No matter what happens in the outside world, be it something we
see, hear or feel, in any sense-field there is an internal
reverberation in our bodies,--excitement. Excitement is the
undifferentiated result of stimuli, whether these come from
without or from within. For a change in the glands of the body
heaps up changes within us, which when felt, become excitement.
Thus at the mating period of animals, at the puberty of man,
there is a quite evident excitement demonstrated in the conduct
of the animal and the adolescent. He who remembers his own
adolescence, or who watches the boy or girl of that age, sees the
excitement in the readiness to laugh, cry, fight or love that is
so striking.
Undoubtedly the mother-stuff of all emotion is the feeling of
excitement. Before any emotion reaches its characteristic
expression there is the preparatory tension of excitement. Joy,
sorrow, anger, fear, wonder, surprise, etc., have in them as a
basis the same consciousness of an internal activity, of a world
within us beginning to seethe. Heart, lungs, blood stream, the
great viscera and the internal glands, cerebrum and sympathetic
nervous system, all participate in this activity, and the outward
visage of excitement is always the wide-open eye, the slightly
parted lips, the flaring nostrils and the slightly tensed muscles
of the whole body. Shouts, cries, the waving of arms and legs,
taking the specific direction of some emotion, make of excitement
a fierce discharger of energy, a fact of great importance in the
understanding of social and pathological phenomena. On the other
hand, excitement may be so intensely internal that it shifts the
blood supply too vigorously from the head and the result is a
swoon. This is more especially true of the excitement that
accompanies sorrow and fear than joy or anger, but even in these
emotions it occurs.
There are some very important phases of excitement that have not
been given sufficient weight in most of the discussions.
1. In the very young, excitement is diffuse and spreads
throughout the organism. An infant starts with a jump at a sudden
sound and shivers at a bright light. A young child is
unrestrained and general in his expression of excitement, no
matter what emotional direction that excitement takes. Bring
about any tension of expectation in a child--have him wait for
your head to appear around the corner as you play peek-a-boo, or
delay opening the box of candy, or pretend you are one thing or
another--and the excitement of the child is manifested in what is
known as eagerness. Attention in children is accompanied by
excitement and is wearying as a natural result, since excitement,
means a physical discharge of energy. A child laughs all over and
weeps with his entire body; his anger involves every muscle of
his body and his fear is an explosion. The young organism cannot
inhibit excitement.
As life goes on, the capacity for localizing or limiting
excitement increases. We become better organized, and the
disrupting force of a stimulus becomes less. Attention becomes
less painful, less tense, i.e., there is less general muscular
and emotional reaction. Expectation is less a physical
matter--perhaps because we have been so often disappointed--and
is more cerebral and the emotions are more reflective and
introspective in their expression and less a physical outburst.
Indeed, the process often enough goes too far, and we long for
the excitement of anticipation and realization. We do not start
at a noise, and though a great crowd will "stir our blood"
(excitement popularly phrased and accurately), we still limit
that excitement so that though we cheer or shout there is a core
of us that is quiet.
This is the case in health. In sickness, especially in that
condition known as neurasthenia, where the main symptoms cluster
around an abnormal liability to fatigue, and also in many other
conditions, there is an increase in the diffusion of excitement
so that one starts all over at a noise, instead of merely turning
to see what it is, so that expectation and attention become
painful and fatiguing. Crowds, though usually pleasurable, become
too exciting, and there is a sort of confusion resulting because
attention and comprehension are interfered with. The neurasthenic
finds himself a prey to stimuli, his reaction is too great and he
fatigues too readily. He finds sleep difficult because the little
noises and discomforts make difficult the relaxation that is so
important. The neurasthenic's voluntary attention is lowered
because of the excitement he feels when his involuntary attention
is aroused.
In the condition called anhedonia, which we shall hear of from
time to time, there is a blocking or dropping out of the sense of
desire and satisfaction even if through habit one eats, drinks,
has sexual relationship, keeps up his work and carries out his
plans. This lack of desire for the joys of life is attended by a
restlessness, a seeking of excitement for a time, until there
arises a curious over-reaction to excitement. The anhedonic
patient finds that noises are very troublesome, that he becomes
unpleasantly excited over music, that company is distressing
because he becomes confused and excited, and crowds, busy scenes
and streets are intolerable. Many a hermit, I fancy, who found
the sensual and ambitious pleasure of life intolerable, who
sought to fly from crowds to the deserts, was anhedonic but he
called it renunciation. (Whether one really ever renounces when
desire is still strong is a nice question. I confess to some
scepticism on this point.)
2. Seeking excitement is one of the great pleasure-trends of
life. In moderation, tension, expectation and the diffuse bodily
reactions are agreeable; there is a feeling of vigor, the
attention is drawn from the self and there is a feeling of being
alive that is pleasurable. The tension must not be too long
sustained, nor the bodily reaction too intense; relaxation and
lowered attention must relieve the excitement from time to time;
but with these kept in mind, it is true that Man is a seeker of
excitement.
This is a factor neglected in the study of great social
phenomena. The growth of cities is not only a result of the
economic forces of the time; it is made permanent by the fact
that the cities are exciting. The multiplicity and variety of the
stimuli of a city--social, sexual, its stir and bustle--make it
difficult for those once habituated ever to tolerate the quiet of
the country. Excitement follows the great law of stimulation; the
same internal effect, the same feeling, requires a greater and
greater stimulus, as well as new stimuli. So, the cities grow
larger, increase their modes of excitement, and the dweller in
the city, unless fortified by a steady purpose, becomes a seeker
of excitement.
Not only is excitement pleasurable when reached through the
intrinsically agreeable but it can be obtained from small doses
of the intrinsically disagreeable. This is the explanation of the
pleasure obtained from the gruesome, from the risk of life or
limb, or from watching others risk life or limb. Aside from the
sense of power obtained by traveling fast, it is the risk, THE
SLIGHT FEAR, producing excitement, that makes the speed maniac a
menace to the highways. And I think that part of the pleasure
obtained from bitter foods is that the disagreeable element is
just sufficient to excite the gastro-intestinal tract. The
fascination of the horrible lies in the excitement produced, an
excitement that turns to horror and disgust if the disagreeable
is presented too closely. Thus we can read with pleasurable
excitement of things that in their reality would shock us into
profoundest pain. The more jaded one is, the more used to
excitement, the more he seeks what are, ordinarily, disagreeable
methods of excitement. Thus pain in slight degree is exciting,
and in the sexual sphere pain is often sought as a means of
heightening the pleasure, especially by women and by the roue. I
suspect also that the haircloth shirt and the sackcloth and ashes
of the anhedonic hermit were painful methods of seeking
excitement.
Sometimes pain is used in small amounts to relieve excitement.
Thus the man who bites his finger nails to the quick gets a
degree of satisfaction from the habit. Indeed, all manner of
habitual and absurd movements, from scratching to pacing up and
down, are efforts to relieve the tension of excitement. One of my
patients under any excitement likes to put his hands in very hot
water, and the pain, by its localization, takes away from the
diffuse and unpleasant excitement. The diffuse uncontrolled
excitement of itching is often relieved by painful biting and
scratching. Here is an effort to localize a feeling and thus
avoid diffuse discomfort, a sort of homeopathic treatment.
3. As a corollary to the need of excitement and its pleasure is
the reaction to monotony. Monotony is one of the most dreaded
factors in the life of man. The internal resources of most of us
are but small; we can furnish excitement and interest from our
own store for but a short time, and there then ensues an intense
yearning for something or somebody that will take up our
attention and give a direction to our thought and action. Under
monotony the thought turns inward, there is daydreaming and
introspection,[1] which are pleasurable only at certain times for
most of us and which grow less pleasurable as we grow older.
Watch the faces of people thinking as they travel alone in
cars,--and rarely does one see a happy face. The lines of the
face droop and sighs are frequent. Monotony and melancholy are
not far apart; monotony and a restless seeking for excitement are
almost synonymous. Of course, what constitutes monotony will
differ in the viewpoint of each person, for some are so
constituted and habituated (for habit is a great factor) that it
takes but few stimuli to arouse a well-sustained interest, and
others need or think they need many things, a constantly changing
set of circumstances for pleasure.
[1] Stanley Hall, in his book "Adolescence," lays great stress on
monotony and its effects. See also Graham Wallas' "The Great
Society."
Restlessness, eager searching for change, intense dissatisfaction
are the natural fruit of monotony. Here is an important item in
the problems of our times. Side by side with growth of the cities
and their excitement is the growing monotony of most labor. The
factory, with its specialized production, reduces the worker to a
cog in the machinery. In some factories, in the name of
efficiency, the windows are whitewashed so that the outside world
is shut out and talking is prohibited; the worker passes his day
performing his unvaried task from morning to night. Under such
circumstances there arises either a burning sense of wrong, of
injustice, of slavery and a thwarting of the individual dignity,
or else a yearning for the end of the day, for dancing, drinking,
gambling, for anything that offers excitement. Or perhaps both
reactions are combined. Our industrial world is poorly organized
economically, as witness the poor distribution of wealth and the
periodic crises, but it is abominably organized from the
standpoint of the happiness of the worker. Of this, more in
another place.
Monotony brings fatigue, because there is a shutting out of the
excitement that acts as an antidote to fatigue-feeling. A man
who works without fatigue six days a week is tired all day Sunday
and longs for Monday. The modern housewife,[1] with her four
walls and the unending, uninteresting tasks, is worn out, and her
fatigue reaction is the greater the more her previous life has
been exciting and varied. Fatigue often enough is present not
because of the work done but because the STIMULUS TO WORK HAS
DISAPPEARED. Monotony is an enemy of character. Variety, in its
normal aspect, is not only the spice of life; it is a great need.
Stabilization of purpose and work are necessary, but a
standardization that stamps out the excitement of variety is a
deadly blow to human happiness.
[1] See my book "The Nervous Housewife!"
Under monotony certain types of personalities develop an intense
inner life, which may be pathological, or it may be exceedingly
fruitful of productive thought.
Some build up a delusional thought and feeling. For delusion
merely means uncorrected thought and belief, and we can only
correct by contact and collision. The whole outer world may
vanish or become hostile and true mental disease develop. Perhaps
it is more nearly correct to say that minds predisposed to mental
disease find in monotony a circumstance favoring disease.
On the other hand, a vigorous mind shut out from outer stimuli[1]
finds in this circumstance the time to develop leisurely, finds a
freedom from distraction that leads to clear views of life and a
proper expression. A periodic retirement from the busy, too-busy
world is necessary for the thinker that he may digest his
material, that he may strip away unessential beliefs, that he may
find what it is he really needs, strives for and ought to have.
[1] Perhaps this is why real genius does not flourish in our
crowded, over-busy days, despite the great amount of talent.
4. Here we come to another corollary of the need for excitement,
the need of relaxation. At any rate, satisfaction and pleasure
need periods of hunger in order to be felt. In the story of
Buddha he is represented as being shielded from all sorrow and
pain, living a life filled with pleasure and excitement, yet he
sought out pain. So excitement, if too long continued--or rather
if a situation that produces excitement of a pleasurable kind be
too long endured--will result in boredom. "Things get to be the
same," whether it be the excitement of love, the city, sports or
what not. This is a basic law of all pleasures. In order that
life may have zest, that excitement may be easily and pleasurably
evoked and by normal means, we need relaxation, periods free from
excitement, or we must pass on to a costly chase for excitement
that brings breakdown of the character.
5. If the seeking of excitement, as such, is one of the prime
pleasures of life, organized excitement in the form of interest
is the directing and guiding principle of activity. At the outset
of life interest is in the main involuntary and is aroused by the
sights, sounds and happenings of the outer world. As time goes
on, as the organism develops, as memories of past experiences
become active, as peculiarities of personality develop, and as
instincts reach activity, interest commences to take definite
direction, to become canalized, so to speak. In fact, the
development of interest is from the diffuse involuntary form of
early childhood to a specialization, a condensation into definite
voluntary channels. This development goes on unevenly, and is a
very variable feature in the lives of all of us. Great ability
expresses itself in a sustained interest; a narrow character is
one with overdeformed, too narrow interest; failure is often the
retention of the childish character of diffuse, involuntary
interest. And the capacity to sustain interest depends not only
on the special strength of the various abilities of the
individual, but remarkably on his energy and health. Sustained
"voluntary" interest is far more fatiguing than involuntary
interest, and where fatigue is already present it becomes
difficult and perhaps impossible. Thus after much work, whether
physical or mental, during and after illness--especially in
influenza, in neurasthenic states generally, or where there is an
inner conflict--interest in its adult form is at a low ebb.
There are two main directions which interest may take, because
there are two worlds in which we live. There is the inner world
of our feelings, our thoughts, our desires and our
struggles,[1]--and there is the outer world, with its people, its
things, its hostilities, its friendships, its problems and facts,
its attractions and repulsions. Man divides his interest between
the two worlds, for in both of them are the values of existence.
The chief source of voluntary interest lies in desire and value,
and though these are frequently in coalescence, so that the thing
we desire is the thing we value, more often they are not in
coalescence and then we have the divided self that James so
eloquently describes. So there are types of men to whom the outer
world, whether it is in its "other people," or its things, or its
facts, or its attractions and repulsions, is the chief source of
interest and these are the objective types, exteriorized folks,
whose values lie in the goods they can accumulate, or the people
they can help, or the external power they exercise, or the
knowledge they possess of the phenomena of the world, or the
things they can do with their hands. These are on the whole
healthy-minded, finding in their pursuits and interest a real
value, rarely stopping from their work to ask, "Why do I work? To
what end? Are things real?" Contrasted with them are those whose
gaze is turned inward, who move through life carrying on the
activities of the average existence but absorbed in their
thoughts, their emotions, their desires, their
conflicts,--perhaps on their sensations and coenaesthetic
streams. Though there is no sharp line of division between the
two types, and all of us are blends in varying degrees, these
latter are the subjective introspective folk, interiorized,
living in the microcosmos, and much more apt than the objective
minded to be "sick souls" obsessed with "whys and wherefores."
They are endlessly putting to themselves unanswerable questions,
are apt to be the mentally unbalanced, or, but now and then, they
furnish the race with one whose answers to the meaning of life
and the direction of efforts guide the steps of millions.
[1] Herbert Spencer's description of these two worlds is the best
in literature. "Principles of Psychology."
There is a good and a bad side to the two types of interest. The
objective minded conquer the world in dealing with what they call
reality. They bridge the water and dig up the earth; they invent,
they plow, they sell and buy, they produce and distribute wealth,
and they deal with the education that teaches how to do all these
things. They find in the outer world an unalterable sense of
reality, and they tend rather naively to accept themselves, their
interests and efforts as normal. In their highest forms they are
the scientist, reducing to law this tangle of outer realities, or
the artist, who though he is a hybrid with deep subjective and
objective interest, nevertheless remodels the outer world to his
concept of beauty. These objective-minded folk, the bulk of the
brawn and in lesser degree of the brain of the world, are apt to
be "materialists," to value mainly quantity and to be
self-complacent. Of course, since no man is purely objective,
there come to them as to all moments of brooding over the eggs of
their inner life, when they wonder whether they have reached out
for the right things and whether the goods they seek or have are
worth while. Such introspective interest comes on them when they
are alone and the outer world does not reach in, or when they
have witnessed death and misfortune, or when sickness and fatigue
have reduced them to a feeling of weakness. For it is true that
the objective minded are more often robust, hearty, with more
natural lust, passion and desire than your introspectionists,
more virile and less sensitive to fine impressions.
The introspectionists, culling, chewing the cud of their
experiences and sensations, find in their own reactions the
realities. In fact, interested in consciousness, they are
sometimes bold enough to deny the realities of anything else.
Where the others build bridges, they build up the ideas of
eternal good and bad, of beauty, of the transitory and the
permanent, of now and eternity. They deal with abstract ideas,
and they luxuriate in emotions. They build up beliefs where
thought is the only reality and is omnipotent. They are the
founders of religious, cults, fads and fancies. They inculcate
the permanent ideals, because they are the only ones who interest
themselves in something beside the show of the universe.
But too often they are the sick folk. Without the hardihood and
the energy to conquer the outer world, they fall back on a world
requiring less energy to study, less energy to conquer. Sometimes
they develop a sense of unreality which vitiates all their
efforts to succeed; or they become hypochondriacs, feeling every
flutter of the heart and every vague ache and pain. The Hamlet
doubting type is an introspectionist and oscillates in his mind
from yea to nay on every question. Such as this type develop
ideas of compensation and power and become cranks and fake
prophets. Or else, and this we shall see again, they become
imbued with a sense of inferiority, feel futile as against the
red-blooded and shrink from others through pain.
Everywhere one sees these phases of interest in antagonism and
cooperation. The "healthy-minded" acknowledge the leadership of a
past introspectionist but despise the contemporary one as futile
and light-headed. The introverted (to use a Freudian term) call
the others Philistines, and mock them for their lack of spiritual
insight, yet in everything they do they depend for aid and
sustenance upon them. Introspection gives no exact measurements
of value, but it gives value and without it, there can be no
wisdom. But always it needs the correction of the outer world to
keep it healthy.
While we have dealt here with the extremes of extrospection and
introspection, it is safe to say that in the vast majority of
people there is a definite and unassailable interest in both of
these directions. Interest in others is not altruism and interest
in the self is not self-interest or egoism. But, on the whole,
they who are not interested in others never become
philanthropists; they who are not interested in things never
become savants; and they who do not dig deep into themselves are
not philosophers. There are, therefore, certain practical aspects
to the study of interest which are essential parts of the
knowledge of character.
1. Is the interest of the one studied controlled by some purpose
or purposes, or is it diffuse, involuntary, not well directed?
2. Is it narrow, so that it excludes the greater part of the
world, or is it easily evoked by a multiplicity of things? In the
breadth of interest is contained the breadth of character, but
not necessarily its intensity or efficiency. There are people of
narrow but intense successful interest, and others of broad,
intense successful interest, but one meets, too frequently,
people quickly interested in anything, but not for long or in a
practical fashion. There is a certain high type of failure that
has this difficulty.
3. Is its main trend outward, and if so, is there some special
feature or features of the world that excite interest?
4. Is its main trend inward, and is he interested in emotions,
thoughts, sensations,--In his mind or his body, in ideas or in
feelings? For it is obvious that the man interested in his ideas
is quite a different person than he who is keenly aware of his
emotions, and that the hypochondriac belongs in a class by
himself.
5. If there are special interests, how do these harmonize with
ability and with well-defined plan and purpose. It is not
sufficient to be keenly interested, though that is necessary. One
of the greatest disharmonies of life is when a man is interested
when he is not proficient, though usually proficiency develops
interest because it gives superiority and achievement.
Interest is heightened by the success of others, for we are
naturally competitive creatures, or by admiration for those
successful in any line of activity. The desire to emulate or
excel or to get power is a mighty factor in the maintenance of
interest. "See how nicely Georgie does it," is a formula for both
children and adults, and if omitted, interest would not be easily
aroused or maintained. In other words, the competitive feeling
and desire in its largest sense are necessary for the
concentrated excitement of interest. So any scheme of social
organization that proposes to do away with competition and desire
for superiority labors under the psychological handicap of
removing the basis of much of the interest in work and study and
must find some substitute for the lacking incentives before it
can seriously ask for the adherence of those with a realistic
view of human nature. One might, it is true, establish traditions
of work, bring about a livelier social conscience as to service,
but these are not sufficient to arouse real interest in the vast
majority of the race. Here and there one finds a man in whom
interest is aroused by the unsolved problem, by the reward of
fame and the pleasure of achievement, but such persons are rare.
The average man (and woman), in my experience, loses interest in
anything that does not directly benefit him or in which his
personal competitive feeling is not aroused. Interest becomes
vague and ill-defined the farther the matter concerned is from
the direct personal good of the individual, and proportionately
it becomes difficult to sustain it.
That is why in our day "dollars and cents" appeals to interest
are made; away with abstracts, away with sentiment; the publicity
man working for a good cause now uses the methods of the man
selling shoes or automobiles: he attempts to show that one's
interest and cooperation are demanded and necessary because one's
direct personal welfare is involved. Whether or not ethically
justifiable, it is a recognition of the fact that interest is
aroused and sustained, for the majority, by some direct personal
involvement.
Thus in education, a fact to be learned, or a subject to be
studied, should be first sketched or placed in some use value to
the student. Knowledge for knowledge's sake is appealing only to
the rare scholar, he who palpitates with interest over the
relationship of things to one another, he who seeks to discover
values. Now and then one finds such a person, one thrown into
sustained excitement by learning, but the great majority of
students, whether in medicine, law or mathematics, are
"practical," meaning that their interests are relatively narrow
and the good they seek an immediate one to be reaped by
themselves. Recognizing this fact in the abstract, the most of
teaching is conducted on the plane of the real scholar, and the
average student is left to find values for himself. From first to
last in teaching I would emphasize usevalue; true, I would seek
to broaden the conception of usevalue, so that a student would
see that usefulness is a social value, but no matter how abstract
and remote the subject, its relationship to usefulness would be
preliminary and continuously emphasized in order to sustain
interest.
Interest, like any other form of excitement, needs new stimuli
and periods of relaxation. People under the driving force of
necessity continue at their work for longer periods of time and
more constantly than is psychologically possible for the
maintaining of interest. So it disappears, and then fatigue sets
in at once,--a fatigue that is increased by the effort to work
and the regret and rebellion at the change. The memory seems to
suffer and a fear is aroused that "I am losing my memory"; the
threat to success brings anguish and often the health becomes
definitely impaired. Overconcentrated, too long maintenance of
interest brings apathy,--an apathy that cannot be dispelled
except by change and rest. Here there is wide individual
variation from those who need frequent change and relaxation
periods to those who can maintain interest in a task almost
indefinitely.
A hobby, or a secondary object of interest, is therefore a real
necessity to the man or woman battling for a purpose, whose
interest must be sustained. It acts to relax, to shift the
excitement and to allow something of the feeling of novelty as
one reapproaches the task.
As a matter of fact, excitement and interest are not easily
separated from their derivatives and elaborations. Desire,
purpose, ambition, imply a force; interest implies a direction
for that force. Interest may be as casual as curiosity aroused by
the novel and strange, or as deep-seated and specialized as a
talent. The born teacher is he who knows how to arouse and
maintain and direct interest; the born achiever is the man whose
interest, quickly aroused, is easily maintained and directs
effort. To find the activity that is natively interesting and yet
suited to one's ability is the aim in vocational guidance.
There are some curious pathological aspects to interest
--"conflict" aspects of the subject. A man finds himself
palpitatingly interested in what is horrible to him, as a bird is
fascinated by a snake. Sex abnormalities have a marvelous
interest to everybody, although many will not admit it. Stories
of crime and bloodshed are read by everybody with great
avidity,--and people will go miles to the site of grim tragedy.
Court rooms are packed whenever a horrible murder is aired or a
nauseating divorce scandal is tried. A chaste woman will read, on
the sly and with inner rebellion, as many pornographic tales as
she can get hold of, and the "carefully" brought up, i. e., those
whose interest has been carefully directed, suddenly become
interested in the forbidden; they seek to peek through windows
when they should be looking straight ahead.
As a matter of fact, interest is as much inhibited as conduct.
"You mustn't ask about that" is the commonest answer a child
gets. "That's a naughty question to ask" runs it a close second.
Can one inhibit interest, which is the excitement caused by the
unknown? The answer is that we can, because a large part of
education is to do this very thing. "Can we inhibit any interest
without injuring all interests?" is a question often put. My
answer would be that it is socially necessary that interest in
certain directions be inhibited, whether it hurts the individual
or not. But the interest in a forbidden direction can be shifted
to a permitted direction, and this should be done. In my opinion,
sex interest can be so handled and a blunt thwarting of this
interest should be avoided. Some explanation leading the child to
larger, less personal aspects of sex should be given.
The interest of the child is often thwarted through sheer
laziness. "Don't bother me" is the reply of a parent shirking a
sacred duty. Interest is the beginning of knowledge, and where it
is discouraged knowledge is discouraged. Any inquiry can be met
on the child's plane of intelligence and comprehension, and the
parent must arrange for the gratification of this fundamental
desire. How? By a question hour each day, perhaps a children's
hour, a home university period where the vital interest of the
child will be satisfied.
To return to the morbid interests: do they arise from secret
morbid desires? The Freudian answer to that would be yes. And so
would many another answer. It is the answer in many cases,
especially where the desire is not so much morbid as forbidden.
The virgin, the continent who are intensely interested in sex are
not morbid, even though they have been forbidden to think of a
natural craving and appetite. But when the interest is for the
horrible it is often the case that the excitement aroused by the
subject is pleasurable, because it is a mild excitement and does
not quite reach disgust. Confronted with the real perversity, the
disgust aroused would quite effectually conquer interest.
And here is a fundamental law of interest: it must lead to a
profitable, pleasurable result or else it tends to disappear. If
this is too bold a statement, let me qualify it by stating that a
profitable, pleasurable result must be foreseen or foreseeable.
Either in some affective state, or in some tangible good,
interest seeks fulfillment. Disappointment is the foe of
interest, and too prolonged a "vestibule of satisfaction" (to use
Hocking's phrase) destroys or impairs interest.