concerned the recipe for happiness is a very simple one. It is thought by many, among whom I think we must include Mr. Krutch, whom we considered in an earlier chapter, that happiness is impossible without a creed of a more or less religious kind. It is thought by many who are themselves unhappy that their sorrows have complicated and highly intellectualized sources. I do not believe that such things are genuine causes of either happiness or unhappiness; I think they are only symptoms. The man who is unhappy will, as a rule, adopt an unhappy creed, while the man who is happy will adopt a happy creed; each may attribute his happiness or unhappiness to his beliefs, while the real causation is the other way round. Certain things are indispensable to the happiness of most men, but these are simple things: food and shelter, health, love, successful work and the respect of one’s own herd. To some people parenthood also is essential. Where these things are lacking, only the exceptional man can achieve happiness, but where they are enjoyed, or can be obtained by well-directed effort, the man who is still unhappy is suffering from some psychological maladjustment which, if it is very grave, may need the services of a psychiatrist, but can in ordinary cases be cured by the patient himself, provided he sets about the matter in the right way. Where outward circumstances are not definitely unfortunate, a man should be able to achieve happiness, provided that his passions and interests are directed outward, not inward. It should be our endeavour therefore, both in education and in attempts to adjust ourselves to the world, to aim at avoiding self-centred passions and at acquiring those affections and those interests which will prevent our thoughts from dwelling perpetually upon ourselves. It is not the nature of most men to be happy in a prison, and the passions which shut us up in ourselves constitute one of the worst kinds of prisons. Among such passions some of the commonest are fear, envy, the sense of sin, self-pity and self-admiration. In all these our desires are centred upon ourselves: there is no genuine interest in the outer world, but only a concern lest it should in some way injure us or fail to feed our ego. Fear is the principal reason why men are so unwilling to admit facts and so anxious to wrap themselves round in a warm garment of myth. But the thorns tear the warm garment and the cold blasts penetrate through the rents, and the man who has become accustomed to its warmth suffers far more from these blasts than a man who has hardened himself to them from the first. Moreover, those who deceive themselves generally know at bottom that they are doing so, and live in a state of apprehension lest some untoward event should force unwelcome realizations upon them.

Happiness clearly depends partly on external circumstances and partly on ourselves. In this book, we have focused on the part that depends on ourselves. We have concluded that, as far as this part goes, the recipe for happiness is very simple. Many people think happiness is impossible without some kind of more or less religious belief system. I think we must include Mr. Krutch among them. We discussed him in an earlier chapter. Many unhappy people think their sorrows have complex, highly intellectual causes. I do not believe such beliefs genuinely cause either happiness or unhappiness. I think they are only symptoms. An unhappy person will usually adopt an unhappy set of beliefs, while a happy person will adopt happy beliefs. Both may credit their beliefs with their happiness or unhappiness, when the cause actually runs the other way. Certain things are essential to most people's happiness, but they are simple things. They include food and shelter, health, love, successful work, and the respect of one's own social group. For some people, parenthood is also essential. When these things are missing, only an exceptional person can achieve happiness. But suppose someone has these things, or can obtain them through well-directed effort, and is still unhappy. That person is suffering from some psychological difficulty. If the difficulty is very serious, help from a psychiatrist may be needed. But in ordinary cases, people can resolve the difficulty themselves, provided they approach it in the right way. When external circumstances are not clearly unfortunate, a person should be able to achieve happiness. This is possible provided their passions and interests are directed outward, not inward. So, both in education and in adapting to the world, we should try to avoid self-centered passions. We should develop affections and interests that keep our thoughts from constantly dwelling on ourselves. Most people are not naturally happy in a prison. The passions that trap us within ourselves form one of the worst kinds of prisons. Among the most common are fear, envy, a sense of sin, self-pity, and self-admiration. In all these passions, our desires center on ourselves. We have no genuine interest in the outside world. We are concerned only that the world might somehow harm us or fail to feed our ego. Fear is the main reason people are so unwilling to accept facts. Fear also makes them eager to wrap themselves in the warm clothing of myth. But thorns tear that warm clothing, and cold winds blow through the tears. Someone accustomed to its warmth suffers far more from those winds than someone who has toughened themselves from the start. Moreover, people who deceive themselves generally know deep down that they are doing so. They live in fear that some unfortunate event may force them to face unwelcome truths.

One of the great drawbacks to self-centred passions is that they afford so little variety in life. The man who loves only himself cannot, it is true, be accused of promiscuity in his affections, but he is bound in the end to suffer intolerable boredom from the invariable sameness of the object of his devotion. The man who suffers from a sense of sin is suffering from a particular kind of self-love. In all this vast universe the thing that appears to him of most importance is that he himself should be virtuous. It is a grave defect in certain forms of traditional religion that they have encouraged this particular kind of self-absorption.

One major drawback of self-centered passions is how little variety they bring to life. A man who loves only himself cannot, admittedly, be accused of spreading his affections too widely. But he will inevitably become unbearably bored because the object of his devotion never changes. A man troubled by a sense of sin suffers from a particular kind of self-love. To him, nothing in the whole vast universe matters more than his own moral goodness. Certain forms of traditional religion have encouraged this particular kind of self-absorption, and that is a serious flaw in them.

The happy man is the man who lives objectively, who has free affections and wide interests, who secures his happiness through these interests and affections and through the fact that they, in turn, make him an object of interest and affection to many others. To be the recipient of affection is a potent cause of happiness, but the man who demands affection is not the man upon whom it is bestowed. The man who receives affection is, speaking broadly, the man who gives it. But it is useless to attempt to give it as a calculation, in the way in which one might lend money at interest, for a calculated affection is not genuine and is not felt to be so by the recipient.

The happy person focuses on the world beyond themselves, cares freely for others, and has wide interests. Their happiness comes from these interests and affections. These interests and affections also lead many others to take an interest in them and care for them. Receiving affection is a powerful source of happiness, but the person who demands affection is not the one who receives it. Generally speaking, the person who receives affection is the person who gives it. But trying to give affection as a calculated investment, like lending money at interest, is useless. Calculated affection is not genuine, and the person receiving it does not feel it to be genuine.

What then can a man do who is unhappy because he is encased in self? So long as he continues to think about the causes of his unhappiness, he continues to be self-centred and therefore does not get outside the vicious circle; if he is to get outside it, it must be by genuine interests, not by simulated interests adopted merely as a medicine. Although this difficulty is real, there is nevertheless much that he can do if he has rightly diagnosed his trouble. If, for example, his trouble is due to a sense of sin, conscious or unconscious, he can first persuade his conscious mind that he has no reason to feel sinful, and then proceed, by the kind of technique that we have considered in earlier chapters, to plant this rational conviction in his unconscious mind, concerning himself meanwhile with some more or less neutral activity. If he succeeds in dispelling the sense of sin, it is probable that genuinely objective interests will arise spontaneously. If his trouble is self-pity, he can deal with it in the same manner after first persuading himself that there is nothing extraordinarily unfortunate in his circumstances. If fear is his trouble, let him practise exercises designed to give courage. Courage in war has been recognized from time immemorial as an important virtue, and a great part of the training of boys and young men has been devoted to producing a type of character capable of fearlessness in battle. But moral courage and intellectual courage have been much less studied; they also, however, have their technique. Admit to yourself every day at least one painful truth; you will find this quite as useful as the Boy Scout’s daily kind action. Teach yourself to feel that life would still be worth living even if you were not, as of course you are, immeasurably superior to all your friends in virtue and in intelligence. Exercises of this sort prolonged through several years will at last enable you to admit facts without flinching, and will, in so doing, free you from the empire of fear over a very large field.

What, then, can a man do if he is unhappy because he is trapped within himself? As long as he keeps thinking about the causes of his unhappiness, he remains self-centered. So he cannot escape the vicious circle. To escape, he must develop genuine interests, not pretend interests taken up merely as a cure. Although this difficulty is real, he can still do a great deal if he has correctly identified his problem. Suppose, for example, that his trouble comes from a sense of sin, whether conscious or unconscious. He can first convince his conscious mind that he has no reason to feel sinful. Then he can use the techniques discussed in earlier chapters to establish this rational belief in his unconscious mind. Meanwhile, he can occupy himself with some fairly neutral activity. If he succeeds in removing his sense of sin, genuine interests in things outside himself will probably develop naturally. If his problem is self-pity, he can handle it in the same way. First, however, he must convince himself that his circumstances are not unusually unfortunate. If fear is his problem, he should practice exercises designed to build courage. Courage in war has been recognized as an important virtue since ancient times. Much of the training of boys and young men has aimed to develop a character capable of fearlessness in battle. But moral and intellectual courage have received much less study. Yet there are techniques for developing these kinds of courage too. Admit at least one painful truth to yourself every day. You will find this practice just as useful as the Boy Scout’s daily act of kindness. Teach yourself that life would still be worth living even without your immeasurable moral and intellectual superiority over all your friends. Of course, you do possess that superiority. Practicing exercises like these for several years will eventually enable you to face facts without flinching. By doing so, you will free yourself from fear’s control across a very wide range of life.

What the objective interests are to be that will arise in you when you have overcome the disease of self-absorption must be left to the spontaneous workings of your nature and of external circumstances. Do not say to yourself in advance, “I should be happy if I could become absorbed in stamp-collecting”, and thereupon set to work to collect stamps, for it may well happen that you will fail altogether to find stamp-collecting interesting. Only what genuinely interests you can be of any use to you, but you may be pretty sure that genuine objective interests will grow up as soon as you have learnt not to be immersed in self.

Once you overcome the illness of self-absorption, let interests outside yourself develop naturally. Let your own nature and external circumstances determine what those interests will be. Do not tell yourself beforehand, “I would be happy if I could get absorbed in stamp collecting”. Do not then start collecting stamps on that basis, because you may find stamp collecting completely uninteresting. Only what genuinely interests you can help you. But you can be fairly sure that genuine interests outside yourself will develop once you stop being absorbed in yourself.

The happy life is to an extraordinary extent the same as the good life. Professional moralists have made too much of self-denial, and in so doing have put the emphasis in the wrong place. Conscious self-denial leaves a man self-absorbed and vividly aware of what he has sacrificed; in consequence it fails often of its immediate object and almost always of its ultimate purpose. What is needed is not self-denial, but that kind of direction of interest outward which will lead spontaneously and naturally to the same acts that a person absorbed in the pursuit of his own virtue could only perform by means of conscious self-denial. I have written in this book as a hedonist, that is to say, as one who regards happiness as the good, but the acts to be recommended from the point of view of the hedonist are on the whole the same as those to be recommended by the sane moralist. The moralist, however, is too apt, though this is not, of course, universally true, to stress the act rather than the state of mind. The effects of an act upon the agent will be widely different, according to his state of mind at the moment. If you see a child drowning and save it as the result of a direct impulse to bring help, you will emerge none the worse morally. If, on the other hand, you say to yourself, “It is the part of virtue to succour the helpless, and I wish to be a virtuous man, therefore I must save this child”, you will be an even worse man afterwards than you were before. What applies in this extreme case applies in many other instances that are less obvious.

To a remarkable extent, a happy life is the same as a good life. Professional moralists have placed too much value on self-denial, putting the emphasis in the wrong place. Deliberate self-denial leaves a person self-absorbed and keenly aware of what they have sacrificed. As a result, self-denial often fails to achieve its immediate goal and almost always fails to achieve its ultimate purpose. What we need is not self-denial, but an outward focus. With our interests directed outward, we will naturally and spontaneously do the same things that deliberate self-denial would produce. Someone absorbed in pursuing their own virtue could do those things only through deliberate self-denial. In this book, I have written as a hedonist, meaning someone who regards happiness as the good. But the actions a hedonist would recommend are generally the same as those a sensible moralist would recommend. Moralists, however, are too likely to emphasize the action rather than the state of mind behind it. Of course, this is not true of all moralists. An action's effects on the person performing it will differ greatly depending on their state of mind at the time. If you see a child drowning and save the child out of a direct impulse to help, you suffer no moral harm. But suppose you tell yourself, “Helping the helpless is virtuous, and I want to be a virtuous person. Therefore, I must save this child”. Then you will be an even worse person afterward than you were before. What is true in this extreme case is also true in many less obvious cases.

There is another difference, somewhat more subtle, between the attitude towards life that I have been recommending and that which is recommended by the traditional moralists. The traditional moralist, for example, will say that love should be unselfish. In a certain sense he is right, that is to say, it should not be selfish beyond a point, but it should undoubtedly be of such a nature that one’s own happiness is bound up in its success. If a man were to invite a lady to marry him on the ground that he ardently desired her happiness and at the same time considered that she would afford him ideal opportunities of self-abnegation, I think it may be doubted whether she would be altogether pleased. Undoubtedly we should desire the happiness of those whom we love, but not as an alternative to our own. In fact the whole antithesis between self and the rest of the world, which is implied in the doctrine of self-denial, disappears as soon as we have any genuine interest in persons or things outside ourselves. Through such interests a man comes to feel himself part of the stream of life, not a hard separate entity like a billiard-ball, which can have no relation with other such entities except that of collision. All unhappiness depends upon some kind of disintegration or lack of integration; there is disintegration within the self through lack of co-ordination between the conscious and the unconscious mind; there is lack of integration between the self and society, where the two are not knit together by the force of objective interests and affections. The happy man is the man who does not suffer from either of these failures of unity, whose personality is neither divided against itself nor pitted against the world. Such a man feels himself a citizen of the universe, enjoying freely the spectacle that it offers and the joys that it affords, untroubled by the thought of death because he feels himself not really separate from those who will come after him. It is in such profound instinctive union with the stream of life that the greatest joy is to be found.

There is another, subtler difference between the outlook on life I have recommended and the outlook traditional moralists recommend. A traditional moralist, for example, will say that love should be unselfish. In one sense, he is right. Love should not be selfish beyond a certain point. But our own happiness should undoubtedly be tied to its success. Suppose a man asked a woman to marry him because he deeply wanted her to be happy. Suppose he also believed she would give him ideal opportunities to deny himself. I think we may doubt whether she would be entirely pleased. We should undoubtedly want those we love to be happy, but not instead of being happy ourselves. In fact, the whole opposition between ourselves and the rest of the world disappears once we genuinely care about other people or things. The idea of self-denial assumes such an opposition. Through interests beyond ourselves, we come to feel part of the stream of life. We no longer feel like hard, separate objects, like billiard balls that can only collide with one another. All unhappiness depends on some kind of inner division or lack of connection. Inner division arises when the conscious and unconscious mind do not work together. A lack of connection between the individual and society arises when outward-looking interests and affections do not bind them together. A happy person suffers from neither of these failures of unity. Their personality is neither divided against itself nor set against the world. Such a person feels like a citizen of the universe, freely enjoying its sights and pleasures. The thought of death does not trouble them because they feel they are not truly separate from those who follow. The greatest joy is found in this deep, instinctive union with the stream of life.