2. Better to be a Renunciant
If happiness is a state of “desirelessness,” then there are two ways in which we
might reach this state. One would be to fulfill all our desires. Another would be to
abandon our desires, to become renunciants. We have seen that, for reasons
deeply rooted in Buddhist philosophy, the first way is a dead end. What about the
second?
If you desire something, there are two possible outcomes. Either your desire
will be satisfied or it will not be. If your desire is unsatisfied, clearly you would
have been better off if you had never had the desire to begin with. But suppose
that it is satisfied. Are you better off in this case? That is, are you better off as a
result of having a satisfied desire than you would have been if you had never had
the desire to begin with? If not, then you would be better off if you could rid
yourself altogether of desires. That is, you would be better off as a renunciant.
In one sense of the term, we can’t “desire” something if we already have it. I
might desire a new home or a new car; I might want to be handsome or brilliant; I
might want to play the piano, or to speak French, or to be a marathon runner.
These are things I might desire, but only if I experience them as things that are
missing in my life, as things that I lack. Understood in this way, accompanying
any desire is a sense of dissatisfaction. To satisfy a desire is simply to alleviate
this sense of dissatisfaction. Satisfying a desire is like quenching a thirst, and this
is precisely how desire is understood in Buddhism. The Pāli term is taṇhā, which
also translates as “thirst” or “craving.”
Understood in this way, having a desire is like having an addiction. Smoking a
cigarette alleviates the craving for a cigarette, but it does not enhance the quality
of a smoker’s life. Ignoring the health risks of a tobacco habit, smokers are not
better off than non-smokers because they satisfy more cravings. They would be
better off without these cravings. And, in general, the satisfaction of a desire
doesn’t add anything to our lives; it simply fills a void. If the ideal state of being is
a state of “fullness,” and if satisfying a desire simply amounts to filling a void,
then clearly we are no better off as a result of having a desire satisfied than we
would have been if we never had the desire.
According to this account, the satisfaction of a desire is not a genuine benefit;
it does not enhance the quality of our lives. It might be compared to recovering
from an illness. It is good to recover from an illness, but it is better never to be sick.
The ideal state of being is to be healthy, and recovering from an illness is a good thing only because it restores us to that state. The satisfaction of a desire is a good
thing in exactly the same way: it restores us to health, to tranquility, to fullness.
This is not obviously true, however, for it certainly seems that there is more to
the satisfaction of a desire than the alleviation of dissatisfaction. It is an enjoyable
experience to drink when you’re thirsty and to eat when you’re hungry. If you
never experienced thirst or hunger, you would never have these enjoyments.
Don’t these enjoyments enhance the quality of your life? It is said that Diogenes
of Sinope, the stoic philosopher, would deliberately prolong his experience of
hunger and thirst so that he could more fully appreciate the joys of eating and
drinking. Other stoic philosophers have advised us to voluntarily endure certain
discomforts (such as being cold and wet) so that we might better appreciate
simple comforts (such as being warm and dry).4
On reflection, though, this is rather queer advice. Should I deliberately catch a
cold so that, once I recover, I can better appreciate having good health? Should I
bash my hand with a hammer so that I can experience a pleasant state of relief
when the pain subsides? This would be irrational because, on balance, I would
gain nothing. After recovering from an illness, I might well appreciate having
good health, and the experience of appreciation is a pleasant one. But this
experience is no more pleasant (and probably much less so) than the experience of
illness is unpleasant or painful. Similarly, after the pain of bashing my hand with a
hammer subsides, I would experience relief, and the experience of relief is a
pleasant one. But this experience is certainly no more pleasant (and, I think, much
less pleasant) than the experience of bashing my hand with a hammer is painful.
On balance, then, I would be at least as well off (and probably much better off)
never to have these unpleasant experiences.
The same is true with the experiences of thirst and hunger. These are
unpleasant experiences, and it seems correct to say that the experience of
assuaging thirst or hunger is no more pleasant than the experience of thirst or
hunger is unpleasant. On balance, then, we are not better off as a result of having
these desires. This is not to say, of course, that we would be better off if we never
enjoyed the simple pleasures of eating and drinking. Eating and drinking are
pleasant experiences in their own right, but the pleasure of enjoying food and
drink is something in addition to the mere satisfaction of hunger and thirst. It is
possible to enjoy things—eating a good meal, listening to music, reading a book, socializing with friends—even if we never crave them, and it is simply not true
that we are better off if we crave them because of how this enhances our
appreciation.
This is not to deny that the ability to appreciate things enhances the quality of
our lives. But we can appreciate things without previously craving them. Of
course, we do sometimes experience relief once something we have hoped for
comes to pass, and this experience contributes to the appreciation we feel.
Suppose, for example, that I have some medical tests run. Naturally, I hope for
positive results. If they are, my appreciation would be greatly enhanced by the
relief I would experience—something I would not experience if I were indifferent
to my test results. This suggests that we are better off having certain
desires—specifically, those that enhance our experience of appreciation. We need
not, however, pursue this line of reasoning, because we have already seen where it
leads. Suppose I learn that my test results are positive. Clearly, I would not be
relieved by this news unless I previously worried about the test results. Assuming
that the degree of relief I experience is proportional to the depth of my worry, I am
not, on balance, better off as a result of having hoped for positive results. Indeed,
in all likelihood the momentary relief I experience is nothing by comparison with
the anxiety I endured for hours, days, or weeks. If this is right, then I would have
been much better off if I had been indifferent to my test results.
To pull together the treads of the argument: If you desire something, there are
two possible outcomes. Either the desire will be satisfied or it will not be. In the
second case, you would have been better off (if only because of the frustration you
experience) if you had never had the desire. On the other hand, if the desire is
satisfied, you would be no better off (and quite possibly worse off) than if you
never had the desire. The satisfaction of desire does not in itself enhance the
quality of your life; it merely restores you to the state of being free from desire.
All things considered, then, you are better off if you desire nothing.
As pointed out earlier, this argument presupposes a certain conception of
desire. In the sense in which I have been using the term, we cannot “desire” things
we already have. Desire is a state of dissatisfaction arising from the sense that
there is something missing in our lives. To satisfy a desire is to fill a void and
restore a sense of fullness, if only temporarily. This is the meaning of taṇhā,
which, as pointed out earlier, also translates as “thirst” or “craving.” Yet, in some
sense, we can also desire things we already have. I can want my home, my books,
my career, my marriage, and countess other things. I can want to be doing exactly what I am doing—sitting down, listening to music, writing. I can want things to be
exactly as they are. In this sense, desire is best understood, not as craving, but as
attachment or clinging (upādāna). We crave the things we don’t have but cling to
the things we do.
Just as it is possible to appreciate something that comes into our lives without
previously craving it, it is also possible to appreciate something that we already
have without clinging to it. And we’re better off if we don’t, because attachment is
inextricably tied to fear, worry, heartbreak, and other conflictive emotions. I fear
the loss of anything I cling to as “I” or “mine.” Because I cling to a self, I fear its
extinction. Because I cling to life, I fear death. I cling to my family, my material
possessions, and my pets. Because of this, I fear losing them. When a loved one
dies or a relationship ends, I can be heartbroken. Because I cling to my physical
possessions, I worry that they might be stolen, damaged, or destroyed. The loss or
destruction of a cherished possession can be a devastating one. It is not just that
such losses occasionally occur; such losses are inevitable because all things are
impermanent. Buddhism teaches that it is only by recognizing the three marks of
existence—that all things are impermanent, that there is literally nothing to cling
to, and that possessing things is not a source of the satisfaction we seek—that we
can rid ourselves of the suffering that arises from attachment.