Happiness is restful joy. Joy is a reaction, sudden, and fleeting. That is not to say that happiness is joy watered down, nor joy repeated—that would wear you out, or familiarity would diminish each occasion of your joy. Rather, joy and happiness are made of the same stuff, of fear and uncertainty. Joy follows their resolution; happiness must be accompanied and fed by them—it is not in human nature to be happy over what you had believed was inevitable, nor to be happy to be given what you had believed was already rightfully yours.

Happiness is a human invention. Wild animals know occasional joy; only pets know happiness. They are mutually exclusive. Joy belongs to a resolution—you are hungry: you hunt, you kill, you eat, you rejoice. Happiness belongs to a balance—you are hungry, there is food, you eat, something reminds you that there might not have been food, and you are happy. If you forget hunger, you cease to be happy—your circumstances are no longer a balance, but a given. Happiness must be reminded; for animals, it is reminded by old instinct; for human beings, it is reminded by memory.

Happiness, remember, comes in bottles, pills, and powders. It can be forced by lowered expectations, by narrowed attention (which values avoiding the depressing over facing the unpleasant), or by a plodding effort no different from any other, which effortfully attains a state to which drugs make a shortcut. What we mean when we say that we want to be happy is that we want the right to choose to be happy—we want an excuse to choose to be happy—we want happiness to be chosen for us. But there are only two schemes of pleasure in life—the smooth, straight way of happiness; and the rough, winding way of joy intermitted with distress, desperation, and disappointment.

These are not absolute commitments—as it is good and necessary for all simply to be happy sometimes, so there would be something distasteful in never choosing to set happiness aside, neither for joy nor for sorrow. It would be a self-indulgent and antisocial vice to be always ready to reconcile yourself to the way things are—to smother the itch of discomfort or inconvenience that mothers invention, the restlessness of curiosity or pain of perplexity that searches out discoveries, the indignation that demands revolution. As life and history are a infinity of problems, the only excusable function of happiness is between them—it cannot be allowed to avoid them. You never essentially are happy, you wear happiness; and like any cloth, it has proper and improper climates and seasons.

Fable of the Hyena and the Comedian

A spotted hyena, having escaped the zoo, walked the streets that night terrified and disconsolate. (He was small, so those who saw him took him for a dog.) He wandered until he heard, from a large building, the sounds of laughter. What could be causing so much terror—what could be frightening so many? The hyena, approaching the source of the noise, saw through a window that the threat was only a single man. But the man had a terrible voice, as powerful as the trumpeting of the elephants at the zoo. The voice carried through the whole hall and out through the half-open window, into the alley where the hyena watched. It was a terrible and evil voice, full of mockery and cruelty. The hyena did not know why the people did not destroy him. Perhaps (with that voice) he was too strong for them. But the hyena had nothing to lose. He burst through the window, leapt onto the stage, and before the creature could blast him with that terrible voice—the hyena tore out his throat. The crowd stayed silent until the hyena had dragged the carcass off the stage and out of the building. Then they started whooping and gasping and murmuring, and the hyena was pleased to have caused so much joy, and to have freed so many. Later, in the shelter of a storm drain, as he ate his prize, he reflected that he had found his purpose. There must be more of these creatures, and he was the only one swift enough to destroy them.

Moral: Never laugh in front of someone who does not get the Joke.

The beach

[N. B. There is only one real beach in the world—Long Beach Island—of which all others are only variably distorted reflections.]

The beach is as different from ocean and from land, as land and ocean are different from one another. It is the third state, the middle path. Ocean is faithless, relentless, and indifferent; we can hurt it, but to destroy it we would first have to destroy ourselves. Land is fixed; it is given; it is ground, foreground and background, grounded, grounding; indeed, there may be no words for steadiness which do not in some way evoke the rock-solid trust which, by nature, we must give the land—even when that trust is misplaced, given to earthquake zones, coy volcanoes, or floodplains.

The beach is always between, in kind as in place. It is the sea slowed down, and the land sped up. It is solid enough to sleep on, but not solid enough to build on. It flows, but without tides. Dry, it is liquid-like, cannot be dug out or molded. Wet, it is solid-like, can be built with or sculpted—but when it dries it does not set, it falls apart. Dry, one half-swims walking in it. Wet, it is smooth and hard as pavement. The paradoxes of sand, as a child discovers them on the first day at the beach, beggar the dreams of alchemy.

The air is different. It does not feel like sea air. That is perhaps only because the motions of the air are not answered by a moving deck. On a beach I could never imagine myself on a boat, and on a boat, even in still water, I could never imagine myself on a beach. Nor is it at all like inland air. And the sunlight is different. Even in summer, though medically no less dangerous, it feels harmless—it does not seem to burn. Its warmth goes straight to the bone and stays there.

The mind cannot see what is settled or taken for granted; to see at all, it must see anew; and one is never more aware than when one is between—between day and night, between forest and field, between city and country—between sea and land, where the beach makes a permanent twilight. Or between past and present—when the smooth dark horseshoe crabs, slow and scraping, creep together out of the sea, up from five hundred million years to tell us that we are the aliens on this planet.

The beach can do well to wake you in this way even in the summer, when you must trip over tourists and vacationers; it can do better, when the crowds thin in the cold; best, when the wind is high and the clouds are thick ahead of the storm, when the sea and sky are full of the same gray restlessness, and you share the beach only with those who know better than to notice each other, who share a mutual irrelevance and a common bemusement for the reckless, desperate surfers.


We are uneasy in this world, half because it is cruel, and half because it is boring. That is not to universally equate cruelty and boredom—though boredom may reach cruel intensity, as for prisoners (who, seemingly, fear the boredom of isolation more than abuse); and though the cruelest of the cruel are the bored and cruel.

Nor is that to say that the world is in itself boring. But the things that are worthwhile about the world—its scientifically illuminated intricacy, its aesthetically adumbrated depth, its spiritually assayed weight—are not the things which we naturally see in it. They must be found or found out; introduced by education or exemplification; happened upon, in reveries or the heightenedness of trauma; or won, by study or discipline, patience or passion.

In the long view, of many lives together, or of one life in unity, the intellectual endowments of human beings far exceed any particular demand for their use. We do not feel this when we are engaged on a difficult problem. Certainly some problems do elude us at the time that they are met, because our intellectual capacities are tidal—when they go out, we drag, and think the world too much; when they come in, we soar and rush, and call it inspiration. But there is in the end no such thing as a hard problem; only a problem which happen to be hard in a certain place or time. Every problem that can be solved is, or will be, easy for someone—not because that someone is or will be any smarter than you, but because that someone, knowing what is irrelevant, where the dead ends are, and what it is realistic to expect, will not waste time or effort.

This is easiest to see in politics and economics. A body of voters is more likely to be correct than a cabal of aristocrats; consumers, than planners; educated guessers, than experts. But this wisdom of the demos, the market, or the crowd, is not because the many are even as smart together as a single human being alone; but because, when acting as a unit and addressing a limited range of choices, they stop in the right place. They are, in aggregate, free of distractions, irrelevancies, and temptations.

How could it be that large numbers are better than individuals at deciding what policies to establish; or at knowing how many widgets to make; or at guessing how many beans are in a barrel? Certainly, averaging draws towards the mean, and so filters out the kinds of distortion which, being continuously variable, may be fit to a curve—like variability in strength of eyesight. But people are diverse, and while you can average apples and oranges (as fruits, or spheres, or edibles, or vendibles), you cannot eat an average.

It must be noted that, while a range of secret answers always contains a few absurd outliers (three or a million beans in the barrel), the averaged results will tend towards the real. But this is not a miracle effected by the act of averaging; it is an effect of some people being right, or nearly right, by themselves. The reality of a true quantity creates a distribution over the crowd; the crowd does not, by the distribution, create the quantity.

Individuals' deviations from the truth must in part result from their debilities—they cannot clearly see the beans or the barrel, they do not know how large a bean is, &c. But even if it is ensured that everyone has equal access to the same data—as in the stock market—performance is not therefore equal. No special intellectual ability distinguishes successful investors. Rather, failures in investment are generally caused by over-thinking. That does not only mean thinking too hard, or reaching for the obscure when the obvious suffices; but also the inescapable friction of irrelevant considerations—moral, emotional, sentimental, logical, philosophical, mathematical, scientific, ambitious, charitable, personal, &c. Even where these are consciously excluded, the discipline required to avoid such constant temptations demands and impels needless, wasteful, confusing, and complicating repetition and recapitulation. The art of haggling is the art of inducing this state—of leading someone in circles until they are dizzy with thinking; so that the easiest to take advantage of, tend to be the most determined to energetically resist it. By thinking in circles we drill ourselves into deeper holes than we could fall into by not thinking

This is not as strange as it sounds. You must keep space between routine and emergency, or an unforeseen emergency will catch you overstretched. It is admirable to be able to improvise in an emergency; it is foolish to do so from day to day, when the right tool or procedure is available and can save time and effort. In an emergency, the wise man finds many ways to drive a nail; but when the emergency is over, the wise man uses a hammer (or a gun) like everyone else. Animals built to fight are slow to fight, because they fight all-out; animals that fight habitually do not fight well, because they fight predictably. In war, room for heroes proves bad planning—the best commander is not the one whose soldiers earn the most medals, but whose soldiers do not have the chance to earn medals before they win.

Boredom is a human condition. Belief blunts, even turns, the sharp cruelty of life; but whenever religion tries to address the boredom of life, it becomes fanaticism; and the same is true of politics, which becomes totalitarianism. The opposite of this, by whatever religion or party practiced, is humanism.

Life cannot be all about one thing. It is possible to indirectly refer everything back to the glory of God, or the good of society. And insofar as one takes any thought about life, some such summum bonum, some such qiblah, is indispensable. But even saints and prophets cannot always have God before their eyes; nor philanthropists, humanity. Such hauntedness, such fixedness, is a kind of madness—the intellectual equivalent of staring at the sun.

At one extreme, fanaticism and totalitarianism deny boredom; at the other extreme, barbarism suffocates it; between, humanism cultivates it, and all that answers to it. The cruelty in life gives value to what allow us to overcome that cruelty, which are virtues; but these are all in some way denials of it—the patience to bear it as something separate to be borne, the courage to risk it as something you could lose. It is the boredom in life which gives value to life itself: to company, conversation, and friendship; to creation, enjoyment, and appreciation; to knowledge, reflection, and wisdom; to everything which provides human beings with the substance of human dignity.

As boredom and cruelty meet each other at the extremities, so do belief and humanism. A beautiful place of worship or devotion is more than the sum of a place of worship and a beautiful place. Still, even then, they must be pursued separately, each by its own law, each with its own end even where both share the same means. But the relationship is not perfectly reciprocal. Belief without humanism is death; humanism without belief is still a kind of life, though a naked one. Disbelief or unbelief is an act of independence which leads to dependence, because it preserves an openness which, like an unwalled city, is open to all; belief is an act of dependence or surrender which leads to independence, because it armors the mind against ambush and siege. This is a distinction of intellectual metabolism. Belief, endothermic, makes its own warmth; but in cities, people are like bees—individually ectothermic, they can yet ball up and shiver against each other for warmth. Thus the environment of the city inevitably both breeds and selects for atheism and, in parallel, political apathy—or capriciousness: compare the American Revolution, which had its strength in the country, with the French and Russian Revolutions, which had their strength in the cities—and suffered like bees will, which let in the hornets.

Bare life, life that neither moves not is moved, is rightly an object of horror. Life is not need, and life is not fulfillment; life is between—between hunger and satiety, to eat; between satiety and hunger, to do. We live to live; and life is the question which only life answers. The fullness and extremity of hope is an idea of heaven which is but more and better life; and the best thing which can be done with life to bring about another life. We live to live—and living, to add to life.