Civilization and Its Discontents - Chapter 2

Civilization and Its Discontents by Sigmund Freud
First published in German in 1930 as Das Unbehagen in der Kultur ("The Uneasiness in Civilization").

Chapter 2

In my Future of an Illusion [5] 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 hut 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 today, 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 shall
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! [6]

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
gratification, which lessen it; and intoxicating substances, which make us insensitive to it.
Something of this kind is indispensable. [7] 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. [8]
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 won't 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 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 in 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. [9]

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. [10] 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 recreate
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 judgment,
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 businessman 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. Any one 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.

Footnotes:
5 1927 (London: Hogarth Press, 1928).

6 Goethe, Zahmen Xenien IX (Gedichte aus dem Nachlass).

7 Wilhelm Busch, in Die fromme Helene, says the same thing on a lower level: “The man who has
cares has brandy too."

8 Goethe even warns us that “nothing is so hard to bear as a train of happy days. “ This may be an
exaggeration all the same.

9 When there is no special disposition in a man imperatively prescribing the direction of his lifeinterest, the ordinary work all can do for a livelihood can play the part which Voltaire wisely
advocated it should do in our lives. It is not possible to discuss the significance of work for the
economics of the libido adequately within the limits of a short survey. Laying stress upon
importance of work has a greater effect than any other technique of living in the direction of
binding the individual more closely to reality; in his work he is at least securely attached to a part
of reality, the human community. Work is no less valuable for the opportunity it and the human
relations connected with it provide for a very considerable discharge of libidinal component
impulses, narcissistic, aggressive, and even erotic, than because it is indispensable for subsistence
and justifies existence in a society. The daily work of earning a livelihood affords particular
satisfaction when it has been selected by free choice, i.e., when through sublimation it enables use
to be made of existing inclinations, of instinctual impulses that have retained their strength or are
more intense than usual for constitutional reasons. And yet as a path to happiness work is not
valued very highly by men. They do not run after it as they do after other opportunities for
gratification. The great majority work only when forced by necessity, and this natural human
aversion to work gives rise to the most difficult social problems.

10 Cf. ““Formulations regarding the Two Principles in Mental Functioning”” (1911), Collected
Papers, IV; and General Introduction to Psycho-Analysis (1915-17). Lecture XXIII.