Biological facts, as well as our observation of our own self (which is
psychology), lead us to believe that, as I have mentioned before,
Pleasure fulfils the function not merely of leading us along livable
ways, but also of creating a surplus of vitality. Itself an almost
unnecessary boon (since Pain is sufficient to regulate our choice),
Pleasure would thus tend to ever fresh and, if I may use the word,
gratuitous supplies of good. Does not this give to Pleasure a certain
freedom, a humane character wholly different from the awful,
unappeasable tyranny of Pain? For let us be sincere. Pain, and all the
cruel alternatives bidding us obey or die, are scarcely things with
which our poor ideals, our good feeling and good taste, have much
chance of profitable discussion. There is in all human life a side
akin to that of the beast; the beast hunted, tracked, starved, killing
and killed for food; the side alluded to under decent formulæ like
"pressure of population," "diminishing returns," "competition," and so
forth. Not but this side of life also tends towards good, but the
means by which it does so, nature's atrocious surgery, are evil,
although one cannot deny that it is the very nature of Pain to
diminish its own recurrence. This thought may bring some comfort in
the awful earnestness of existence, this thought that in its cruel
fashion, the universe is weeding out cruel facts. But to pretend that
we can habitually exercise much moral good taste, be of delicate
forethought, squeamish harmony when Pain has yoked and is driving us,
is surely a bad bit of hypocrisy, of which those who are being
starved or trampled or tortured into acquiescence may reasonably bid
us be ashamed. Indeed, stoicism, particularly in its discourses to
others, has not more sense of shame than sense of humour.
But since our power of choosing is thus jeopardised by the presence of
Pain, it would the more behove us to express our wish for goodness,
our sense of close connection, wide and complex harmony with the
happiness of others, in those moments of respite and liberty which we
call happiness, and particularly in those freely chosen concerns which
we call play.
Alas, we cannot help ourselves from becoming unimaginative,
unsympathising, destructive and brutish when we are hard pressed by
agony or by fear. Therefore, let such of us as have stuff for finer
things, seize some of our only opportunities, and seek to become
harmless in our pleasures.
Who knows but that the highest practical self-cultivation would not be
compassed by a much humbler paraphrase of Schiller's advice: let us
learn to like what does no harm to the present or the future, in order
not to throw away heroic efforts or sentimental intentions, in doing
what we don't like for someone else's supposed benefit.