Part IV, Chapter I, 1

Part IV: The effect of utility on the sentiment of approval. Consisting of one section.

On the beauty that the appearance of utility lends to every product of art, and the far-reaching influence of this kind of beauty.

Everyone who has given any thought to the nature of beauty has observed that utility is one of its principal sources. The convenience of a house pleases the observer as much as its symmetry, and he is as offended by the lack of convenience as by windows meant to correspond but made in different shapes, or a door set off-center. That the fitness of a system or machine for its intended purpose lends propriety and beauty to the whole, making even the thought and contemplation of it agreeable, is so obvious that nobody has overlooked it.

An ingenious and engaging philosopher has also recently explained why utility pleases. He combines great depth of thought with great elegance of expression, and has the rare and happy gift of treating the most abstruse subjects not only with perfect clarity but with vivid eloquence. According to him, an object's utility pleases its owner by continually suggesting the pleasure or convenience it is designed to provide. Whenever he looks at it, he is reminded of that pleasure; thus the object becomes a constant source of satisfaction and enjoyment. By sympathy the observer enters into its owner's feelings and necessarily sees the object in the same pleasing light. When we visit the palaces of the great, we cannot help imagining how satisfied we ourselves would be to own such cleverly and ingeniously designed comforts. A similar explanation accounts for why an appearance of inconvenience makes an object disagreeable to both owner and observer.

But, as far as I know, nobody has yet remarked that the fitness and clever design of a work of art are often prized above its very purpose; that the precise arrangement of means to obtain some convenience or pleasure is frequently valued more than the convenience or pleasure in which all the merit of those means would seem to lie. Yet this happens very frequently, as a thousand examples show, in both the most trivial and the most important affairs of human life.

When a man enters his room and finds all the chairs standing in the middle, he grows angry with his servant and, rather than leave them in such disorder, may take the trouble to put them himself against the wall. The superior convenience of leaving the floor clear is the sole source of propriety in this new arrangement. To secure that convenience, he willingly takes more trouble than he could ever have suffered from its absence: nothing would have been easier than sitting on one of the chairs, as he probably does once his work is done. Evidently what he wanted was less the convenience itself than the arrangement that promotes it. Yet that convenience is what ultimately recommends the arrangement and gives it all its propriety and beauty.

Similarly, a connoisseur of watches scorns one that loses more than two minutes a day. He may sell it for a couple of guineas and buy another for fifty, one that loses no more than a minute in a fortnight. Yet the sole use of watches is to tell us the time, so that ignorance of it does not make us miss an appointment or suffer any other inconvenience. The person so particular about this machine is not necessarily more punctual than others, or for any other reason more anxious to know the exact time of day. What concerns him is less possessing that knowledge than perfecting the machine that gives it to him.

How many people ruin themselves by spending money on trinkets of trivial utility! What delights these lovers of gadgets is less their usefulness than the ingenious fitness of the devices meant to serve it. They stuff their pockets with little conveniences. They devise new pockets, unlike those in anyone else's clothes, to carry still more. They walk around laden with a host of baubles, sometimes equal in weight and value to an ordinary Jew's-box. Some may occasionally be a little useful, but all could always be dispensed with; their combined utility certainly is not worth the effort of carrying them.

Nor is it only in trivial matters that this principle influences our conduct. It is often the hidden motive of the most serious and important pursuits, private as well as public.

The poor man's son whom Heaven in its anger has afflicted with ambition looks about him and begins to admire the condition of the rich. His father's cottage seems too small for him, and he imagines he would be more comfortable in a palace. He resents having to walk or endure the fatigue of horseback riding. Seeing his superiors carried in vehicles, he imagines he could travel in one with less discomfort. Naturally inclined to idleness, and wishing to do as little for himself with his own hands as possible, he judges that a large household of servants would spare him much trouble. He imagines that once he had all this, he would sit contentedly at rest and enjoy the happiness and tranquility of his situation. The distant prospect of this felicity enchants him. In his imagination it resembles the life of some higher order of beings; to reach it, he devotes himself forever to the pursuit of wealth and greatness. To obtain the conveniences they afford, in the first year—indeed, the first month—of his effort he submits to more bodily fatigue and mental distress than their absence could have caused him over his entire life. He studies to distinguish himself in an arduous profession. With unrelenting industry he works night and day to acquire talents exceeding those of all his rivals. He next tries to bring those talents to public attention and pursues every opportunity for employment with equal diligence. To this end he courts everyone, serves those he hates, and flatters those he despises. All his life he pursues the dream of an artificial and elegant repose he may never attain, sacrificing for it a genuine peace always within his reach. If at last he does attain it in extreme old age, he will find it no better in any respect than the modest security and contentment he abandoned for its sake. Only then, in the final dregs of life, his body wasted by labor and disease, his mind chafed and troubled by the memory of a thousand injuries and disappointments he believes he has suffered from his enemies' injustice or his friends' treachery and ingratitude, does he begin to see that wealth and greatness are mere trinkets of trivial utility. They are no better suited to provide bodily ease or peace of mind than the gadget lover's cases of grooming tools; like those cases, they cause their bearer more trouble than all their benefits bring comfort. The only real difference is that the conveniences afforded by wealth and greatness are somewhat more conspicuous. The obvious convenience of the great man's palaces, gardens, carriages, and attendants strikes everyone. Their owners need not explain to us what use these things have. We readily perceive it ourselves, and through sympathy enjoy and applaud the satisfaction they are meant to bring their owner. But the ingenuity of a toothpick, an ear-cleaner, a nail clipper, or any such trinket is less obvious. Its convenience might be just as great, but it is less striking, and we do not so readily share its owner's satisfaction. Such things are therefore less plausible objects of vanity than the splendor of wealth and greatness; this is the sole advantage of the latter. They satisfy more effectively the love of distinction so natural to human beings. For someone living alone on a desolate island, it might even be doubtful whether a palace or the collection of small conveniences usually contained in a grooming case would do more for his happiness and enjoyment. If he lives in society, however, there is no comparison. In this, as in other cases, we continually pay more attention to the observer's feelings than to the feelings of the person most directly concerned, and consider how his circumstances look to others rather than how they feel to him. If we ask why the observer admires the position of the rich and great so much, we find that it is not chiefly for the greater ease or pleasure they are supposed to enjoy, but for the countless elegant, artificial devices arranged to secure that ease or pleasure. He does not even imagine that they are truly happier than anyone else; he imagines that they possess more means of happiness. The clever and ingenious adaptation of those means to their intended purpose is the principal source of his admiration. But amid the exhaustion of sickness and the weariness of age, the pleasures of the vain and empty distinctions of greatness vanish. For someone in that condition, they can no longer justify the arduous pursuits in which they once engaged him. In his heart he curses ambition and vainly longs for the ease and idleness of youth—pleasures gone forever, which he foolishly sacrificed for something that brings him no true satisfaction once he has it. Greatness appears in this miserable light to anyone whom melancholy or illness brings to examine his own condition carefully and ask what his happiness really lacks. Power and riches then appear for what they are: enormous, laborious machines devised to furnish the body with a few petty conveniences, composed of the most fine and delicate springs, which require the most anxious care to keep in order and which, despite all our care, are liable at any moment to shatter and crush their unfortunate owner beneath the wreckage. They are immense structures that take a lifetime of labor to build, that threaten at every moment to overwhelm their inhabitant and that, while they stand, may spare him a few minor inconveniences but cannot shield him from any of the harsher inclemencies of the season. They ward off a summer shower, not a winter storm, leaving him as exposed as ever, and sometimes more exposed, to anxiety, fear, and sorrow; to disease, danger, and death.

Part IV: How usefulness affects our approval. One section.

How the appearance of usefulness makes all works of art beautiful, and how far this kind of beauty reaches.

Everyone who has looked closely at what makes something beautiful has noticed that usefulness is one of its main sources. A house's convenience pleases a viewer, just as its regular design does. An inconvenient house is just as unpleasant to see as a house whose matching windows have different shapes or whose door is not centered. We can easily see that a machine or system gains a certain fitness and beauty from being well suited to its purpose. Even thinking about it becomes pleasant. No one has failed to notice this.

A recent philosopher, both thoughtful and engaging, has also explained why usefulness pleases us. He combines deep thought with elegant expression and has the rare gift of making very difficult subjects not only perfectly clear but lively and persuasive. According to him, an object's usefulness pleases its owner because it continually reminds him of the pleasure or convenience it is designed to provide. Every time he sees it, he remembers that benefit, so the object becomes a constant source of satisfaction. By sympathy, an observer shares the owner's feelings and sees the object in the same appealing light. When we visit the palaces of powerful people, we cannot help imagining the pleasure we would feel if we owned all those cleverly designed conveniences ourselves. He gives a similar explanation for why an inconvenient object looks unpleasant both to its owner and to an observer.

As far as I know, however, no one has pointed out something else. We often value how cleverly an object is made more than the very purpose it was made for. We pay more attention to the careful arrangement of the means for getting some convenience or pleasure than to the convenience or pleasure that supposedly gives those means their entire value. Yet this happens very often. We can see it in countless examples, both trivial and important.

Someone walks into his room and finds that all the chairs are in the middle of the floor. He gets angry with his servant. Rather than leave them that way, he may go to the trouble of moving each one against a wall himself. This arrangement is better only because it leaves the floor clear and makes the room easier to use. Yet to gain that convenience, he willingly goes to more trouble than leaving the chairs alone would ever have caused him. He could simply have sat down on one of them, which is probably what he does after moving them. Evidently, what he wanted was not so much the convenience itself as the arrangement that provides it. Still, the arrangement gets all its attractiveness and beauty from that convenience.

Similarly, someone interested in watches looks down on a watch that loses more than two minutes a day. He may sell it for a couple of guineas and buy another for fifty that loses no more than a minute in a fortnight. Yet watches are useful only because they tell us the time, keeping us from missing appointments or facing some other inconvenience because we do not know it. The person who is so particular about his watch is not necessarily more punctual than anyone else. Nor does he necessarily have any other special need to know the exact time. He cares less about knowing the time than about having a machine that does its job perfectly.

How many people ruin themselves buying little gadgets with trivial uses? They like not so much what the gadgets do as how neatly they do it. Their pockets are crammed with small conveniences. They even invent new pockets, unlike anything on other people's clothes, to carry more of them. They walk around weighed down by trinkets, as heavy and sometimes as valuable as an ordinary traveling salesman's case. Some of these items may occasionally be a little useful, but they could easily do without any of them. Their total usefulness certainly does not justify the effort of carrying them.

This principle affects more than our dealings with trivial things. It is often the hidden motive behind the most serious aims in both private and public life.

Consider a poor man's son whom Heaven has burdened with ambition. As he begins to look around, he admires how the rich live. His father's cottage seems too small, and he imagines that a palace would be more comfortable. He dislikes having to walk or wear himself out riding a horse. He sees people of higher rank carried about in vehicles and imagines he could travel more comfortably in one. He feels naturally lazy and wants to do as little as possible for himself. He thinks a large group of servants would spare him a great deal of trouble. If he had all these things, he believes he could sit contentedly and quietly enjoy how happy and peaceful he was. This distant picture of happiness captivates him. He imagines it as the life of a higher kind of being. To reach it, he dedicates himself forever to the pursuit of wealth and high rank. Within the first year—even the first month—of working toward these conveniences, he takes on more physical effort and mental distress than he could have suffered in a lifetime without them. He works to excel in a demanding profession. He labors tirelessly, day and night, to gain skills superior to those of all his rivals. Then he works just as hard to display those skills publicly and seeks every chance of employment. He courts everyone to do this. He serves people he hates and flatters people he despises. All his life he pursues an image of elegant, carefully arranged rest that he may never reach. For its sake, he gives up real peace, which was always available to him. Even if he gets what he wants in extreme old age, he will find it no better than the modest security and contentment he left behind. Only near the end of his life, his body worn down by labor and disease and his mind sore from remembering a thousand injuries and disappointments that he blames on enemies' injustice or friends' betrayal and ingratitude, does he finally see what wealth and rank are. They are trinkets with trivial uses, no better suited to providing physical ease or peace of mind than the little cases of grooming tools carried by a collector of gadgets. Like those cases, they cause more trouble to carry than the benefits inside are worth. The only real difference is that the conveniences of wealth and rank are more noticeable. Anyone can see the usefulness of the palaces, gardens, carriages, and servants of powerful people. Their owners need not explain it. We easily imagine it for ourselves. By sympathy we enjoy and approve of the pleasure these things seem designed to give them. A fancy toothpick, ear cleaner, nail clipper, or similar gadget has a less obvious purpose. It may be just as convenient, but that convenience does not catch our eye. We do not as readily share the owner's pleasure in having it. Such gadgets therefore give their owners less reason for vanity than the splendor of wealth and rank. That is the sole advantage wealth and rank have over them: they satisfy our natural wish to stand out more effectively. For someone living alone on a deserted island, it might be hard to decide whether a palace or a case of little conveniences would bring him more enjoyment. In society, though, there is no contest. Here, as elsewhere, we pay more attention to what onlookers think than to what the person concerned feels. We consider how his life appears to others rather than how it feels to him. Why, then, does an observer so admire the rich and powerful? Not chiefly because they are thought to have more ease or pleasure, but because they have so many clever and elegant devices for providing them. The observer does not even think they are actually happier than others. He thinks they have more ways of becoming happy. What chiefly wins his admiration is the clever design that makes all these means seem suited to their purpose. But in the exhaustion of old age or illness, the pleasures of empty social distinction fade. They can no longer justify the hard pursuit of status that once occupied him. Inwardly he curses his ambition and regrets, to no purpose, the ease and freedom of his youth. He foolishly gave up pleasures that are gone forever in exchange for something that brings him no real satisfaction even when he has it. That is how a life of high rank looks to anyone whom illness or low spirits force to examine his own circumstances closely and ask what his happiness really needs. Power and riches then show themselves for what they are: huge, complicated machines made to provide a few minor physical conveniences. Their springs are so fine and delicate that keeping them working demands constant anxious care. Despite that care, they could break apart at any moment and crush their unfortunate owner in the wreckage. They are enormous buildings that take a lifetime to construct and always threaten to collapse on the person inside. Even while standing, they may shelter him from small discomforts but not from the harshest weather. They stop a summer shower, not a winter storm. They leave him just as exposed as before, and sometimes more exposed, to anxiety, fear, sorrow, disease, danger, and death.