Small Pleasures

by The School Of Life

  Clouds: we know all about them, in the abstract, but rarely pass two unbroken minutes just looking at them; their movement is almost always just slightly slower than our attention span allows for; incredible grandeur at times – the chariots of the gods; sometimes puffy, sweet things seeking friends; all the time we’re not looking around the world a billion psychodramas are being enacted in the sky; briefly the ego forgets itself.

  Twenty-two

  A glass of water when you are thirsty: instant relief, suddenly water is magnificent; too much and one is bloated, drowning; it’s the need that makes the pleasure; the body sends the clearest most urgent signals, yet the solution is so simple; if only one could do this with other things.

  Twenty-three

  Thinking someone you don’t know looks kind: you don’t in fact know anything about them for sure; the way they smile generally at the world; the way they pat someone’s arm – as if they mean something important; you sense they know all about grief and have turned it into sympathy; they sense the hidden struggle of every life; they are slow to take offence, because they understand how harassed others get; they know how much a little consideration or courtesy can achieve; they don’t resent.

  Twenty-four

  Flowers in a window box: someone planted them and watched them grow; they love them; they got the seeds online, after pondering a catalogue; they water them from a teapot before heading off to work, a few drops splashing down to the pavement; they wanted a garden, but reality intervened; started as a compromise, now it’s a joy; speaks to the imagination; where could I try my version of this? A new box in my life for my equivalent of flowers.

  Twenty-five

  Changing your mind: it’s not so easy to say you were wrong before, but it’s nice when you do; you weren’t really an idiot before, just a less developed version of you; this is progress; ideally you’ll always remember what it was like to be on the other side, like all the best teachers; those you used to disagree with turn out not to be so bad – a rare moment when we actually catch ourselves growing; and it could happen again.

  Twenty-six

  Dolls’ houses: you can see all the rooms at the same time; everything is so easy, you are in control, you can flip a sofa with your finger, move the bath into a bedroom on a whim; lovely to peer into the back and imagine being in there; one is finding out what a home can be – the least childish thing.

  Twenty-seven

  The national anthems of other countries: one feels, briefly, how nice it would be to be proud to belong to another society; the more grandiose and assertive the music, the better; hopefully with a sad section recalling some collective sorrow which binds the nation together, but of which you know nothing.

  Twenty-eight

  String: it looks so useful, even though you never do use it; special delight in cutting it with sharp scissors; brown is slightly nicer than white; coil it round your index finger.

  Twenty-nine

  The Singapore Straits, seen from 25,000 feet as the plane descends at night: the majesty of human achievement, regarded from the right distance; you hum ‘We are the champions of the world, very, very quietly to yourself’.

  Thirty

  At the dry-cleaners: the special machines for pressing the arms of jackets; you don’t actually know what ‘dry’ means, an attractive mystery because the answer doesn’t matter; you never see them actually doing the cleaning, you only see the results; why stop with clothes, could you dry-clean me?

  Thirty-one

  Heavy rain: best when rare; by choice at dusk, you’re outside but not far from home; even with an umbrella you are going to get soaked; the raindrops really do bounce up off the pavement; you’ll have a bath, change early into your pyjamas and a big jumper; the evening is going to be cosy.

  Thirty-two

  Bestsellers in the window of a foreign bookshop: the titles (Edin den v Dreven Rim; Noli Me Tangere) look more impressive than those at home, though you don’t in fact know what they mean; you have no mental picture of the kind of people who might read them; no envy at not having written them oneself.

  Thirty-three

  Shadows: wild associations: the shadow of a pot plant looks like a wolf; stretching ahead on the pavement you are impossibly elongated and stubby, your head ripples up the side of a house as you approach; detail is suppressed, you notice outlines; every shadow has much in common; the shadow of tycoon, a beggar, yourself.

  Thirty-four

  Gentle motion: the higher branches of trees swaying in a light breeze; a flag fluttering; waves lapping on a lake shore; a train pulling out of a station; someone dancing in perfect time, but only with their shoulders and hips; a slow-motion film of a cheetah running: the idea of grace.

  Thirty-five

  Letting a young child win a game: it’s crucial, of course, that they don’t realise; make a string of minor strategic errors so that no particular mistake stands out; if you nearly win, their victory is sweeter; the reward – their glee when an adult proves no match for them; life is full of disappointment, it’s nice to be able to buck the trend.

  Thirty-six

  A child’s plans to improve the world: build cities out of Lego (it would be fun); make grown-ups go to bed at the same time as children (so they don’t get grumpy); everyone should get a turn at being the king or the president (to make things fair); they don’t understand the practicalities so emotional intuition gets more scope: unhappiness is the problem they want to solve – that’s a sweet and maybe a wise starting point too.

  Thirty-seven

  A perfectly packed suitcase: everything, for the moment, is beautifully neat and ordered; it’s the ideal number of socks – not too many, nor too few; one smart jacket well folded; the compact hygiene essentials (including a mini tube of toothpaste); more of life should be like this.

  Thirty-eight

  Fresh French bread, butter: so simple, so reliably delicious; it’s the marriage that’s magical – the butter is salty and sleek (and pleasantly chill in the mouth), the bread is soft, yet chewy and filling; try to get a bit of crust each bite; puts to shame our complex schemes of enjoyment.

  Thirty-nine

  Moderately difficult jigsaws: not to be despised; however initially baffling, every piece will definitely fall into place; a very clear and definite sense of having finished, when mostly in life we never truly bring anything to its perfect end; a closed task in a world of open-ended problems; wonderfully completable.

  Forty

  The sound of cicadas: the ideal sound of midsummer, a hot day; work means making a salad for lunch, drive to glance at a ruined temple and go for a swim in the afternoon; dinner on the patio; pleasant speculations: where are they exactly? How do you pronounce the name? Maybe they’re so loud because they’re a bit deaf? After a while close the window or go indoors; too much and it drives you nuts.

  Forty-one

  TV dinner: pasta or rice, sushi – something you don’t have to cut up; if there’s a boring bit you can get up and make a pot of tea or pour a glass of wine; action drama on the screen, car chases, people stranded on ice floes, titanic power struggles; you are ensconced on the sofa, taking a spoonful of chocolate mousse; not too often or it stops being a treat.

  Forty-two

  The moment you know a film will be good: a line of dialogue, the way an actor laughs, the elegance of an interior shot; a character you identify with gets into trouble; you start feeling involved … and it’s still only beginning.

  Forty-three

  Cradling someone: their neck in the crook of your arm, their weight in your lap; you stroke their hair; your touch comforts them; you can make another person feel safe; you can hold them in their troubles; the love you received when you were cradled is returned, or passed on.

  Forty-four

  Watching people walk about in the streets from five storeys up: the usual details are lost to view: you can’t see if someone is good-looking; ages become indistinct – a person is oldish, youngish; you notice h
ow people walk; someone in a red jacket becomes the most famous person in the street; up here one feels tolerant and kindly; everyone is interesting – it’s very unlikely anyone will notice you, if you are just standing at the window.

  Forty-five

  Nice bits of a religion you don’t believe in: at one point in a service everyone publicly admits they have failed another person (though they don’t have to say who); they think it is important that their places of worship should be very beautiful; lighting a candle in front of a picture of a very sad-looking woman and a child; processions; carrying a book on a silken cushion; ritual bathing; they sing together, quite loudly and very seriously.

  Forty-six

  Finding the right word: succulent, neatfreak, sombre, sapiosexual, dignified, ambivalent, lucid; pinpoints an experience; deft assistance in getting others to understand what’s bothering or exciting us; the dream of articulacy.

  Forty-seven

  Shared sorrows: you know this too; a moment of closeness; we keep forgetting the shared comfort; not trying to solve the problem; acknowledging the validity of grief; I am with you, when you’re down; chipping away at loneliness.

  Forty-eight

  A new friend: you’ve not known them long, but they know you well; you learn to see the world through their eyes, diminishing the zones of fear; they teach you their enthusiasm, extending the range of admiration; you get to know the area where they live; finding a new, or old but lost, part of yourself.

  Forty-nine

  Libraries at dusk: most people have gone home; long series of dulled spines; angled light, last rays through the big windows; lingering motes in the air; a golden pool of concentration under a small reading lamp; serene, cosy; wisdom feels accessible.

  Fifty

  A long journey in an empty train carriage: peace in a place that’s meant to be crowded; deserted platforms; the out-skirts of industrial towns; hills in the distance – you look up again, they’ve gone; time to think; spreading papers over adjacent seats; going to the loo as the train sways round a bend; might only happen once in your life.

  Fifty-one

  Untranslatable words: cafuné (Brazilian Portuguese) – the act of running one’s fingers, gently but deeply, through someone else’s hair; eudaimonia (Ancient Greek) – the long-term condition of living a good and flourishing life, which includes a full share of frustration, disappointment, loss and suffering – you can possess eudaimonia even when you’re not feeling very happy at the moment; age-otori (Japanese) – to look worse after a haircut; the unfamiliar name makes the idea clearer; another culture understands a part of you.

  Fifty-two

  Becoming a person who is alive to small pleasures: life has its endless pains and sorrows, but so often there is also something charming and sweet to be appreciated; you don’t depend on the endorsement of others – thought that would be nice.

  Epilogue

  The Ideology of Small Pleasures

  One: What is a Small Pleasure?

  The normal attitude to small pleasures is to think that they are, individually, perfectly nice but that they are rather insignificant. They come at random into our lives. We savour them for a moment, and then they’re gone. We might once in a while mention one of them to someone else. And they might admit that they quite like the sound of rain on a corrugated iron roof or celadon blue or the crumbling wall near the station. But it doesn’t go any further. These are small pleasures not so much because the quantity of satisfaction they yield is small – in fact, they may compare well with supposedly big pleasures (being applauded in public, drinking champagne, buying new clothes, staying in a hotel room with a view of the Eiffel Tower).

  A pleasure is small in another way: it occupies a small place in our vision of ourselves and of the kind of life we are trying to lead. If asked about what was so nice about a holiday, we don’t instinctively reach for things like how we gazed at a cloud for five minutes, how interesting we find scanning machines in airports or how nice it was when our 6-year-old told us about their dream adult life (a premier league footballer who lives at home and stacks shelves in a supermarket quite a lot), though in truth these may have been revealed as the highlights by a pleasureometer strapped discreetly to one’s thigh. Whereas the device could well reveal that the official pleasures of the trip (as described by travel brochures, and which we politely reprise in conversation) – seeing coconut trees near white sand, visiting the bazaar and watching local artisans whittle traditional flutes out of marsh reeds – moved us much less.

  Small pleasures are the things we enjoy which are currently underrated by what might be called our collective ideology. That is, the elaborately constructed, inherited vision of how to live that has come, through familiarity and the endless prompts of peer pressure, to feel instinctive and natural.

  Two: Small Pleasures and Culture

  Our culture continues to adopt an attitude to enjoyment which was developed mainly between 1750 and 1900 in Europe and America by poets, artists and novelists who can be grouped together as Romantics. The Romantic idea of enjoyment is deeply impressed by things that are rare, hard to access and which are often connected to travelling far from where one normally lives; Romantics developed a cult of the exotic. They prized the unique moment and were disdainful of repetition. And they tended to be reluctant to explain their enjoyments. They were highly successful publicists and they led people to overlook sources of satisfaction that might be ready to hand; they made it feel a bit strange to try to explain why you like something (preferring that it be mysterious); they encouraged the view that things everyone finds quite nice can’t be significant.

  A small pleasure can be defined as a pleasure that doesn’t fit the Romantic template and therefore seems unimportant. It looks small when regarded in terms of the dominant Romantic ideology: if anyone can have it, if it’s easy to come by at home, if it’s a pleasure that’s best repeated, then it can’t be important. Yet the fact is, many of the things that do give us satisfaction have just this character.

  At any stage of history a culture may be negligent – it may be generally preoccupied only with a limited range of experiences that it teaches us to look to for satisfaction and fulfilment. The loudest voices in a culture – the most popular songs and games, the most conspicuous adverts, the funniest comedians, the biggest celebrities – may actually never have told us anything much about a whole range of things that can be sweet, delightful, moving or charming. We may very well grow up fully alive to the very real pleasures of fine dining, attending the Olympic opening ceremony or of flying business class: even if we never experience them ourselves, our culture has ensured that we will know all about them. We’re primed to recognise the attractions of Venice but less educated in the ways a stroll to the park might be just as nice.

  Small pleasures are crucial ingredients in a better existence. What they share is that they tend to be readily available. They don’t depend on the deployment of large resources; they are not rare or specialised; they don’t require that we make big, effortful adjustments to our lives. Instead, the obstacles to their enjoyment are strangely simple: we don’t think about them enough; we don’t get much encouragement to focus on them; we don’t get reliably reminded of their worth.

  A culture isn’t only made up of its loud voices. We are not merely passive recipients. We are also, in modest ways, the makers of our collective vision of what is worth paying attention to; we are all in little ways helping each other map the terrain of pleasure more or less accurately. By sharing our own small pleasures with others, we are assisting in the general work of sensitisation – we are making a resource of happiness a little bit more conspicuous. Ideally, when telling another of what we like, we don’t just name it, we don’t just say ‘I like the sound of heavy rain’ or ‘I love the scent of figs’, we go into detail. We try to capture a little more of what it is about these things that we like so much; we try to remember what this made us think of, how we felt, and try to understand why it touch
ed us so deeply. And when another person mentions some little thing that’s brought them pleasure, we’d ideally not just nod in agreement but edge them towards a fuller revelation.

  Three: Small Pleasures as Therapy

  To understand the value of a pleasure to us, we need to look at the contribution it makes to our lives. And that means seeing its therapeutic potential – because ‘therapy’ is just the general name for psychological help. Anything, including a pleasure, is good because it helps us address our problems or strengthens our virtues. Any particular small pleasure can be linked to one or more of seven key therapeutic moves:

  Remembering

  We forget things that are important to us; small pleasures are often reminding us of things that are important, but which tend to slip from view.

  – Grandmothers

  – Feeling at home in the sea

  – The song we want to listen to again and again

  Hope

  We easily slide into cynicism and despair but need hope in order to face important things; small pleasures are often connected to the bolstering of hope.

  – The ideal routine

  – Looking out from a fifth-floor window

  – Up at dawn

  – Pleasant exhaustion after a productive day

  Dignity of suffering

  The problem: suffering is inevitable, but it’s linked to panic and desperation; some small pleasures help us cope better with our sorrows – they give the sorrow a more dignified meaning.

  – Shared sorrows

  – Cows

  – Self-pity

  – Indulgent pessimism

  Rebalancing

  The problem is we get unbalanced, and we develop in skewed ways, so important parts of ourselves get neglected.

  – Sunday morning

  – The desert

  – Sunbathing

  – Children’s drawings

  Self-understanding

  We are obscure to ourselves and misunderstand what’s going on in us (who we are in some key areas of life – in relationships and work); some small pleasures occur around an increase of self-understanding (they are insights into ourselves, wrapped up as pleasures).