[D66] In Praise of Idleness: Bertrand Russell on the Relationship Between Leisure and Social Justice

[R.O.]

https://www.brainpickings.org/2018/12/27/in-praise-of-idleness-bertrand-russell/


  In Praise of Idleness: Bertrand Russell on the Relationship Between
  Leisure and Social Justice


    “Good nature is, of all moral qualities, the one that the world
    needs most, and good nature is the result of ease and security, not
    of a life of arduous struggle.”


      By Maria Popova

In Praise of Idleness: Bertrand Russell on the Relationship Between 
Leisure and Social Justice

/“Everybody should be quiet near a little stream and listen,”/ the great 
children’s book author Ruth Krauss — a philosopher, really — wrote in 
her last and loveliest collaboration with the young Maurice Sendak in 
1960. At the time of her first collaboration with Sendak twelve years 
earlier, just after the word “workaholic” was coined, the German 
philosopher Josef Pieper was composing /Leisure, the Basis of Culture/ — 
his timeless and increasingly timely manifesto for reclaiming our human 
dignity in a culture of busyness. /“Leisure,”/ Pieper wrote, /“is not 
the same as the absence of activity… or even as an inner quiet. It is 
rather like the stillness in the conversation of lovers, which is fed by 
their oneness.”/

A generation earlier, with a seer’s capacity to peer past the horizon of 
the present condition and anticipate a sweeping cultural current before 
it has flooded in, and with a sage’s ability to provide the psychic buoy 
for surviving the current’s perilous rapids, *Bertrand Russell* (May 18, 
1872–February 2, 1970) addressed the looming cult of workaholism in a 
prescient 1932 essay titled */In Praise of Idleness/* (/public library/).

bertrandrussell3Bertrand Russell

Russell writes:

    A great deal of harm is being done in the modern world by belief in
    the virtuousness of work, and that the road to happiness and
    prosperity lies in an organized diminution of work.

With his characteristic wisdom punctuated by wry wit, he examines what 
work actually means:

    Work is of two kinds: first, altering the position of matter at or
    near the earth’s surface relatively to other such matter; second,
    telling other people to do so. The first kind is unpleasant and ill
    paid; the second is pleasant and highly paid. The second kind is
    capable of indefinite extension: there are not only those who give
    orders, but those who give advice as to what orders should be given.
    Usually two opposite kinds of advice are given simultaneously by two
    organized bodies of men; this is called politics. The skill required
    for this kind of work is not knowledge of the subjects as to which
    advice is given, but knowledge of the art of persuasive speaking and
    writing, i.e., of advertising.

Russell points to landowners as a historical example of a class whose 
idleness was only made possible by the toil of others. For the vast 
majority of our species’ history, up until the Industrial Revolution, 
the average person spent nearly every waking hour working hard to earn 
the basic necessities of survival. Any marginal surplus, he notes, was 
swiftly appropriated by those in power — the warriors, the monarchs, the 
priests. Since the Industrial Revolution, other power systems — from big 
business to dictatorships — have simply supplanted the warriors, 
monarchs, and priests. Russell considers how the exploitive legacy of 
pre-industrial society has corrupted the modern social fabric and warped 
our value system:

    A system which lasted so long and ended so recently has naturally
    left a profound impress upon men’s thoughts and opinions. Much that
    we take for granted about the desirability of work is derived from
    this system, and, being pre-industrial, is not adapted to the modern
    world. Modern technique has made it possible for leisure, within
    limits, to be not the prerogative of small privileged classes, but a
    right evenly distributed throughout the community. The morality of
    work is the morality of slaves, and the modern world has no need of
    slavery.

Writing nearly a century after Kierkegaard extolled the existential boon 
of idleness, Russell considers how this manipulated mentality has 
hypnotized us into worshiping work as virtue and scorning leisure as 
laziness, as weakness, as folly, rather than recognizing it as the raw 
material of social justice and the locus of our power:

    The conception of duty, speaking historically, has been a means used
    by the holders of power to induce others to live for the interests
    of their masters rather than for their own. Of course the holders of
    power conceal this fact from themselves by managing to believe that
    their interests are identical with the larger interests of humanity.
    Sometimes this is true; Athenian slave owners, for instance,
    employed part of their leisure in making a permanent contribution to
    civilization which would have been impossible under a just economic
    system. Leisure is essential to civilization, and in former times
    leisure for the few was only rendered possible by the labors of the
    many. But their labors were valuable, not because work is good, but
    because leisure is good. And with modern technique it would be
    possible to distribute leisure justly without injury to civilization.

Art by Beatrice Alemagna for a letter by Adam Gopnik from /A Velocity of 
Being: Letters to a Young Reader/.

Russell notes that WWI — which was dubbed “the war to end all wars” by a 
world willfully blind to the fact that violence begets more violence, 
unwitting that this world war would pave the way for the next — 
furthered our civilizational conflation of duty with work and work with 
virtue, lulling us into the modern trance of busyness. More than half a 
century before Annie Dillard observed that “how we spend our days is, of 
course, how we spend our lives,” Russell traces the ledger of our 
existential spending back to war’s false promise of freedom:

    The war showed conclusively that, by the scientific organization of
    production, it is possible to keep modern populations in fair
    comfort on a small part of the working capacity of the modern world.
    If, at the end of the war, the scientific organization, which had
    been created in order to liberate men for fighting and munition
    work, had been preserved, and the hours of work had been cut down to
    four, all would have been well. Instead of that the old chaos was
    restored, those whose work was demanded were made to work long
    hours, and the rest were left to starve as unemployed. Why? Because
    work is a duty, and a man should not receive wages in proportion to
    what he has produced, but in proportion to his virtue as exemplified
    by his industry.

Pointing out that this equivalence originates in the same morality — or, 
rather, immorality — that produced the slave state, he exposes the core 
cultural falsehood it has effected, which stands as a monumental 
obstruction to equality and social justice in contemporary society:

    The idea that the poor should have leisure has always been shocking
    to the rich.

Born in an era when urban workingmen had just acquired the right to vote 
in Great Britain, Russell draws on his own childhood for a stark 
illustration of this belief and its far-reaching tentacles of 
socioeconomic oppression:

    I remember hearing an old Duchess say: “What do the poor want with
    holidays? They ought to work.” People nowadays are less frank, but
    the sentiment persists, and is the source of much of our economic
    confusion.

That sentiment, Russell reminds us again and again, is ahistorical. 
Advances in science, technology, and the very mechanics of society have 
made it no longer necessary for the average person to endure 
fifteen-hour workdays in order to obtain basic sustenance, as adults — 
and often children — had to in the early nineteenth century. But while 
the allocation of our time in relation to need has changed immensely, 
our attitudes about how that time is spent hardly have. He writes:

    Every human being, of necessity, consumes, in the course of his
    life, a certain amount of the produce of human labor.

    […]

    The wise use of leisure, it must be conceded, is a product of
    civilization and education. A man who has worked long hours all his
    life will be bored if he becomes suddenly idle. But without a
    considerable amount of leisure a man is cut off from many of the
    best things. There is no longer any reason why the bulk of the
    population should suffer this deprivation; only a foolish
    asceticism, usually vicarious, makes us continue to insist on work
    in excessive quantities now that the need no longer exists.

Illustration by Maurice Sendak from /Open House for Butterflies/ by Ruth 
Krauss

But while reinstating the dignity of leisure — or what Russell calls 
idleness — is a necessary condition for recalibrating our 
life-satisfaction to more adequately reflect the contemporary realities 
of work and need, it is not a sufficient one. Exacerbating our already 
warped relationship with work is the muddling of needs and wants at the 
heart of capitalist materialism — something Russell would address nearly 
two decades later in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech, listing 
acquisitiveness as the first of the four desires driving human behavior. 
He considers the radical shift that would take place if we were to stop 
regarding the virtue of work as an end in itself and begin seeing it as 
a means to a state of being in which work is no longer needed, 
reinstating leisure and comfort — that is, a contented sense of 
enoughness — as the proper existential end:

    What will happen when the point has been reached where everybody
    could be comfortable without working long hours?

    In the West, we have various ways of dealing with this problem. We
    have no attempt at economic justice, so that a large proportion of
    the total produce goes to a small minority of the population, many
    of whom do no work at all. Owing to the absence of any central
    control over production, we produce hosts of things that are not
    wanted. We keep a large percentage of the working population idle,
    because we can dispense with their labor by making the others
    overwork. When all these methods prove inadequate, we have a war; we
    cause a number of people to manufacture high explosives, and a
    number of others to explode them, as if we were children who had
    just discovered fireworks. By a combination of all these devices we
    manage, though with difficulty, to keep alive the notion that a
    great deal of severe manual work must be the lot of the average man.

Our society, Russell argues, is driven by “continually fresh schemes, by 
which present leisure is to be sacrificed to future productivity.” He 
challenges the inanity of this proposition:

    The fact is that moving matter about, while a certain amount of it
    is necessary to our existence, is emphatically not one of the ends
    of human life. If it were, we should have to consider every navvy
    superior to Shakespeare. We have been misled in this matter by two
    causes. One is the necessity of keeping the poor contented, which
    has led the rich, for thousands of years, to preach the dignity of
    labor, while taking care themselves to remain undignified in this
    respect. The other is the new pleasure in mechanism, which makes us
    delight in the astonishingly clever changes that we can produce on
    the earth’s surface. Neither of these motives makes any great appeal
    to the actual worker. If you ask him what he thinks the best part of
    his life, he is not likely to say: “I enjoy manual work because it
    makes me feel that I am fulfilling man’s noblest task, and because I
    like to think how much man can transform his planet. It is true that
    my body demands periods of rest, which I have to fill in as best I
    may, but I am never so happy as when the morning comes and I can
    return to the toil from which my contentment springs.” I have never
    heard workingmen say this sort of thing. They consider work, as it
    should be considered, a necessary means to a livelihood, and it is
    from their leisure hours that they derive whatever happiness they
    may enjoy.

Art by Kenard Pak for a letter by Terry Teachout from /A Velocity of 
Being: Letters to a Young Reader/.

Decades before Diane Ackerman made her exquisite case for the 
evolutionary and existential value of play, Russell considers how the 
cult of productivity has demolished one of life’s pillars of 
satisfaction. Noting that modern people — true of the moderns of 1932, 
even truer of today’s — enjoy a little leisure but wouldn’t know what to 
do with themselves if they had to work only four hours a day, he observes:

    In so far as this is true in the modern world, it is a condemnation
    of our civilization; it would not have been true at any earlier
    period. There was formerly a capacity for lightheartedness and play
    which has been to some extent inhibited by the cult of efficiency.
    The modern man thinks that everything ought to be done for the sake
    of something else, and never for its own sake.

The seedbed of this soul-shriveling belief is the notion — a driving 
force of consumerism — that the only worthwhile activities are those 
that bring material profit. A formidable logician, Russell exposes the 
self-unraveling nature of this argument:

    Broadly speaking, it is held that getting money is good and spending
    money is bad. Seeing that they are two sides of one transaction,
    this is absurd; one might as well maintain that keys are good, but
    keyholes are bad. Whatever merit there may be in the production of
    goods must be entirely derivative from the advantage to be obtained
    by consuming them. The individual, in our society, works for profit;
    but the social purpose of his work lies in the consumption of what
    he produces. It is this divorce between the individual and the
    social purpose of production that makes it so difficult for men to
    think clearly in a world in which profit-making is the incentive to
    industry. We think too much of production, and too little of
    consumption. One result is that we attach too little importance to
    enjoyment and simple happiness, and that we do not judge production
    by the pleasure that it gives to the consumer.

Another result, Russell argues, is a kind of split between positive 
idleness, which ought to be the nourishing end of work, and negative 
idleness, which ends up being the effect of work under the spell of 
consumerism and its consequent socioeconomic inequality. He writes:

    The pleasures of urban populations have become mainly passive:
    seeing cinemas, watching football matches, listening to the radio,
    and so on. This results from the fact that their active energies are
    fully taken up with work; if they had more leisure, they would again
    enjoy pleasures in which they took an active part.

Art by Ofra Amit for a letter by Mara Faye Lethem from /A Velocity of 
Being: Letters to a Young Reader/.

With an eye to our civilization’s triumphs and failures of 
self-actualization, Russell points out that, historically, there has 
been a small leisure class enjoying a great many privileges without a 
basis in social justice, profiting on the backs of a large working class 
toiling for survival. While this rendered the oppressive leisure class 
morally condemnable, it resulted in the vast majority of art and science 
— “the whole of what we call civilization.” He writes:

    Without the leisure class, mankind would never have emerged from
    barbarism.

    The method of a hereditary leisure class without duties was,
    however, extraordinarily wasteful. None of the members of the class
    had been taught to be industrious, and the class as a whole was not
    exceptionally intelligent. The class might produce one Darwin, but
    against him had to be set tens of thousands of country gentlemen who
    never thought of anything more intelligent than fox-hunting and
    punishing poachers.

Russell’s most compelling point is the most counterintuitive — the idea 
that reclaiming leisure is not a reinforcement of elitism but the 
antidote to elitism itself and a form of resistance to oppression, for 
it would require dismantling the power structures of modern society and 
undoing the spell they have cast on us to keep the poor poor and the 
rich rich. To correctly calibrate modern life around a sense of enough — 
that is, around meeting the need for comfort rather than satisfying the 
endless want for consumerist acquisitiveness — would be to lay the 
groundwork for social justice. In such a society, Russell argues, no one 
would have to work more than four hours out of twenty-four — a 
proposition even more countercultural today than it was in his era. He 
paints the landscape of possibility:

    In a world where no one is compelled to work more than four hours a
    day, every person possessed of scientific curiosity will be able to
    indulge it, and every painter will be able to paint without
    starving, however excellent his pictures may be. Young writers will
    not be obliged to draw attention to themselves by sensational
    potboilers, with a view to acquiring the economic independence
    needed for monumental works, for which, when the time at last comes,
    they will have lost the taste and the capacity.

    […]

    Above all, there will be happiness and joy of life, instead of
    frayed nerves, weariness, and dyspepsia. The work exacted will be
    enough to make leisure delightful, but not enough to produce
    exhaustion. Since men will not be tired in their spare time, they
    will not demand only such amusements as are passive and vapid. At
    least 1 per cent will probably devote the time not spent in
    professional work to pursuits of some public importance, and, since
    they will not depend upon these pursuits for their livelihood, their
    originality will be unhampered, and there will be no need to conform
    to the standards set by elderly pundits. But it is not only in these
    exceptional cases that the advantages of leisure will appear.
    Ordinary men and women, having the opportunity of a happy life, will
    become more kindly and less persecuting and less inclined to view
    others with suspicion. The taste for war will die out, partly for
    this reason, and partly because it will involve long and severe work
    for all. Good nature is, of all moral qualities, the one that the
    world needs most, and good nature is the result of ease and
    security, not of a life of arduous struggle. Modern methods of
    production have given us the possibility of ease and security for
    all; we have chosen, instead, to have overwork for some and
    starvation for the others. Hitherto we have continued to be as
    energetic as we were before there were machines; in this we have
    been foolish, but there is no reason to go on being foolish for ever.

*/In Praise of Idleness/* has only grown timelier by the ticking of the 
decades. Complement it with trailblazing anthropologist Margaret Mead on 
leisure and creativity, then revisit Russell on what makes a fulfilling 
life, our mightiest defense against political manipulation, 
power-knowledge vs. love-knowledge, why “fruitful monotony” is essential 
for happiness, and his remarkable response to a fascist’s provocation.

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