University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII

EXCITEMENT, MONOTONY AND INTEREST

No matter what happens in the outside world, be it something we see, hear or feel, in any sense-field there is an internal reverberation in our bodies,—excitement. Excitement is the undifferentiated result of stimuli, whether these come from without or from within. For a change in the glands of the body heaps up changes within us, which when felt, become excitement. Thus at the mating period of animals, at the puberty of man, there is a quite evident excitement demonstrated in the conduct of the animal and the adolescent. He who remembers his own adolescence, or who watches the boy or girl of that age, sees the excitement in the readiness to laugh, cry, fight or love that is so striking.

Undoubtedly the mother-stuff of all emotion is the feeling of excitement. Before any emotion reaches its characteristic expression there is the preparatory tension of excitement. Joy, sorrow, anger, fear, wonder, surprise, etc., have in them as a basis the same consciousness of an internal activity, of a world within us beginning to seethe. Heart, lungs, blood stream, the great viscera and the internal glands, cerebrum and sympathetic nervous system, all participate in this activity, and the outward visage of excitement is always the wide-open eye, the slightly parted lips, the flaring nostrils and the slightly tensed muscles of the whole body. Shouts, cries, the waving of arms and legs, taking the specific direction of some emotion, make of excitement

a fierce discharger of energy, a fact of great importance in the understanding of social and pathological phenomena. On the other hand, excitement may be so intensely internal that it shifts the blood supply too vigorously from the head and the result is a swoon. This is more especially true of the excitement that accompanies sorrow and fear than joy or anger, but even in these emotions it occurs.

There are some very important phases of excitement that have not been given sufficient weight in most of the discussions.

1. In the very young, excitement is diffuse and spreads throughout the organism. An infant starts with a jump at a sudden sound and shivers at a bright light. A young child is unrestrained and general in his expression of excitement, no matter what emotional direction that excitement takes. Bring about any tension of expectation in a child—have him wait for your head to appear around the corner as you play peek-a-boo, or delay opening the box of candy, or pretend you are one thing or another—and the excitement of the child is manifested in what is known as eagerness. Attention in children is accompanied by excitement and is wearying as a natural result, since excitement, means a physical discharge of energy. A child laughs all over and weeps with his entire body; his anger involves every muscle of his body and his fear is an explosion. The young organism cannot inhibit excitement.

As life goes on, the capacity for localizing or limiting excitement increases. We become better organized, and the disrupting force of a stimulus becomes less. Attention becomes less painful, less tense, i.e., there is less general muscular and emotional reaction. Expectation is less a physical matter—perhaps because we have

been so often disappointed—and is more cerebral and the emotions are more reflective and introspective in their expression and less a physical outburst. Indeed, the process often enough goes too far, and we long for the excitement of anticipation and realization. We do not start at a noise, and though a great crowd will "stir our blood'' (excitement popularly phrased and accurately), we still limit that excitement so that though we cheer or shout there is a core of us that is quiet.

This is the case in health. In sickness, especially in that condition known as neurasthenia, where the main symptoms cluster around an abnormal liability to fatigue, and also in many other conditions, there is an increase in the diffusion of excitement so that one starts all over at a noise, instead of merely turning to see what it is, so that expectation and attention become painful and fatiguing. Crowds, though usually pleasurable, become too exciting, and there is a sort of confusion resulting because attention and comprehension are interfered with. The neurasthenic finds himself a prey to stimuli, his reaction is too great and he fatigues too readily. He finds sleep difficult because the little noises and discomforts make difficult the relaxation that is so important. The neurasthenic's voluntary attention is lowered because of the excitement he feels when his involuntary attention is aroused.

In the condition called anhedonia, which we shall hear of from time to time, there is a blocking or dropping out of the sense of desire and satisfaction even if through habit one eats, drinks, has sexual relationship, keeps up his work and carries out his plans. This lack of desire for the joys of life is attended by a restlessness, a seeking of excitement for a time, until there arises a curious over-reaction to excitement. The anhedonic

patient finds that noises are very troublesome, that he becomes unpleasantly excited over music, that company is distressing because he becomes confused and excited, and crowds, busy scenes and streets are intolerable. Many a hermit, I fancy, who found the sensual and ambitious pleasure of life intolerable, who sought to fly from crowds to the deserts, was anhedonic but he called it renunciation. (Whether one really ever renounces when desire is still strong is a nice question. I confess to some scepticism on this point.)

2. Seeking excitement is one of the great pleasure-trends of life. In moderation, tension, expectation and the diffuse bodily reactions are agreeable; there is a feeling of vigor, the attention is drawn from the self and there is a feeling of being alive that is pleasurable. The tension must not be too long sustained, nor the bodily reaction too intense; relaxation and lowered attention must relieve the excitement from time to time; but with these kept in mind, it is true that Man is a seeker of excitement.

This is a factor neglected in the study of great social phenomena. The growth of cities is not only a result of the economic forces of the time; it is made permanent by the fact that the cities are exciting. The multiplicity and variety of the stimuli of a city—social, sexual, its stir and bustle—make it difficult for those once habituated ever to tolerate the quiet of the country. Excitement follows the great law of stimulation; the same internal effect, the same feeling, requires a greater and greater stimulus, as well as new stimuli. So, the cities grow larger, increase their modes of excitement, and the dweller in the city, unless fortified by a steady purpose, becomes a seeker of excitement.

Not only is excitement pleasurable when reached

through the intrinsically agreeable but it can be obtained from small doses of the intrinsically disagreeable. This is the explanation of the pleasure obtained from the gruesome, from the risk of life or limb, or from watching others risk life or limb. Aside from the sense of power obtained by traveling fast, it is the risk, the slight fear, producing excitement, that makes the speed maniac a menace to the highways. And I think that part of the pleasure obtained from bitter foods is that the disagreeable element is just sufficient to excite the gastro-intestinal tract. The fascination of the horrible lies in the excitement produced, an excitement that turns to horror and disgust if the disagreeable is presented too closely. Thus we can read with pleasurable excitement of things that in their reality would shock us into profoundest pain. The more jaded one is, the more used to excitement, the more he seeks what are, ordinarily, disagreeable methods of excitement. Thus pain in slight degree is exciting, and in the sexual sphere pain is often sought as a means of heightening the pleasure, especially by women and by the roué. I suspect also that the haircloth shirt and the sackcloth and ashes of the anhedonic hermit were painful methods of seeking excitement.

Sometimes pain is used in small amounts to relieve excitement. Thus the man who bites his finger nails to the quick gets a degree of satisfaction from the habit. Indeed, all manner of habitual and absurd movements, from scratching to pacing up and down, are efforts to relieve the tension of excitement. One of my patients under any excitement likes to put his hands in very hot water, and the pain, by its localization, takes away from the diffuse and unpleasant excitement. The diffuse uncontrolled excitement of itching is often relieved

by painful biting and scratching. Here is an effort to localize a feeling and thus avoid diffuse discomfort, a sort of homeopathic treatment.

3. As a corollary to the need of excitement and its pleasure is the reaction to monotony. Monotony is one of the most dreaded factors in the life of man. The internal resources of most of us are but small; we can furnish excitement and interest from our own store for but a short time, and there then ensues an intense yearning for something or somebody that will take up our attention and give a direction to our thought and action. Under monotony the thought turns inward, there is daydreaming and introspection,[1] which are pleasurable only at certain times for most of us and which grow less pleasurable as we grow older. Watch the faces of people thinking as they travel alone in cars,—and rarely does one see a happy face. The lines of the face droop and sighs are frequent. Monotony and melancholy are not far apart; monotony and a restless seeking for excitement are almost synonymous. Of course, what constitutes monotony will differ in the viewpoint of each person, for some are so constituted and habituated (for habit is a great factor) that it takes but few stimuli to arouse a well-sustained interest, and others need or think they need many things, a constantly changing set of circumstances for pleasure.

Restlessness, eager searching for change, intense dissatisfaction are the natural fruit of monotony. Here is an important item in the problems of our times. Side by side with growth of the cities and their excitement is the growing monotony of most labor. The factory, with its specialized production, reduces the worker to

a cog in the machinery. In some factories, in the name of efficiency, the windows are whitewashed so that the outside world is shut out and talking is prohibited; the worker passes his day performing his unvaried task from morning to night. Under such circumstances there arises either a burning sense of wrong, of injustice, of slavery and a thwarting of the individual dignity, or else a yearning for the end of the day, for dancing, drinking, gambling, for anything that offers excitement. Or perhaps both reactions are combined. Our industrial world is poorly organized economically, as witness the poor distribution of wealth and the periodic crises, but it is abominably organized from the standpoint of the happiness of the worker. Of this, more in another place.

Monotony brings fatigue, because there is a shutting out of the excitement that acts as an antidote to fatigue-feeling. A man who works without fatigue six days a week is tired all day Sunday and longs for Monday. The modern housewife,[2] with her four walls and the unending, uninteresting tasks, is worn out, and her fatigue reaction is the greater the more her previous life has been exciting and varied. Fatigue often enough is present not because of the work done but because the stimulus to work has disappeared. Monotony is an enemy of character. Variety, in its normal aspect, is not only the spice of life; it is a great need. Stabilization of purpose and work are necessary, but a standardization that stamps out the excitement of variety is a deadly blow to human happiness.

Under monotony certain types of personalities develop an intense inner life, which may be pathological, or it may be exceedingly fruitful of productive thought.

Some build up a delusional thought and feeling. For delusion merely means uncorrected thought and belief, and we can only correct by contact and collision. The whole outer world may vanish or become hostile and true mental disease develop. Perhaps it is more nearly correct to say that minds predisposed to mental disease find in monotony a circumstance favoring disease.

On the other hand, a vigorous mind shut out from outer stimuli[3] finds in this circumstance the time to develop leisurely, finds a freedom from distraction that leads to clear views of life and a proper expression. A periodic retirement from the busy, too-busy world is necessary for the thinker that he may digest his material, that he may strip away unessential beliefs, that he may find what it is he really needs, strives for and ought to have.

4. Here we come to another corollary of the need for excitement, the need of relaxation. At any rate, satisfaction and pleasure need periods of hunger in order to be felt. In the story of Buddha he is represented as being shielded from all sorrow and pain, living a life filled with pleasure and excitement, yet he sought out pain. So excitement, if too long continued—or rather if a situation that produces excitement of a pleasurable kind be too long endured—will result in boredom. "Things get to be the same,'' whether it be the excitement of love, the city, sports or what not. This is a basic law of all pleasures. In order that life may have zest, that excitement may be easily and pleasurably evoked and by normal means, we need relaxation, periods free from excitement, or we must pass on to

a costly chase for excitement that brings breakdown of the character.

5. If the seeking of excitement, as such, is one of the prime pleasures of life, organized excitement in the form of interest is the directing and guiding principle of activity. At the outset of life interest is in the main involuntary and is aroused by the sights, sounds and happenings of the outer world. As time goes on, as the organism develops, as memories of past experiences become active, as peculiarities of personality develop, and as instincts reach activity, interest commences to take definite direction, to become canalized, so to speak. In fact, the development of interest is from the diffuse involuntary form of early childhood to a specialization, a condensation into definite voluntary channels. This development goes on unevenly, and is a very variable feature in the lives of all of us. Great ability expresses itself in a sustained interest; a narrow character is one with overdeformed, too narrow interest; failure is often the retention of the childish character of diffuse, involuntary interest. And the capacity to sustain interest depends not only on the special strength of the various abilities of the individual, but remarkably on his energy and health. Sustained "voluntary'' interest is far more fatiguing than involuntary interest, and where fatigue is already present it becomes difficult and perhaps impossible. Thus after much work, whether physical or mental, during and after illness—especially in influenza, in neurasthenic states generally, or where there is an inner conflict—interest in its adult form is at a low ebb.

There are two main directions which interest may take, because there are two worlds in which we live. There is the inner world of our feelings, our thoughts,

our desires and our struggles,[4]—and there is the outer world, with its people, its things, its hostilities, its friendships, its problems and facts, its attractions and repulsions. Man divides his interest between the two worlds, for in both of them are the values of existence. The chief source of voluntary interest lies in desire and value, and though these are frequently in coalescence, so that the thing we desire is the thing we value, more often they are not in coalescence and then we have the divided self that James so eloquently describes. So there are types of men to whom the outer world, whether it is in its "other people,'' or its things, or its facts, or its attractions and repulsions, is the chief source of interest and these are the objective types, exteriorized folks, whose values lie in the goods they can accumulate, or the people they can help, or the external power they exercise, or the knowledge they possess of the phenomena of the world, or the things they can do with their hands. These are on the whole healthy-minded, finding in their pursuits and interest a real value, rarely stopping from their work to ask, "Why do I work? To what end? Are things real?'' Contrasted with them are those whose gaze is turned inward, who move through life carrying on the activities of the average existence but absorbed in their thoughts, their emotions, their desires, their conflicts,—perhaps on their sensations and cœnæsthetic streams. Though there is no sharp line of division between the two types, and all of us are blends in varying degrees, these latter are the subjective introspective folk, interiorized, living in the microcosmos, and much more apt than the objective minded to be "sick souls'' obsessed with "whys and wherefores.'' They are endlessly putting to themselves unanswerable questions, are apt to be the mentally unbalanced, or, but now and then, they furnish the race with one whose answers to the meaning of life and the direction of efforts guide the steps of millions.

There is a good and a bad side to the two types of interest. The objective minded conquer the world in dealing with what they call reality. They bridge the water and dig up the earth; they invent, they plow, they sell and buy, they produce and distribute wealth, and they deal with the education that teaches how to do all these things. They find in the outer world an unalterable sense of reality, and they tend rather naïvely to accept themselves, their interests and efforts as normal. In their highest forms they are the scientist, reducing to law this tangle of outer realities, or the artist, who though he is a hybrid with deep subjective and objective interest, nevertheless remodels the outer world to his concept of beauty. These objective-minded folk, the bulk of the brawn and in lesser degree of the brain of the world, are apt to be "materialists,'' to value mainly quantity and to be self-complacent. Of course, since no man is purely objective, there come to them as to all moments of brooding over the eggs of their inner life, when they wonder whether they have reached out for the right things and whether the goods they seek or have are worth while. Such introspective interest comes on them when they are alone and the outer world does not reach in, or when they have witnessed death and misfortune, or when sickness and fatigue have reduced them to a feeling of weakness. For it is true that the objective minded are more often robust, hearty, with more natural lust, passion and desire than your introspectionists, more virile and less sensitive to fine impressions.

The introspectionists, culling, chewing the cud of their experiences and sensations, find in their own reactions the realities. In fact, interested in consciousness, they are sometimes bold enough to deny the realities of anything else. Where the others build bridges, they build up the ideas of eternal good and bad, of beauty, of the transitory and the permanent, of now and eternity. They deal with abstract ideas, and they luxuriate in emotions. They build up beliefs where thought is the only reality and is omnipotent. They are the founders of religious, cults, fads and fancies. They inculcate the permanent ideals, because they are the only ones who interest themselves in something beside the show of the universe.

But too often they are the sick folk. Without the hardihood and the energy to conquer the outer world, they fall back on a world requiring less energy to study, less energy to conquer. Sometimes they develop a sense of unreality which vitiates all their efforts to succeed; or they become hypochondriacs, feeling every flutter of the heart and every vague ache and pain. The Hamlet doubting type is an introspectionist and oscillates in his mind from yea to nay on every question. Such as this type develop ideas of compensation and power and become cranks and fake prophets. Or else, and this we shall see again, they become imbued with a sense of inferiority, feel futile as against the red-blooded and shrink from others through pain.

Everywhere one sees these phases of interest in antagonism and coöperation. The "healthy-minded'' acknowledge the leadership of a past introspectionist but despise the contemporary one as futile and light-headed. The introverted (to use a Freudian term) call the others Philistines, and mock them for their lack of

spiritual insight, yet in everything they do they depend for aid and sustenance upon them. Introspection gives no exact measurements of value, but it gives value and without it, there can be no wisdom. But always it needs the correction of the outer world to keep it healthy.

While we have dealt here with the extremes of extrospection and introspection, it is safe to say that in the vast majority of people there is a definite and unassailable interest in both of these directions. Interest in others is not altruism and interest in the self is not self-interest or egoism. But, on the whole, they who are not interested in others never become philanthropists; they who are not interested in things never become savants; and they who do not dig deep into themselves are not philosophers. There are, therefore, certain practical aspects to the study of interest which are essential parts of the knowledge of character.

1. Is the interest of the one studied controlled by some purpose or purposes, or is it diffuse, involuntary, not well directed?

2. Is it narrow, so that it excludes the greater part of the world, or is it easily evoked by a multiplicity of things? In the breadth of interest is contained the breadth of character, but not necessarily its intensity or efficiency. There are people of narrow but intense successful interest, and others of broad, intense successful interest, but one meets, too frequently, people quickly interested in anything, but not for long or in a practical fashion. There is a certain high type of failure that has this difficulty.

3. Is its main trend outward, and if so, is there some special feature or features of the world that excite interest?

4. Is its main trend inward, and is he interested in

emotions, thoughts, sensations,—In his mind or his body, in ideas or in feelings? For it is obvious that the man interested in his ideas is quite a different person than he who is keenly aware of his emotions, and that the hypochondriac belongs in a class by himself.

5. If there are special interests, how do these harmonize with ability and with well-defined plan and purpose. It is not sufficient to be keenly interested, though that is necessary. One of the greatest disharmonies of life is when a man is interested when he is not proficient, though usually proficiency develops interest because it gives superiority and achievement.

Interest is heightened by the success of others, for we are naturally competitive creatures, or by admiration for those successful in any line of activity. The desire to emulate or excel or to get power is a mighty factor in the maintenance of interest. "See how nicely Georgie does it,'' is a formula for both children and adults, and if omitted, interest would not be easily aroused or maintained. In other words, the competitive feeling and desire in its largest sense are necessary for the concentrated excitement of interest. So any scheme of social organization that proposes to do away with competition and desire for superiority labors under the psychological handicap of removing the basis of much of the interest in work and study and must find some substitute for the lacking incentives before it can seriously ask for the adherence of those with a realistic view of human nature. One might, it is true, establish traditions of work, bring about a livelier social conscience as to service, but these are not sufficient to arouse real interest in the vast majority of the race. Here and there one finds a man in whom interest is aroused by the unsolved problem, by the reward of fame and the pleasure of

achievement, but such persons are rare. The average man (and woman), in my experience, loses interest in anything that does not directly benefit him or in which his personal competitive feeling is not aroused. Interest becomes vague and ill-defined the farther the matter concerned is from the direct personal good of the individual, and proportionately it becomes difficult to sustain it.

That is why in our day "dollars and cents'' appeals to interest are made; away with abstracts, away with sentiment; the publicity man working for a good cause now uses the methods of the man selling shoes or automobiles: he attempts to show that one's interest and coöperation are demanded and necessary because one's direct personal welfare is involved. Whether or not ethically justifiable, it is a recognition of the fact that interest is aroused and sustained, for the majority, by some direct personal involvement.

Thus in education, a fact to be learned, or a subject to be studied, should be first sketched or placed in some use value to the student. Knowledge for knowledge's sake is appealing only to the rare scholar, he who palpitates with interest over the relationship of things to one another, he who seeks to discover values. Now and then one finds such a person, one thrown into sustained excitement by learning, but the great majority of students, whether in medicine, law or mathematics, are "practical,'' meaning that their interests are relatively narrow and the good they seek an immediate one to be reaped by themselves. Recognizing this fact in the abstract, the most of teaching is conducted on the plane of the real scholar, and the average student is left to find values for himself. From first to last in teaching I would emphasize usevalue; true, I would seek to broaden the conception of usevalue, so that a student

would see that usefulness is a social value, but no matter how abstract and remote the subject, its relationship to usefulness would be preliminary and continuously emphasized in order to sustain interest.

Interest, like any other form of excitement, needs new stimuli and periods of relaxation. People under the driving force of necessity continue at their work for longer periods of time and more constantly than is psychologically possible for the maintaining of interest. So it disappears, and then fatigue sets in at once,—a fatigue that is increased by the effort to work and the regret and rebellion at the change. The memory seems to suffer and a fear is aroused that "I am losing my memory''; the threat to success brings anguish and often the health becomes definitely impaired. Overconcentrated, too long maintenance of interest brings apathy,—an apathy that cannot be dispelled except by change and rest. Here there is wide individual variation from those who need frequent change and relaxation periods to those who can maintain interest in a task almost indefinitely.

A hobby, or a secondary object of interest, is therefore a real necessity to the man or woman battling for a purpose, whose interest must be sustained. It acts to relax, to shift the excitement and to allow something of the feeling of novelty as one reapproaches the task.

As a matter of fact, excitement and interest are not easily separated from their derivatives and elaborations. Desire, purpose, ambition, imply a force; interest implies a direction for that force. Interest may be as casual as curiosity aroused by the novel and strange, or as deep-seated and specialized as a talent. The born teacher is he who knows how to arouse and maintain and direct interest; the born achiever is the man whose

interest, quickly aroused, is easily maintained and directs effort. To find the activity that is natively interesting and yet suited to one's ability is the aim in vocational guidance.

There are some curious pathological aspects to interest —"conflict'' aspects of the subject. A man finds himself palpitatingly interested in what is horrible to him, as a bird is fascinated by a snake. Sex abnormalities have a marvelous interest to everybody, although many will not admit it. Stories of crime and bloodshed are read by everybody with great avidity,—and people will go miles to the site of grim tragedy. Court rooms are packed whenever a horrible murder is aired or a nauseating divorce scandal is tried. A chaste woman will read, on the sly and with inner rebellion, as many pornographic tales as she can get hold of, and the "carefully'' brought up, i. e., those whose interest has been carefully directed, suddenly become interested in the forbidden; they seek to peek through windows when they should be looking straight ahead.

As a matter of fact, interest is as much inhibited as conduct. "You mustn't ask about that'' is the commonest answer a child gets. "That's a naughty question to ask'' runs it a close second. Can one inhibit interest, which is the excitement caused by the unknown? The answer is that we can, because a large part of education is to do this very thing. "Can we inhibit any interest without injuring all interests?'' is a question often put. My answer would be that it is socially necessary that interest in certain directions be inhibited, whether it hurts the individual or not. But the interest in a forbidden direction can be shifted to a permitted direction, and this should be done. In my opinion, sex interest can be so handled and a blunt thwarting of this interest

should be avoided. Some explanation leading the child to larger, less personal aspects of sex should be given.

The interest of the child is often thwarted through sheer laziness. "Don't bother me'' is the reply of a parent shirking a sacred duty. Interest is the beginning of knowledge, and where it is discouraged knowledge is discouraged. Any inquiry can be met on the child's plane of intelligence and comprehension, and the parent must arrange for the gratification of this fundamental desire. How? By a question hour each day, perhaps a children's hour, a home university period where the vital interest of the child will be satisfied.

To return to the morbid interests: do they arise from secret morbid desires? The Freudian answer to that would be yes. And so would many another answer. It is the answer in many cases, especially where the desire is not so much morbid as forbidden. The virgin, the continent who are intensely interested in sex are not morbid, even though they have been forbidden to think of a natural craving and appetite. But when the interest is for the horrible it is often the case that the excitement aroused by the subject is pleasurable, because it is a mild excitement and does not quite reach disgust. Confronted with the real perversity, the disgust aroused would quite effectually conquer interest.

And here is a fundamental law of interest: it must lead to a profitable, pleasurable result or else it tends to disappear. If this is too bold a statement, let me qualify it by stating that a profitable, pleasurable result must be foreseen or foreseeable. Either in some affective state, or in some tangible good, interest seeks fulfillment. Disappointment is the foe of interest, and too prolonged a "vestibule of satisfaction'' (to use Hocking's phrase) destroys or impairs interest.