II

In my _Future of an Illusion_[4] I was concerned much less with the

deepest sources of religious feeling than with what the ordinary man

understands by his religion, that system of doctrines and pledges

that on the one hand explains the riddle of this world to him with an

enviable completeness, and on the other assures him that a solicitous

Providence is watching over him and will make up to him in a future

existence for any shortcomings in this life. The ordinary man cannot

imagine this Providence in any other form but that of a greatly exalted

father, for only such a one could understand the needs of the sons

of men, or be softened by their prayers and placated by the signs of

their remorse. The whole thing is so patently infantile, so incongruous

with reality, that to one whose attitude to humanity is friendly it

is painful to think that the great majority of mortals will never be

able to rise above this view of life. It is even more humiliating to

discover what a large number of those alive to-day, who must see that

this religion is not tenable, yet try to defend it inch by inch, as if

with a series of pitiable rearguard actions. One would like to count

oneself among the believers, so as to admonish the philosophers who try

to preserve the God of religion by substituting for him an impersonal,

shadowy, abstract principle, and say, ‘Thou shalt not take the name of

the Lord thy God in vain!’ Some of the great men of the past did the

same, but that is no justification for us; we know why they had to do

so.

We will now go back to the ordinary man and his religion—the only

religion that ought to bear the name. The well-known words of one of

our great and wise poets come to mind in which he expresses his view of

the relation of religion to art and science. They run:

He who has Science and has Art,

Religion, too, has he;

Who has not Science, has not Art,

Let him religious be![5]

On the one hand, these words contrast religion with the two highest

achievements of man, and on the other, they declare that in respect

of their value in life they can represent or replace each other. If

we wish to deprive even the ordinary man, too, of his religion, we

shall clearly not have the authority of the poet on our side. We will

seek to get in touch with the meaning of his utterance by a special

way. Life as we find it is too hard for us; it entails too much pain,

too many disappointments, impossible tasks. We cannot do without

palliative remedies. We cannot dispense with auxiliary constructions,

as Theodor Fontane said. There are perhaps three of these means:

powerful diversions of interest, which lead us to care little about our

misery; substitutive gratifications, which lessen it; and intoxicating

substances, which make us insensitive to it. Something of this kind

is indispensable.[6] Voltaire is aiming at a diversion of interest

when he brings his _Candide_ to a close with the advice that people

should cultivate their gardens; scientific work is another deflection

of the same kind. The substitute gratifications, such as art offers,

are illusions in contrast to reality, but none the less satisfying

to the mind on that account, thanks to the place which phantasy has

reserved for herself in mental life. The intoxicating substances affect

our body, alter its chemical processes. It is not so simple to find

the place where religion belongs in this series. We must look further

afield.

The question, ‘What is the purpose of human life?’ has been asked times

without number; it has never received a satisfactory answer; perhaps it

does not admit of such an answer. Many a questioner has added that if

it should appear that life has no purpose, then it would lose all value

for him. But these threats alter nothing. It looks, on the contrary,

as though one had a right to dismiss this question, for it seems to

presuppose that belief in the superiority of the human race with which

we are already so familiar in its other expressions. Nobody asks what

is the purpose of the lives of animals, unless peradventure they are

designed to be of service to man. But this, too, will not hold, for

with many animals man can do nothing—except describe, classify and

study them; and countless species have declined to be put even to this

use, by living and dying and becoming extinct before men had set eyes

upon them. So again, only religion is able to answer the question of

the purpose of life. One can hardly go wrong in concluding that the

idea of a purpose in life stands and falls with the religious system.

We will turn, therefore, to the less ambitious problem, what the

behaviour of men themselves reveals as the purpose and object of their

lives, what they demand of life and wish to attain in it. The answer

to this can hardly be in doubt: they seek happiness, they want to

become happy and to remain so. There are two sides to this striving, a

positive and a negative; it aims on the one hand at eliminating pain

and discomfort, on the other at the experience of intense pleasures. In

its narrower sense the word ‘happiness’ relates only to the last. Thus

human activities branch off in two directions—corresponding to this

double goal—according to which of the two they aim at realizing, either

predominantly or even exclusively.

As we see, it is simply the pleasure-principle which draws up the

programme of life’s purpose. This principle dominates the operation of

the mental apparatus from the very beginning; there can be no doubt

about its efficiency, and yet its programme is in conflict with the

whole world, with the macrocosm as much as with the microcosm. It

simply cannot be put into execution, the whole constitution of things

runs counter to it; one might say the intention that man should be

‘happy’ is not included in the scheme of ‘Creation’. What is called

happiness in its narrowest sense comes from the satisfaction—most often

instantaneous—of pent-up needs which have reached great intensity,

and by its very nature can only be a transitory experience. When any

condition desired by the pleasure-principle is protracted, it results

in a feeling only of mild comfort; we are so constituted that we

can only intensely enjoy contrasts, much less intensely states in

themselves.[7] Our possibilities of happiness are thus limited from

the start by our very constitution. It is much less difficult to be

unhappy. Suffering comes from three quarters: from our own body,

which is destined to decay and dissolution, and cannot even dispense

with anxiety and pain as danger-signals; from the outer world, which

can rage against us with the most powerful and pitiless forces of

destruction; and finally from our relations with other men. The

unhappiness which has this last origin we find perhaps more painful

than any other; we tend to regard it more or less as a gratuitous

addition, although it cannot be any less an inevitable fate than the

suffering that proceeds from other sources.

It is no wonder if, under the pressure of these possibilities of

suffering, humanity is wont to reduce its demands for happiness,

just as even the pleasure-principle itself changes into the more

accommodating reality-principle under the influence of external

environment; if a man thinks himself happy if he has merely escaped

unhappiness or weathered trouble; if in general the task of avoiding

pain forces that of obtaining pleasure into the background. Reflection

shows that there are very different ways of attempting to perform this

task; and all these ways have been recommended by the various schools

of wisdom in the art of life and put into practice by men. Unbridled

gratification of all desires forces itself into the foreground as the

most alluring guiding principle in life, but it entails preferring

enjoyment to caution and penalizes itself after short indulgence. The

other methods, in which avoidance of pain is the main motive, are

differentiated according to the source of the suffering against which

they are mainly directed. Some of these measures are extreme and some

moderate, some are one-sided and some deal with several aspects of the

matter at once. Voluntary loneliness, isolation from others, is the

readiest safeguard against the unhappiness that may arise out of human

relations. We know what this means: the happiness found along this

path is that of peace. Against the dreaded outer world one can defend

oneself only by turning away in some other direction, if the difficulty

is to be solved single-handed. There is indeed another and a better

way: that of combining with the rest of the human community and taking

up the attack on nature, thus forcing it to obey human will, under the

guidance of science. One is working then with all for the good of all.

But the most interesting methods for averting pain are those which aim

at influencing the organism itself. In the last analysis all pain is

but sensation; it only exists in so far as we feel it, and we feel it

only in consequence of certain characteristics of our organism.

The crudest of these methods of influencing the body, but also the most

effective, is the chemical one: that of intoxication. I do not think

anyone entirely understands their operation, but it is a fact that

there are certain substances foreign to the body which, when present

in the blood or tissues, directly cause us pleasurable sensations,

but also so change the conditions of our perceptivity that we become

insensible of disagreeable sensations. The two effects not only take

place simultaneously, they seem to be closely bound up with each other.

But there must be substances in the chemical composition of our bodies

which can do the same, for we know of at least one morbid state, that

of mania, in which a condition similar to this intoxication arises

without any drug being absorbed. Besides this, our normal mental

life shows variations, according to which pleasure is experienced

with more or less ease, and along with this goes a diminished or

increased sensitivity to pain. It is greatly to be regretted that

this toxic aspect of mental processes has so far eluded scientific

research. The services rendered by intoxicating substances in the

struggle for happiness and in warding off misery rank so highly as a

benefit that both individuals and races have given them an established

position within their libido-economy. It is not merely the immediate

gain in pleasure which one owes to them, but also a measure of that

independence of the outer world which is so sorely craved. Men know

that with the help they can get from ‘drowning their cares’ they can

at any time slip away from the oppression of reality and find a refuge

in a world of their own where painful feelings do not enter. We are

aware that it is just this property which constitutes the danger and

injuriousness of intoxicating substances. In certain circumstances

they are to blame when valuable energies which could have been used to

improve the lot of humanity are uselessly wasted.

The complicated structure of our mental apparatus admits, however,

of a whole series of other kinds of influence. The gratification of

instincts is happiness, but when the outer world lets us starve,

refuses us satisfaction of our needs, they become the cause of very

great suffering. So the hope is born that by influencing these impulses

one may escape some measure of suffering. This type of defence against

pain no longer relates to the sensory apparatus; it seeks to control

the internal sources of our needs themselves. An extreme form of it

consists in annihilation of the instincts, as taught by the wisdom of

the East and practised by the Yogi. When it succeeds, it is true, it

involves giving up all other activities as well (sacrificing the whole

of life), and again, by another path, the only happiness it brings is

that of peace. The same way is taken when the aim is less extreme and

only control of the instincts is sought. When this is so, the higher

mental systems which recognize the reality-principle have the upper

hand. The aim of gratification is by no means abandoned in this case;

a certain degree of protection against suffering is secured, in that

lack of satisfaction causes less pain when the instincts are kept in

check than when they are unbridled. On the other hand, this brings with

it an undeniable reduction in the degree of enjoyment obtainable. The

feeling of happiness produced by indulgence of a wild, untamed craving

is incomparably more intense than is the satisfying of a curbed

desire. The irresistibility of perverted impulses, perhaps the charm of

forbidden things generally, may in this way be explained economically.

Another method of guarding against pain is by using the

libido-displacements that our mental equipment allows of, by

which it gains so greatly in flexibility. The task is then one of

transferring the instinctual aims into such directions that they

cannot be frustrated by the outer world. Sublimation of the instincts

lends an aid in this. Its success is greatest when a man knows how

to heighten sufficiently his capacity for obtaining pleasure from

mental and intellectual work. Fate has little power against him then.

This kind of satisfaction, such as the artist’s joy in creation, in

embodying his phantasies, or the scientist’s in solving problems or

discovering truth, has a special quality which we shall certainly one

day be able to define metapsychologically. Until then we can only

say metaphorically it seems to us ‘higher and finer’, but compared

with that of gratifying gross primitive instincts, its intensity is

tempered and diffused; it does not overwhelm us physically. The weak

point of this method, however, is that it is not generally applicable;

it is only available to the few. It presupposes special gifts and

dispositions which are not very commonly found in a sufficient degree.

And even to these few it does not secure complete protection against

suffering; it gives no invulnerable armour against the arrows of

fate, and it usually fails when a man’s own body becomes a source of

suffering to him.[8]

This behaviour reveals clearly enough its aim—that of making oneself

independent of the external world, by looking for happiness in the

inner things of the mind; in the next method the same features are even

more marked. The connection with reality is looser still; satisfaction

is obtained through illusions, which are recognized as such, without

the discrepancy between them and reality being allowed to interfere

with the pleasure they give. These illusions are derived from the life

of phantasy which, at the time when the sense of reality developed,

was expressly exempted from the demands of the reality-test and set

apart for the purpose of fulfilling wishes which would be very hard to

realize. At the head of these phantasy-pleasures stands the enjoyment

of works of art which through the agency of the artist is opened to

those who cannot themselves create.[9] Those who are sensitive to the

influence of art do not know how to rate it high enough as a source of

happiness and consolation in life. Yet art affects us but as a mild

narcotic and can provide no more than a temporary refuge for us from

the hardships of life; its influence is not strong enough to make us

forget real misery.

Another method operates more energetically and thoroughly; it regards

reality as the source of all suffering, as the one and only enemy,

with whom life is intolerable and with whom therefore all relations

must be broken off if one is to be happy in any way at all. The hermit

turns his back on this world; he will have nothing to do with it. But

one can do more than that; one can try to re-create it, try to build up

another instead, from which the most unbearable features are eliminated

and replaced by others corresponding to one’s own wishes. He who in

his despair and defiance sets out on this path will not as a rule get

very far; reality will be too strong for him. He becomes a madman and

usually finds no one to help him in carrying through his delusion. It

is said, however, that each one of us behaves in some respect like the

paranoiac, substituting a wish-fulfilment for some aspect of the world

which is unbearable to him, and carrying this delusion through into

reality. When a large number of people make this attempt together and

try to obtain assurance of happiness and protection from suffering by a

delusional transformation of reality it acquires special significance.

The religions of humanity, too, must be classified as mass-delusions of

this kind. Needless to say, no one who shares a delusion recognizes it

as such.

I do not suppose that I have enumerated all the methods by which men

strive to win happiness and keep suffering at bay, and I know, too,

that the material might have been arranged differently. One of these

methods I have not yet mentioned at all—not because I had forgotten

it, but because it will interest us in another connection. How would

it be possible to forget this way of all others of practising the art

of life! It is conspicuous for its remarkable capacity to combine

characteristic features. Needless to say, it, too, strives to bring

about independence of fate—as we may best call it—and with this object

it looks for satisfaction within the mind, and uses the capacity for

displacing libido which we mentioned before, but it does not turn

away from the outer world; on the contrary, it takes a firm hold of

its objects and obtains happiness from an emotional relation to them.

Nor is it content to strive for avoidance of pain—that goal of weary

resignation; rather it passes that by heedlessly and holds fast to

the deep-rooted, passionate striving for a positive fulfilment of

happiness. Perhaps it really comes nearer to this goal than any other

method. I am speaking, of course, of that way of life which makes love

the centre of all things and anticipates all happiness from loving and

being loved. This attitude is familiar enough to all of us; one of the

forms in which love manifests itself, sexual love, gives us our most

intense experience of an overwhelming pleasurable sensation and so

furnishes a prototype for our strivings after happiness. What is more

natural than that we should persist in seeking happiness along the path

by which we first encountered it? The weak side of this way of living

is clearly evident; and were it not for this, no human being would ever

have thought of abandoning this path to happiness in favour of any

other. We are never so defenceless against suffering as when we love,

never so forlornly unhappy as when we have lost our love-object or its

love. But this does not complete the story of that way of life which

bases happiness on love; there is much more to be said about it.

We may here go on to consider the interesting case in which happiness

in life is sought first and foremost in the enjoyment of beauty,

wherever it is to be found by our senses and our judgement, the beauty

of human forms and movements, of natural objects, of landscapes,

of artistic and even scientific creations. As a goal in life this

aesthetic attitude offers little protection against the menace

of suffering, but it is able to compensate for a great deal. The

enjoyment of beauty produces a particular, mildly intoxicating kind

of sensation. There is no very evident use in beauty; the necessity

of it for cultural purposes is not apparent, and yet civilization

could not do without it. The science of aesthetics investigates the

conditions in which things are regarded as beautiful; it can give no

explanation of the nature or origin of beauty; as usual, its lack of

results is concealed under a flood of resounding and meaningless words.

Unfortunately, psycho-analysis, too, has less to say about beauty than

about most things. Its derivation from the realms of sexual sensation

is all that seems certain; the love of beauty is a perfect example of

a feeling with an inhibited aim. ‘Beauty’ and ‘attraction’ are first

of all the attributes of a sexual object. It is remarkable that the

genitals themselves, the sight of which is always exciting, are hardly

ever regarded as beautiful; the quality of beauty seems, on the other

hand, to attach to certain secondary sexual characters.

In spite of the incompleteness of these considerations, I will venture

on a few remarks in conclusion of this discussion. The goal towards

which the pleasure-principle impels us—of becoming happy—is not

attainable; yet we may not—nay, cannot—give up the effort to come

nearer to realization of it by some means or other. Very different

paths may be taken towards it: some pursue the positive aspect of the

aim, attainment of pleasure; others the negative, avoidance of pain.

By none of these ways can we achieve all that we desire. In that

modified sense in which we have seen it to be attainable, happiness is

a problem of the economics of the libido in each individual. There is

no sovereign recipe in this matter which suits all; each one must find

out for himself by which particular means he may achieve felicity. All

kinds of different factors will operate to influence his choice. It

depends on how much real gratification he is likely to obtain in the

external world, and how far he will find it necessary to make himself

independent of it; finally, too, on the belief he has in himself of his

power to alter it in accordance with his wishes. Even at this stage

the mental constitution of the individual will play a decisive part,

aside from any external considerations. The man who is predominantly

erotic will choose emotional relationships with others before all

else; the narcissistic type, who is more self-sufficient, will seek

his essential satisfactions in the inner workings of his own soul; the

man of action will never abandon the external world in which he can

essay his power. The interests of narcissistic types will be determined

by their particular gifts and the degree of instinctual sublimation

of which they are capable. When any choice is pursued to an extreme

it penalizes itself, in that it exposes the individual to the dangers

accompanying any one exclusive life-interest which may always prove

inadequate. Just as a cautious business-man avoids investing all his

capital in one concern, so wisdom would probably admonish us also not

to anticipate all our happiness from one quarter alone. Success is

never certain; it depends on the co-operation of many factors, perhaps

on none more than the capacity of the mental constitution to adapt

itself to the outer world and then utilize this last for obtaining

pleasure. Anyone who is born with a specially unfavourable instinctual

constitution, and whose libido-components do not go through the

transformation and modification necessary for successful achievement

in later life, will find it hard to obtain happiness from his external

environment, especially if he is faced with the more difficult tasks.

One last possibility of dealing with life remains to such people and

it offers them at least substitute-gratifications; it takes the form

of the flight into neurotic illness, and they mostly adopt it while

they are still young. Those whose efforts to obtain happiness come to

nought in later years still find consolation in the pleasure of chronic

intoxication, or else they embark upon that despairing attempt at

revolt—psychosis.

Religion circumscribes these measures of choice and adaptation by

urging upon everyone alike its single way of achieving happiness and

guarding against pain. Its method consists in decrying the value of

life and promulgating a view of the real world that is distorted like a

delusion, and both of these imply a preliminary intimidating influence

upon intelligence. At such a cost—by the forcible imposition of mental

infantilism and inducing a mass-delusion—religion succeeds in saving

many people from individual neuroses. But little more. There are, as we

have said, many paths by which the happiness attainable for man can be

reached, but none which is certain to take him to it. Nor can religion

keep her promises either. When the faithful find themselves reduced in

the end to speaking of God’s ‘inscrutable decree’, they thereby avow

that all that is left to them in their sufferings is unconditional

submission as a last-remaining consolation and source of happiness. And

if a man is willing to come to this, he could probably have arrived

there by a shorter road.