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An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding by David Hume et al

D >> David Hume et al >> An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding

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AN ENQUIRY CONCERNING HUMAN UNDERSTANDING.

BY DAVID HUME



Extracted from:
Enquiries Concerning the Human Understanding, and Concerning the
Principles of Morals, By David Hume.

Reprinted from The Posthumous Edition of 1777, and Edited with
Introduction, Comparative Tables of Contents, and Analytical Index
by L.A. Selby-Bigge, M.A., Late Fellow of University College, Oxford.

Second Edition, 1902






CONTENTS


I. Of the different Species of Philosophy
II. Of the Origin of Ideas
III. Of the Association of Ideas
IV. Sceptical Doubts concerning the Operations of the Understanding
V. Sceptical Solution of these Doubts
VI. Of Probability
VII. Of the Idea of necessary Connexion
VIII. Of Liberty and Necessity
IX. Of the Reason of Animals
X. Of Miracles
XI. Of a particular Providence and of a future State
XII. Of the academical or sceptical Philosophy



INDEX




SECTION I.

OF THE DIFFERENT SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY.


1. Moral philosophy, or the science of human nature, may be treated
after two different manners; each of which has its peculiar merit, and
may contribute to the entertainment, instruction, and reformation of
mankind. The one considers man chiefly as born for action; and as
influenced in his measures by taste and sentiment; pursuing one object,
and avoiding another, according to the value which these objects seem to
possess, and according to the light in which they present themselves. As
virtue, of all objects, is allowed to be the most valuable, this species
of philosophers paint her in the most amiable colours; borrowing all
helps from poetry and eloquence, and treating their subject in an easy
and obvious manner, and such as is best fitted to please the
imagination, and engage the affections. They select the most striking
observations and instances from common life; place opposite characters
in a proper contrast; and alluring us into the paths of virtue by the
views of glory and happiness, direct our steps in these paths by the
soundest precepts and most illustrious examples. They make us _feel_ the
difference between vice and virtue; they excite and regulate our
sentiments; and so they can but bend our hearts to the love of probity
and true honour, they think, that they have fully attained the end of
all their labours.

2. The other species of philosophers consider man in the light of a
reasonable rather than an active being, and endeavour to form his
understanding more than cultivate his manners. They regard human nature
as a subject of speculation; and with a narrow scrutiny examine it, in
order to find those principles, which regulate our understanding, excite
our sentiments, and make us approve or blame any particular object,
action, or behaviour. They think it a reproach to all literature, that
philosophy should not yet have fixed, beyond controversy, the foundation
of morals, reasoning, and criticism; and should for ever talk of truth
and falsehood, vice and virtue, beauty and deformity, without being able
to determine the source of these distinctions. While they attempt this
arduous task, they are deterred by no difficulties; but proceeding from
particular instances to general principles, they still push on their
enquiries to principles more general, and rest not satisfied till they
arrive at those original principles, by which, in every science, all
human curiosity must be bounded. Though their speculations seem
abstract, and even unintelligible to common readers, they aim at the
approbation of the learned and the wise; and think themselves
sufficiently compensated for the labour of their whole lives, if they
can discover some hidden truths, which may contribute to the instruction
of posterity.

3. It is certain that the easy and obvious philosophy will always, with
the generality of mankind, have the preference above the accurate and
abstruse; and by many will be recommended, not only as more agreeable,
but more useful than the other. It enters more into common life; moulds
the heart and affections; and, by touching those principles which
actuate men, reforms their conduct, and brings them nearer to that model
of perfection which it describes. On the contrary, the abstruse
philosophy, being founded on a turn of mind, which cannot enter into
business and action, vanishes when the philosopher leaves the shade, and
comes into open day; nor can its principles easily retain any influence
over our conduct and behaviour. The feelings of our heart, the agitation
of our passions, the vehemence of our affections, dissipate all its
conclusions, and reduce the profound philosopher to a mere plebeian.

4. This also must be confessed, that the most durable, as well as
justest fame, has been acquired by the easy philosophy, and that
abstract reasoners seem hitherto to have enjoyed only a momentary
reputation, from the caprice or ignorance of their own age, but have not
been able to support their renown with more equitable posterity. It is
easy for a profound philosopher to commit a mistake in his subtile
reasonings; and one mistake is the necessary parent of another, while he
pushes on his consequences, and is not deterred from embracing any
conclusion, by its unusual appearance, or its contradiction to popular
opinion. But a philosopher, who purposes only to represent the common
sense of mankind in more beautiful and more engaging colours, if by
accident he falls into error, goes no farther; but renewing his appeal
to common sense, and the natural sentiments of the mind, returns into
the right path, and secures himself from any dangerous illusions. The
fame of Cicero flourishes at present; but that of Aristotle is utterly
decayed. La Bruyere passes the seas, and still maintains his reputation:
But the glory of Malebranche is confined to his own nation, and to his
own age. And Addison, perhaps, will be read with pleasure, when Locke
shall be entirely forgotten.

The mere philosopher is a character, which is commonly but little
acceptable in the world, as being supposed to contribute nothing either
to the advantage or pleasure of society; while he lives remote from
communication with mankind, and is wrapped up in principles and notions
equally remote from their comprehension. On the other hand, the mere
ignorant is still more despised; nor is any thing deemed a surer sign of
an illiberal genius in an age and nation where the sciences flourish,
than to be entirely destitute of all relish for those noble
entertainments. The most perfect character is supposed to lie between
those extremes; retaining an equal ability and taste for books, company,
and business; preserving in conversation that discernment and delicacy
which arise from polite letters; and in business, that probity and
accuracy which are the natural result of a just philosophy. In order to
diffuse and cultivate so accomplished a character, nothing can be more
useful than compositions of the easy style and manner, which draw not
too much from life, require no deep application or retreat to be
comprehended, and send back the student among mankind full of noble
sentiments and wise precepts, applicable to every exigence of human
life. By means of such compositions, virtue becomes amiable, science
agreeable, company instructive, and retirement entertaining.

Man is a reasonable being; and as such, receives from science his proper
food and nourishment: But so narrow are the bounds of human
understanding, that little satisfaction can be hoped for in this
particular, either from the extent of security or his acquisitions. Man
is a sociable, no less than a reasonable being: But neither can he
always enjoy company agreeable and amusing, or preserve the proper
relish for them. Man is also an active being; and from that disposition,
as well as from the various necessities of human life, must submit to
business and occupation: But the mind requires some relaxation, and
cannot always support its bent to care and industry. It seems, then,
that nature has pointed out a mixed kind of life as most suitable to the
human race, and secretly admonished them to allow none of these biasses
to _draw_ too much, so as to incapacitate them for other occupations and
entertainments. Indulge your passion for science, says she, but let your
science be human, and such as may have a direct reference to action and
society. Abstruse thought and profound researches I prohibit, and will
severely punish, by the pensive melancholy which they introduce, by the
endless uncertainty in which they involve you, and by the cold reception
which your pretended discoveries shall meet with, when communicated. Be
a philosopher; but, amidst all your philosophy, be still a man.

5. Were the generality of mankind contented to prefer the easy
philosophy to the abstract and profound, without throwing any blame or
contempt on the latter, it might not be improper, perhaps, to comply
with this general opinion, and allow every man to enjoy, without
opposition, his own taste and sentiment. But as the matter is often
carried farther, even to the absolute rejecting of all profound
reasonings, or what is commonly called _metaphysics_, we shall now
proceed to consider what can reasonably be pleaded in their behalf.

We may begin with observing, that one considerable advantage, which
results from the accurate and abstract philosophy, is, its subserviency
to the easy and humane; which, without the former, can never attain a
sufficient degree of exactness in its sentiments, precepts, or
reasonings. All polite letters are nothing but pictures of human life in
various attitudes and situations; and inspire us with different
sentiments, of praise or blame, admiration or ridicule, according to the
qualities of the object, which they set before us. An artist must be
better qualified to succeed in this undertaking, who, besides a delicate
taste and a quick apprehension, possesses an accurate knowledge of the
internal fabric, the operations of the understanding, the workings of
the passions, and the various species of sentiment which discriminate
vice and virtue. How painful soever this inward search or enquiry may
appear, it becomes, in some measure, requisite to those, who would
describe with success the obvious and outward appearances of life and
manners. The anatomist presents to the eye the most hideous and
disagreeable objects; but his science is useful to the painter in
delineating even a Venus or an Helen. While the latter employs all the
richest colours of his art, and gives his figures the most graceful and
engaging airs; he must still carry his attention to the inward structure
of the human body, the position of the muscles, the fabric of the bones,
and the use and figure of every part or organ. Accuracy is, in every
case, advantageous to beauty, and just reasoning to delicate sentiment.
In vain would we exalt the one by depreciating the other.

Besides, we may observe, in every art or profession, even those which
most concern life or action, that a spirit of accuracy, however
acquired, carries all of them nearer their perfection, and renders them
more subservient to the interests of society. And though a philosopher
may live remote from business, the genius of philosophy, if carefully
cultivated by several, must gradually diffuse itself throughout the
whole society, and bestow a similar correctness on every art and
calling. The politician will acquire greater foresight and subtility, in
the subdividing and balancing of power; the lawyer more method and finer
principles in his reasonings; and the general more regularity in his
discipline, and more caution in his plans and operations. The stability
of modern governments above the ancient, and the accuracy of modern
philosophy, have improved, and probably will still improve, by similar
gradations.

6. Were there no advantage to be reaped from these studies, beyond the
gratification of an innocent curiosity, yet ought not even this to be
despised; as being one accession to those few safe and harmless
pleasures, which are bestowed on human race. The sweetest and most
inoffensive path of life leads through the avenues of science and
learning; and whoever can either remove any obstructions in this way, or
open up any new prospect, ought so far to be esteemed a benefactor to
mankind. And though these researches may appear painful and fatiguing,
it is with some minds as with some bodies, which being endowed with
vigorous and florid health, require severe exercise, and reap a pleasure
from what, to the generality of mankind, may seem burdensome and
laborious. Obscurity, indeed, is painful to the mind as well as to the
eye; but to bring light from obscurity, by whatever labour, must needs
be delightful and rejoicing.

But this obscurity in the profound and abstract philosophy, is objected
to, not only as painful and fatiguing, but as the inevitable source of
uncertainty and error. Here indeed lies the justest and most plausible
objection against a considerable part of metaphysics, that they are not
properly a science; but arise either from the fruitless efforts of human
vanity, which would penetrate into subjects utterly inaccessible to the
understanding, or from the craft of popular superstitions, which, being
unable to defend themselves on fair ground, raise these intangling
brambles to cover and protect their weakness. Chaced from the open
country, these robbers fly into the forest, and lie in wait to break in
upon every unguarded avenue of the mind, and overwhelm it with religious
fears and prejudices. The stoutest antagonist, if he remit his watch a
moment, is oppressed. And many, through cowardice and folly, open the
gates to the enemies, and willingly receive them with reverence and
submission, as their legal sovereigns.

7. But is this a sufficient reason, why philosophers should desist from
such researches, and leave superstition still in possession of her
retreat? Is it not proper to draw an opposite conclusion, and perceive
the necessity of carrying the war into the most secret recesses of the
enemy? In vain do we hope, that men, from frequent disappointment, will
at last abandon such airy sciences, and discover the proper province of
human reason. For, besides, that many persons find too sensible an
interest in perpetually recalling such topics; besides this, I say, the
motive of blind despair can never reasonably have place in the sciences;
since, however unsuccessful former attempts may have proved, there is
still room to hope, that the industry, good fortune, or improved
sagacity of succeeding generations may reach discoveries unknown to
former ages. Each adventurous genius will still leap at the arduous
prize, and find himself stimulated, rather that discouraged, by the
failures of his predecessors; while he hopes that the glory of achieving
so hard an adventure is reserved for him alone. The only method of
freeing learning, at once, from these abstruse questions, is to enquire
seriously into the nature of human understanding, and show, from an
exact analysis of its powers and capacity, that it is by no means fitted
for such remote and abstruse subjects. We must submit to this fatigue,
in order to live at ease ever after: And must cultivate true metaphysics
with some care, in order to destroy the false and adulterate. Indolence,
which, to some persons, affords a safeguard against this deceitful
philosophy, is, with others, overbalanced by curiosity; and despair,
which, at some moments, prevails, may give place afterwards to sanguine
hopes and expectations. Accurate and just reasoning is the only catholic
remedy, fitted for all persons and all dispositions; and is alone able
to subvert that abstruse philosophy and metaphysical jargon, which,
being mixed up with popular superstition, renders it in a manner
impenetrable to careless reasoners, and gives it the air of science
and wisdom.

8. Besides this advantage of rejecting, after deliberate enquiry, the
most uncertain and disagreeable part of learning, there are many
positive advantages, which result from an accurate scrutiny into the
powers and faculties of human nature. It is remarkable concerning the
operations of the mind, that, though most intimately present to us, yet,
whenever they become the object of reflexion, they seem involved in
obscurity; nor can the eye readily find those lines and boundaries,
which discriminate and distinguish them. The objects are too fine to
remain long in the same aspect or situation; and must be apprehended in
an instant, by a superior penetration, derived from nature, and improved
by habit and reflexion. It becomes, therefore, no inconsiderable part of
science barely to know the different operations of the mind, to separate
them from each other, to class them under their proper heads, and to
correct all that seeming disorder, in which they lie involved, when made
the object of reflexion and enquiry. This talk of ordering and
distinguishing, which has no merit, when performed with regard to
external bodies, the objects of our senses, rises in its value, when
directed towards the operations of the mind, in proportion to the
difficulty and labour, which we meet with in performing it. And if we
can go no farther than this mental geography, or delineation of the
distinct parts and powers of the mind, it is at least a satisfaction to
go so far; and the more obvious this science may appear (and it is by no
means obvious) the more contemptible still must the ignorance of it be
esteemed, in all pretenders to learning and philosophy.

Nor can there remain any suspicion, that this science is uncertain and
chimerical; unless we should entertain such a scepticism as is entirely
subversive of all speculation, and even action. It cannot be doubted,
that the mind is endowed with several powers and faculties, that these
powers are distinct from each other, that what is really distinct to the
immediate perception may be distinguished by reflexion; and
consequently, that there is a truth and falsehood in all propositions on
this subject, and a truth and falsehood, which lie not beyond the
compass of human understanding. There are many obvious distinctions of
this kind, such as those between the will and understanding, the
imagination and passions, which fall within the comprehension of every
human creature; and the finer and more philosophical distinctions are no
less real and certain, though more difficult to be comprehended. Some
instances, especially late ones, of success in these enquiries, may give
us a juster notion of the certainty and solidity of this branch of
learning. And shall we esteem it worthy the labour of a philosopher to
give us a true system of the planets, and adjust the position and order
of those remote bodies; while we affect to overlook those, who, with so
much success, delineate the parts of the mind, in which we are so
intimately concerned?

9. But may we not hope, that philosophy, if cultivated with care, and
encouraged by the attention of the public, may carry its researches
still farther, and discover, at least in some degree, the secret springs
and principles, by which the human mind is actuated in its operations?
Astronomers had long contented themselves with proving, from the
phaenomena, the true motions, order, and magnitude of the heavenly
bodies: Till a philosopher, at last, arose, who seems, from the happiest
reasoning, to have also determined the laws and forces, by which the
revolutions of the planets are governed and directed. The like has been
performed with regard to other parts of nature. And there is no reason
to despair of equal success in our enquiries concerning the mental
powers and economy, if prosecuted with equal capacity and caution. It is
probable, that one operation and principle of the mind depends on
another; which, again, may be resolved into one more general and
universal: And how far these researches may possibly be carried, it will
be difficult for us, before, or even after, a careful trial, exactly to
determine. This is certain, that attempts of this kind are every day
made even by those who philosophize the most negligently: And nothing
can be more requisite than to enter upon the enterprize with thorough
care and attention; that, if it lie within the compass of human
understanding, it may at last be happily achieved; if not, it may,
however, be rejected with some confidence and security. This last
conclusion, surely, is not desirable; nor ought it to be embraced too
rashly. For how much must we diminish from the beauty and value of this
species of philosophy, upon such a supposition? Moralists have hitherto
been accustomed, when they considered the vast multitude and diversity
of those actions that excite our approbation or dislike, to search for
some common principle, on which this variety of sentiments might depend.
And though they have sometimes carried the matter too far, by their
passion for some one general principle; it must, however, be confessed,
that they are excusable in expecting to find some general principles,
into which all the vices and virtues were justly to be resolved. The
like has been the endeavour of critics, logicians, and even politicians:
Nor have their attempts been wholly unsuccessful; though perhaps longer
time, greater accuracy, and more ardent application may bring these
sciences still nearer their perfection. To throw up at once all
pretensions of this kind may justly be deemed more rash, precipitate,
and dogmatical, than even the boldest and most affirmative philosophy,
that has ever attempted to impose its crude dictates and principles
on mankind.

10. What though these reasonings concerning human nature seem abstract,
and of difficult comprehension? This affords no presumption of their
falsehood. On the contrary, it seems impossible, that what has hitherto
escaped so many wise and profound philosophers can be very obvious and
easy. And whatever pains these researches may cost us, we may think
ourselves sufficiently rewarded, not only in point of profit but of
pleasure, if, by that means, we can make any addition to our stock of
knowledge, in subjects of such unspeakable importance.

But as, after all, the abstractedness of these speculations is no
recommendation, but rather a disadvantage to them, and as this
difficulty may perhaps be surmounted by care and art, and the avoiding
of all unnecessary detail, we have, in the following enquiry, attempted
to throw some light upon subjects, from which uncertainty has hitherto
deterred the wise, and obscurity the ignorant. Happy, if we can unite
the boundaries of the different species of philosophy, by reconciling
profound enquiry with clearness, and truth with novelty! And still more
happy, if, reasoning in this easy manner, we can undermine the
foundations of an abstruse philosophy, which seems to have hitherto
served only as a shelter to superstition, and a cover to absurdity
and error!



SECTION II.

OF THE ORIGIN OF IDEAS.


11. Every one will readily allow, that there is a considerable
difference between the perceptions of the mind, when a man feels the
pain of excessive heat, or the pleasure of moderate warmth, and when he
afterwards recalls to his memory this sensation, or anticipates it by
his imagination. These faculties may mimic or copy the perceptions of
the senses; but they never can entirely reach the force and vivacity of
the original sentiment. The utmost we say of them, even when they
operate with greatest vigour, is, that they represent their object in so
lively a manner, that we could _almost_ say we feel or see it: But,
except the mind be disordered by disease or madness, they never can
arrive at such a pitch of vivacity, as to render these perceptions
altogether undistinguishable. All the colours of poetry, however
splendid, can never paint natural objects in such a manner as to make
the description be taken for a real landskip. The most lively thought is
still inferior to the dullest sensation.

We may observe a like distinction to run through all the other
perceptions of the mind. A man in a fit of anger, is actuated in a very
different manner from one who only thinks of that emotion. If you tell
me, that any person is in love, I easily understand your meaning, and
form a just conception of his situation; but never can mistake that
conception for the real disorders and agitations of the passion. When we
reflect on our past sentiments and affections, our thought is a faithful
mirror, and copies its objects truly; but the colours which it employs
are faint and dull, in comparison of those in which our original
perceptions were clothed. It requires no nice discernment or
metaphysical head to mark the distinction between them.

12. Here therefore we may divide all the perceptions of the mind into
two classes or species, which are distinguished by their different
degrees of force and vivacity. The less forcible and lively are commonly
denominated _Thoughts_ or _Ideas_. The other species want a name in our
language, and in most others; I suppose, because it was not requisite
for any, but philosophical purposes, to rank them under a general term
or appellation. Let us, therefore, use a little freedom, and call them
_Impressions_; employing that word in a sense somewhat different from
the usual. By the term _impression_, then, I mean all our more lively
perceptions, when we hear, or see, or feel, or love, or hate, or desire,
or will. And impressions are distinguished from ideas, which are the
less lively perceptions, of which we are conscious, when we reflect on
any of those sensations or movements above mentioned.

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Under the Sun: The Letters of Bruce Chatwin

We all want to be happy, we want our children to be happy, and there are countless books advising us how to achieve happiness. But is this really what we should be aiming for?

"A fly bothers me, I kill it: you kill what bothers you. If I had not killed the fly, it would have been out of pure liberalism: I am liberal in order not to be a killer."

Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes

'He was not to be described as a happy person," Diana Trilling wrote in a memoir about her husband, the critic Lionel Trilling. "Indeed, he thought poorly of happiness and of people who claimed to be happy or desired happiness above other gratifications in life . . . seriousness was the desirable condition of man." It is easy to make all sorts of assumptions about why an unhappy person would not value happiness; and indeed why seriousness might be seen as an alternative to happiness; or just to say that it was seriousness that made Trilling happy. One of the ways in which happiness is made to seem like an inclusive ideal – the ways it charms us – is by our asserting that by definition the things that matter most to us must make us happy, that that is how we know they are good. It's as though one word could do the work of the moral imagination.

Or can we just say that if happiness is one's aspiration, then learning about the history of the slave trade, say, or watching the news, or indeed ageing are all to be avoided. And yet learning about the terrible things people can do to each other, and the history of the terrible things people have done to each other, is important – we can't imagine a life without it – and gives some people a great deal of pleasure; pleasure, as psychoanalysts might say, of various kinds. Anyone who has or knows children, or remembers being a child, will know how happy it can make them tormenting their siblings. And so if we value happiness we can't help but wonder what morality it entails, what kind of morality it might involve us in.

It is not surprising, in other words, that happiness has always had rather a mixed reception. No one in their right minds we might think, especially now, would be promoting unhappiness; and yet the promotion, the preferring of happiness – the assumption of a right to happiness – brings with it a lot of things we might not like. And the desire for happiness may reveal things about ourselves that we like even less. "A people who conceive life to be the pursuit of happiness must be chronically unhappy," the anthropologist Marshall Sahlins wrote.

What are we going to have to do, what are we going to have to become, what are we going to have to renounce or ignore if we want to be happy? Or if we are to propose happiness, or its pursuit, as some kind of right? We tend to make rights of things we assume to be in short supply, things perpetually under threat. Wherever there is scarcity now human rights are asserted; and the assertion of rights is reactive to a sense of scarcity deemed to be needless. Or, to put it slightly differently, calling something a right can be a way of rhetorically enforcing an important wish, a way of making a wish sound important.

I want to begin with three fairly obvious propositions that are also misgivings about the right to happiness or its pursuit. And I'd like to suggest that the right to frustration may be more useful and interesting – more enlivening – than the right to happiness. That's to say I want to waylay the common, all-too-plausible idea that the solution to frustration is satisfaction, or that happiness is the answer to unhappiness, or that if we get rid of the bad things, the good things will start happening. Happiness and the right to pursue it are sometimes wildly unrealistic as ideals; and, because wildly unrealistic, unconsciously self-destructive.

Because happiness is not always the kind of thing that can be pursued, we should view it, more often than not, as a lucky side effect but not a calculable or calculated end. Making it such an end all too easily brings out the worst in us. If this is a version, to rewrite John Lennon's famous line, of "happiness is what happens to you when you are doing something else", it also suggests that scarcity is integral to a sense of reality; that we should be thinking of what Philip Larkin in "Born Yesterday" called "a skilled, / Vigilant, flexible, / Unemphasised, enthralled / Catching of happiness" rather than the engineering of it.

Our relation to happiness often betrays an unconscious desire for disillusionment. The wanting of it and the having of it can seem like two quite different things. And this is what makes wishing so interesting; because wishing is always too knowing. When we wish we are too convinced of our pleasures, too certain that we know what we want. The belief that we can arrange our happiness – as though happiness were akin to justice, which we can work towards – may be to misrecognise the very thing that concerns us.

My three fairly obvious propositions are: first, in Freud's formulation from Civilisation and its Discontents, "happiness is something essentially subjective" (subjective I take it, in the sense of being not only personal but idiosyncratic). We can be surprised by what makes us happy, and it will not necessarily be something that makes other people happy. This has significant consequences not least in the area of our lives that is sometimes conducive to happiness, sexuality. And this makes happiness as a social or communal pursuit complicated. We have only to imagine what it would be for someone to propose that we had a right to sexual satisfaction to imagine both how we might contrive this and what terrible things might be done in its name.

Second, bad things can make us happy – and by bad things I mean things consensually agreed to be unacceptable. It clearly makes some people happy to live in a world without Jews, or homosexuals, or immigrants, and so on. There are also what we might call genuinely bad things, like seriously harming people and other animals, that gives some people the pleasure they most crave. I remember a very unhappy boy of 10 telling me in a psychotherapy session that he was only happy when he was cutting the feet off rats that he had caught. He said it made him feel "really awake", that it was like "turning on the light in your favourite room in the world". Cruelty and humiliation make some people happy, perhaps lots of people happy some of the time; and this issue is not dealt with merely by saying that they are not really happy or that they are in some way perverse or sick. We tend to pathologise the forms of happiness we cannot bear. If we are to have a right to happiness or to its pursuit – two different things – we must then acknowledge the full range of things that make people happy. This means taking them at their word. Cruelty can make people happy. And we might then want to think about what problem, or rather problems, happiness is deemed to be the solution to. It is not, for example, incidental to our predicament that so many of our pleasures are, or are felt to be, forbidden (this is what Freud's account of the Oedipus complex is a way of thinking about). So put briefly – as every child and therefore every adult knows – being bad can make you happy. Happiness is subjective, it takes many forms, and one of its forms is immorality.

Last but not least – though the least exciting – is the third point: some people like being unhappy. Indeed for some people their lives can be construed as the pursuit of unhappiness. It is astounding the lengths to which some people will go to be unhappy, to contrive their own misery, as though happiness itself were a phobic object and held terrors. And we don't talk of the right to be unhappy, when we should. Unhappiness can, after all, among many other things, be the registration of injustice or loss. At its best, a culture committed to the pursuit of happiness might be committed, say, to the diminishing of injustice; but at its worst, the culture of happiness may proscribe a whole range of feelings and perceptions.

It is sometimes said that psychoanalysis is one of the last places in the culture where people are allowed to be unhappy. And clearly psychoanalysis protects, if it does not actually foster, a person's right to be unhappy. The subjectivity of happiness, what it is that the individual really loves and gets pleasure from, the immorality of pleasures and the lure of transgression, happiness as a perversion, the fear of pleasure and the masochistic solution – all this is the material of psychoanalysis, and not only of psychoanalysis.

Yet, historically, psychoanalysis is the inheritor of a set of political propositions it would seem to be at odds with; or at least at a very odd angle to. If Freud and happiness doesn't sound like a very promising subject, Freud and rights seems even less so (there's only one reference to the rights of man in Freud's work). Rights, like class, have never really been the thing for psychoanalysis; omissions, one would think, of some significance. Don't have much confidence in the so-called rights of man, Freud seems to say in his New Introductory Lectures; they are no match for the ferocity of inner morality – the super-ego, or "conscience". The whole business of rights only turns up when the individual, the melancholic individual, is briefly released from his internal regime ("For after a certain number of months the whole moral fuss is over, the criticism of the superego is silent, the ego is rehabilitated and again enjoys all the rights of man till the next attack.") Morality, at least in these patients, is periodic, as are the rights of man, the gift, as it were of a higher power.

"Our normal sense of guilt," Freud writes, "is the expression of the tension between the ego and the super-ego". This translates as: our happiness depends on the distance between who we are and who we should be according to the dictates of our internalised morality. We are mostly unhappy because we are rarely as we should be. When the internal authorities are so implacable and sadistic — over-severe, abusive, humiliating, as Freud writes — what are the possibilities for happiness?

The right to happiness, or to its pursuit, would mean the right to a generous super-ego, the right to a super-ego that was on the side of one's pleasure: one that promoted the view that feeling alive was more important than being right or good. It is one of Freud's more horrifying ironies that the pursuit of pleasure incites, calls up, the super-ego. And, of course, when and if pleasure is forbidden its pursuit requires punishment. There is no such thing as a free lunch. Virtue has to be its own reward. To pursue pleasure is to be pursued by punishment. There is no one more moralistic, more coercive, than a hedonist.

As the right to happiness or its pursuit is my subject, and I am by training a child psychotherapist, all this is by way of a lengthy preamble to putting together the famous sentence from Thomas Jefferson's Declaration of Independence with something from the paediatrician and psychoanalyst DW Winnicott's story about child development. I want to ask what, if anything, the right to happiness or its pursuit has to do with the child's development; whether Jefferson's founding declaration has anything to do with the declaration of independence that is the child's personal development.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness". Some of us might not believe in the Creator part now, and some of us might find more and more difficult the idea that people are born equal when the conditions in which they are born are manifestly so unequal; and most of us would want to assume that by "men" Jefferson meant "people". And yet, as many people have noted, the pursuit of happiness – something not mentioned in the French Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, nor in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights – seems peculiarly salient; it is the only one of the things listed that is a pursuit.

What exactly might it mean to have an "unalienable right" to "the pursuit of happiness", given that it is fairly obvious that the pursuit of happiness is so morally equivocal – could be, among other things, a threat to the society that promoted it? At first sight it seems to be a pretty good idea; if we are convinced of anything now we are convinced that we are pleasure-seeking creatures, who want to minimise the pain and frustration of our lives. Or at least a "we" could be consolidated around these beliefs. We are the creatures who, possibly unlike any other animal, pursue happiness. But the pursuit of happiness, like the pursuit of liberty – the utopian political projects of the 20th century – has legitimated some of the worst crimes of contemporary history across the political spectrum.

In Jefferson's Declaration, the art critic Dave Hickey has noted, "Happiness is not assured, but its pursuit is protected . . . the government will act to ensure our safety, and it will stand back as we act on our own behalf in the 'pursuit of happiness'. When that pursuit putatively threatens our safety the government invariably steps in. Safety trumps happiness, the government always wins." It is not too much of a stretch here to see, in this account, the government as the parents, and the citizens as adolescent children; the governmental parents protect the pursuit of happiness, but prioritise safety. The developing child pursues his own happiness under the rules and conditions provided by the adults. Children cannot bring themselves up, and children cannot bring up children (in Lord of the Flies the question recurs: "are there any adults?").

If it is said, or written, that we have a right to be happy or to pursue happiness, it is assumed that happiness is something we are capable of, something that is available, if certain obstacles are removed. If liberty is there when tyranny is taken away, happiness is there when whatever makes us unhappy is removed. From a pragmatic point of view the art of a good life involves removing the obstacles to happiness; the picture, if we visualise it, is of something looked for, something looked forward to, and of there being something in the way. And this something in the way could be called an unavailable mother, a prohibitive father, competing sibling, not having enough brains or beauty, or charm, or money, or education, or luck. We would get closer to our happiness were these things acquired; and a reality sense would be something to do with acknowledging which of these things cannot be acquired. It is all about, in short, our relation to obstacles; our distinguishing the intractable from the changeable, what we have to acknowledge from what we can influence; whether our desire is forbidden or not – whether we want a cream cake or another man's wife. It is, in pragmatic terms, about knowing what is possible. And everybody, it seems, is shadowed by an imaginary other person, a lucky counterpart, who gets all the happiness going; Lacan writes of "the jealousy born in a subject in his relation to an other, insofar as this other is held to enjoy a certain form of jouissance or superabundant vitality". This other person presumably enjoys his happiness, his super-abundant vitality with no conflict, with no thought of safety, with no consideration of the rules and conditions required by the good of the rest.

A right to the pursuit of happiness must be a right to remove the obstacles to happiness. This, at least, is the logic of the case. The man called the happiness tsar, Lord Layard, says we now know what makes children happy (the book he co-authored last year is called A Good Childhood). What, then, are the obstacles to the child's happiness, and why can't we set about trying to remove them? And some of them we can remove. But what if the so-called obstacles to happiness are, or sometimes are, among the things that matter most to us? If, say, we love both luxury and justice? What if two mutually exclusive things make us happy, and one has to be abrogated? And what if some obstacles are immovable, untransformable into anything other than obstacles?

There is something about the sexual drive, Freud suggested, that makes it intrinsically unsatisfiable. There are not infinite resources of food, of energy, of medicine. It is, for example, true, as every mother knows, that the mother cannot give the child everything that he wants, and that if she could it wouldn't be what he wanted. That everyone feels left out of something. It is misleading to think that one's parents have been the obstacle to one's happiness, even if they have radically thwarted it. Indeed we might end up thinking that a right to irresolvable conflict might be the most realistic right we could come up with. That the attempt to resolve at least some conflicts was a distraction from finding better ways of living them; that the right to pursue happiness has seduced us into pursuing happiness when we could have been doing something better.

If the alternative to happiness is not, in the binary way, unhappiness; and if happiness has become so insidious, so hypnotic a single end for a good life, why have we wanted this strange narrowing of our intent? What have we lost, or forgotten, or ignored, or paid insufficient attention to, or protected ourselves from by wanting happiness? Happiness, it would seem, is the most plausible of our aims in life. But what psychoanalysis can chip in with here is that we are at our most defensive when we are at our most plausible.

One of the other things we most want is to be able to feel frustrated; to register what we feel deprived of. Frustration issues in many things only one of which is happiness; and happiness can be, at its worst, a pre-emptive strike against frustration, a refuge from it rather than any kind of productive, unpredictable transformation of it. If we want to talk of a right to pursue happiness there needs to be a prior right, as it were, to feel frustration; to be able to bear and to bear with a sense of what is lacking in one's life. And not simply because frustration makes satisfaction possible in the way that hunger can make a meal delicious. But because frustration and satisfaction do not only or always have a logical, a causal, a pragmatic relationship with one another. Or to put it rather more obviously, what we are lacking when we are unhappy is not always happiness, any more than what an alcoholic is lacking is a drink. And proposing a right to the pursuit of happiness may seduce us, by a kind of word-magic, into thinking that happiness is just the thing.

It is of interest that when Winnicott writes about deprivation in children he too talks about rights. "Let us consider the meaning of the anti-social act," he writes in a paper called "The Deprived Child": "for instance, stealing. When a child steals what is sought . . . is not the object stolen; what is sought is the person, the mother from whom the child has the right to steal because she is the mother. In fact every infant at the start can truly claim the right to steal from the mother because the infant invented the mother, thought her up, created her out of an innate capacity to love."

For Winnicott, the child makes the mother he needs and gradually, through disillusionment and hatred, disentangles her, to some extent, from the mother she happens to be. But it is "the mother from whom the child has the right to steal because she is the mother" that I want to consider. Because the thing stolen is not quite or even nearly the thing wanted – which is not a thing, but a mother – it can never satisfy. What we have is a picture of the right to pursue happiness getting stuck, something I think it is prone to do; as though there is something about the pursuit of happiness that sponsors and endorses addiction. In this sense, consumer capitalism is a system tailor-made for deprived children.

The theft requires communicable translation; it requires, as it were, someone to be able to say, or otherwise communicate what it is that is really being pursued. In Winnicott's declaration the child has a right to the pursuit of a mother to get what he needs for his development. He is entitled to a mother; she belongs to him in the sense that his own development belongs to him. A good-enough mother or parents might give you the wherewithal for your pursuit of happiness; they might have backed your desire, helped you to believe in and not only be fearful of your pleasures. But it is more complicated than this. Lives are not the kind of things that can be guaranteed by mothers. And this is where the idea of a right to pursue one's own happiness becomes more interesting.

Do children want to be happy? And if they don't want to be happy what else might they want to be? This would seem to be of some importance because they are growing up in a world in which their parents mostly want them to be happy, or at least don't like them being unhappy, admittedly for a variety of different reasons. And by a world I mean the particular cultures for whom happiness has become the preferred object, or the preferred fetish. Children are supposed to be anti-depressants for their parents.

Happiness is something parents often demand of their children; we, as we say, want our children to be happy; we were once children who's parents wanted us to be happy. And that means the whole spectrum, from not being a worry to them, not making their lives more difficult, being curative of their woes, to the pleasure our parents could take in our pleasure and our wellbeing. We are more dependent on our children than they are on us; and we are dependent, in brief, on their happiness. What makes the child happy is not going to be unlinked to what makes the parents happy. Clearly if a parent lives as if their child has a right to happiness, or a right to its pursuit, and that they are the guardians of this right, they are going to have a difficult, an even more difficult, task on their hands. Lovers often feel that they should be making each other happy when they are in fact making themselves a problem to each other.

So by way of conclusion I want to suggest that a right to the pursuit of happiness is asserted when a capacity for absorption has been sabotaged, when there is a loss of confidence in people's passions. Happiness becomes important when the possibility for absorption is under threat. That the child does not want to be happy – or perhaps, more exactly, the child doesn't want only to be happy – the child wants first to be safe, and then to be absorbed. There are, for example, only two reasons for children to go to school – apart, that is, from acquiring the werewithal to earn a living: to make friends, and to see if they can find something of absorbing interest to themselves.

There is an interesting moment in Lord of the Flies when Henry, one of the "littluns", wanders away from the main group of children. "He went down to the beach and busied himself at the water's edge." William Golding writes: "There were creatures that lived in this last fling of the sea, tiny transparencies that came questing in with the water over the hot, dry sand. With impalpable organs of sense they examined this new field. Perhaps food had appeared where the last incursion there had been none . . . This was fascinating to Henry. He poked about with a bit of stick, that itself was wave-worn and whitened and a vagrant, and tried to control the motions of the scavengers . . . He became absorbed beyond mere happiness as he felt himself exercising control over living things."

The adult narrator can see Henry as in some way identified with these rudimentary scavengers; and the narrator intimates that without adults the children feel how much is out of control or under-controlled. And then there is the remarkable sentence: "He became absorbed beyond mere happiness as he felt himself exercising control over living things." He feels himself exercising control, but he is not, and his absorption is beyond, in excess of, mere happiness. Something else is wanted more than happiness by Henry, and it seems to be the exercise of control over living things, one of which is himself. It would be easy, and partly true, to say that what Henry is absorbed by here, what is beyond mere happiness, is power, control over living things. But Golding is clear about two things; it is an illusion of power – Golding refers to Henry having "the illusion of mastery" – and it is also the absorption itself that is beyond mere happiness. "He became absorbed beyond mere happiness." It is an illusion that absorbs him beyond happiness; in other words, he is playing. Absorption is not in and of itself a moral good; in the novel the tyrannical, sadistic Jack absorbs the attention of a lot of the children who do his bidding. But in proposing, in the context of the novel, that there is a beyond to mere happiness, something else or further that is wanted; and that indeed happiness may be a poor substitute for something else, that happiness may be something that can get in the way of whatever is beyond it; by proposing this Golding is saying something about what can override the pursuit of happiness, and what may be lost in its pursuit. For better and for worse, being able to feel our frustration is the precondition for becoming absorbed. When this is impossible the pursuit of happiness tends to take over. The right to pursue happiness may be, at its worst, the right not to feel frustrated. And if frustration is not allowed to take its course, to take its time, there is no absorption, only refuges from unhappiness. The child is fobbed off with happiness when what she really wants is to get her appetite back. The right to the pursuit of happiness can be a cover story for the wish to hide.


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Author, author: Sue Townsend aka Adrian Mole

Gabriel Josipovici's essay is a welcome counterblast in conservative times, says Tom McCarthy

That modernism represents one of the great seismic shifts in the history of western literature wouldn't be disputed by any literary professors who know their onions. What they find it harder to agree on is when that shift begins and what exactly it consists of – in short, what modernism, properly speaking, is. Gabriel Josipovici, former Weidenfeld professor of comparative literature at Oxford and currently a star turn in the graduate school of humanities at Sussex, eschews both the definitions usually proffered by cultural historians of a Marxist bent (that it was a reaction to industrialisation or to a crisis among the bourgeoisie) and the humanist ones given by liberals (that it was an era of unbridled self-expression), not to mention the dismissive ones put out by conservatives (that it was all a bit of silliness we've thankfully got over now). In their stead he ventures, at the outset of this book-length essay, a more essential formula: that modernism should be understood as "a coming into awareness by art of its precarious status and responsibilities".

Herein lie both the strength and weakness of the argument that follows. The disadvantage of such a general characterisation is that these terms apply as much to Shakespeare as to Joyce: think of the self-reflectiveness of so much of the former's work, from Hamlet's disruptive (and disrupted) play-within-a-play to the sonnets' constant awareness of form and its limits. They apply even to Ovid: what do the "Pygmalion" or "Orpheus" sequences of Metamorphoses enact if not allegories of art's fragile status and responsibilities? The advantage is that Josipovici knows this, and uses the knowledge as a cue to drag the cursor way back, tracing the tendency that comes to a head in the "high" modernist period (the early 20th century) through the Romantics to the reformation and beyond.

Thus Cervantes's Don Quixote is, both lucidly and utterly correctly, identified as a far more "modern" work than many more recent offerings – modern in the fraught relationship it maintains with its own narrative modes, the way it orchestrates a sense of disenchantment or erosion of the sacred, and, most of all, the way its main "adventure" becomes one of reading and writing. Aeschylus's Oresteia is held up – again in spot-on fashion – as a template for an anti-humanist worldview: what matters is not the individual but the house, or oikos, from which he emerges and of which he forms no more than an iteration. It's an insight that helps us to understand (although Josipovici doesn't mention him) why that arch-modernist William Faulkner delves, in Attic style, through generations of the Compson family, trawling their dwindling estate for residues of buried history. From that other Greek unit of measure, the polis or city-state, Josipovici derives a modern aesthetic of interconnectedness, of man as a diminished agent operating within systems that exceed him.

Interconnectedness is a feature of this book, providing not only one of its central themes but also its discursive method. A typical paragraph will zap us from Dürer to Mann to Flaubert to Dostoevsky in order to make a point about Kierkegaard. It can disorient at times, but the associative or digressive approach is the right one for the task. What I'm not so sure about is the overall "pitch". Josipovici is a formidable scholar whose The World and the Book I remember being a landmark text when I was studying literature. But there he was writing in academic mode, with a certain critical framework and its attendant permissions taken for granted; here, he's shifted into a more populist mode, and it doesn't always play to his advantage. Adopting the vocabulary of the middlebrow in order to legitimise the vanguard merely robs it of what animates it most. Rather than celebrate the subversive energies of Luigi Nono's opera Prometeo, for example, he tries to sell it to the Glyndebourne crowd by claiming that it leaves us "with a sense of sorrow and of wonder and, at an even deeper level, a sense of having bathed in the waters of life". The sentiment is just that: sentimental. While the impetus behind it is profound, it ends up sounding trite.

Josipovici has never been a fellow traveller of any school or fashion. His points of contact here, as in his other work, are original, at times idiosyncratic. To use Kierkegaard rather than the more obvious Nietzsche to explain the vertiginous, abyss-gazing disposition of most modernist works is refreshing. To choose Wordsworth as a historical model for what a truly modernist-inspired contemporary literature might be seems odd, to say the least; wouldn't Laurence Sterne or Gerard Manley Hopkins make much better heroes? And to trot out the old canard that equates Flaubert with naturalist realism is just wrong. The Flaubert who wrote Bouvard and Pécuchet, in which two Quixotic figures re-enact gestures from book illustrations in vain bids for imagined authenticity, before the narrative gives over to a "dictionary of received ideas" whose authorship is never clear? The Flaubert who wrote The Temptation of Saint Anthony, in which phantasms shake and rivet a disintegrating consciousness that yearns "to become matter"? Come on.

What can't be faulted is the plaintive logic running through this book. In cultural terms, we live in deeply conservative times. Editors at several major publishing houses have to run novels' synopses past reader focus groups before being allowed to publish them; "literary" festivals feature newsreaders and other media personalities. We shouldn't imagine, though, that things were that different in the golden age of modernism. Ulysses was printed, in 1922, on a small, private press in Paris, in a run of 1,000; Kafka's Metamorphosis, on its small-press publication in 1915, sold 11 copies – of which 10 were bought by Kafka. Yet can anyone, now, name the successful middlebrow writers of 1922 or 1915? Of course not. That alone should give Josipovici comfort.

Tom McCarthy's C (Cape) is on the Booker longlist.


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David Grossman and the new publishing season

'I read Tony Blair A Journey all night and into the early hours. At 5.10am I had a revelation. Mr Blair surrounded himself with Alpha Males'

Wednesday 1st September

Dear Diary,

Woken early by an employee of Parcel Force. He was a Chinese bloke and asked if I was "Mr Occupier!" I said I was Mr Adrian Albert Mole. He was holding a squarish, heavy-looking parcel. I hoped it was the wooden Japanese neck-pillow I had ordered from Innovations many months ago.

After a chilly doorstep wrangle (the wind was blowing through the fly of my pyjamas, directly on to my prostate), I managed to persuade him to hand the package over and went inside. When I opened it at the kitchen table I was shocked to find Tony Blair's face staring up at me with the words, Tony Blair A Journey. Inside was a House of Commons acknowledgments slip from Pandora:

Aidy darling,

Had a brief disastrous affair with a bookshop manager – he left his wife and turned up at my apartment with his ghastly suitcases and a hyperactive boy-child called Plato. He has promised me free books for life. I know you are obsessed with TB so enjoy this advance copy.

After a struggle to control my jealous rage I started to read.

As I ploughed through the acknowledgments I could not help but reflect that, had I had 26 people to help me with my own books I might have had at least one published by now.

My own semi-autobiographical novel, Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland has been with Hutchinson for two and a half years.

At 11am my mother came in from next door to "borrow" yet more teabags (she already owes me 17). On seeing Mr Blair's cover photograph she began to sniffle: "He was so full of promise," she said, "And look at him now, he's a broken bulrush in the River Nile of life."

I went to the lavatory and was in there for some time. When I returned my mother was engrossed in the book and my father had let himself into the house and was rummaging through my fridge (God! I should never have installed those wheelchair ramps which allow him easy access to my house).

I went into my bedroom to get dressed and came back to find my father eating the cold custard from last night's dinner. My mother looked up from A Journey and said: "He writes that he came very near to having a drinking problem."

My father said: "A pisshead yeah? What was he on?"

My mother said: "A gin and tonic and two glasses of wine over dinner."

My father sneered. "A gin and tonic and two glasses of wine? He's a bleedin' amateur." He put the empty custard jug back in the fridge and lit a cigarette.

He said: "Now, if he was crawling in the gutter in Downing Street, screaming at the moon and trying to fight a policeman on the door of Number 10, then yes, I'd agree he did have a drink problem."

He tapped cigarette ash into the ashtray that had been welded on to the arm of his wheelchair.

Thursday 2nd September

Dear Diary,

I read A Journey all night and into the early hours. At 5.10am I had a revelation. Mr Blair surrounded himself with Alpha Males: Alastair Campbell, Gordon Brown, John Prescott, Margaret Beckett, Philip Gould, Jonathan Powell and Peter Mandelson, yet he was not an Alpha Male himself. He was a receptacle and a conduit of their wishes and opinions. Mr Blair had as much self-belief as a chameleon.

I remembered that when he returned to London after a long period in the United States he had an American accent, much like that of his fellow Christian and friend, Sir Cliff Richard.

I am not a trained psychologist but I am wise beyond my 40 years and think that I have discovered why Mr Blair was so keen to become a war leader and to swagger alongside George Bush. He thought it would give him another pair of testicles and would promote him to Alpha Maleness.

At 1.30pm I took A Journey round to my parents' house and said: "I've finished it."

"What?" said my mother, "You've read all 718 pages? It's impossible."

I reminded her that I was a speed reader and had read War and Peace in two days.

"What's your method?" she said suspiciously.

"I skip over the adverbs and adjectives," I said.

I left them fighting over who was to read A Journey first and went to my desk to write a stern letter to Hutchinson, demanding that my own book, Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland, be published tout suite:

Dear Hutchinson,

My friend and confidante Dr Pandora Braithwaite BA, MA, D phil, advanced me a copy of Tony Blair A Journey (incidentally I notice with sorrow that Dr Braithwaite's name does not appear in the index, though she has spoken to me at length many times about the long and intimate conversations she had with Mr Blair into the early hours). I congratulate you on your sales of the above book, which brings me to the subject of Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland. Apart from an acknowledgment slip some time in 2007 which said: 'Your manuscript arrived at our office today. However, it may be sometime before we can get back to you', I have heard nothing from you and warn you that unless you promise me a publication date, I will take the manuscript back and offer it to Penguin.

Yours,

Adrian A Mole

PS Mr Blair uses too many emotive adjectives and he could do with taking a red pen to his adverbs also.


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