Happiness and economics
Economics discovers its feelings
Dec 19th 2006 From The Economist print edition 
http://www.economist.com/finance/displaystory.cfm?story_id=8401269 
 
Not quite as dismal as it was
ECONOMICS is “not a ‘gay science’,” wrote Thomas Carlyle in 1849. No, it is “a 
dreary, desolate, and indeed quite abject and distressing one; what we might 
call, by way of eminence, the dismal science.”
Carlyle was a fine one to talk. He was a brooding curmudgeon who thundered 
against industry, progress and the young science that sought to explain them. 
He found economists dismal not for the obvious reasons, such as their dry 
arithmetic or their gloomy preoccupation with scarcity and subsistence. 
Instead, he took against them because they were so wedded to the idea of 
happiness.
The economists of his day took their cue from Jeremy Bentham and his 
“utilitarian” philosophy. They calculated happiness, or utility, as the sum of 
good feelings minus bad, and argued that the pursuit of pleasure and the 
avoidance of pain were the sole springs of human action. One even looked 
forward to the invention of a hedonimeter, a “psychophysical machine” that 
would record the ups and downs of a man’s feelings just as a thermometer might 
plot his temperature. Such people, Carlyle complained, fancied that man was a 
“dead Iron-Balance for weighing Pains and Pleasures on”.
The hedonimeter was never invented, and for a century or so economists fell 
silent about both weights on man’s scales. They studied outward behaviour, not 
inward feelings; choices made, not pleasures taken. But in recent years, 
economists have become newly confident that they can measure utility as Bentham 
conceived it: as a quantum of pleasure or pain. 
How do they do it? Mostly they just ask people. Daniel Kahneman, a psychologist 
at Princeton University who won the Nobel prize for economics in 2002, reckons 
people are not as mysterious as less nosy economists supposed. “The view that 
hedonic states cannot be measured because they are private events is widely 
held but incorrect,” he and his colleagues argue. Generally, people can say how 
they feel at a given moment, on a scale of zero to ten.
And if this smacks of hearsay not science, the new “hedonimetrists” can appeal 
to other kinds of evidence, better calculated to impress. They can look into 
people’s eyes; or better still, their brains. People who confess to feeling 
happy also grin more than others. And they mean it: they smile with their eyes 
(a contraction of the orbicularis oculi facial muscles), not just their mouths. 
People’s self-reports also tally roughly with what electrodes planted on their 
scalp reveal about the frequency and voltage of electrical waves in their left 
forebrain, which sparks up when they are feeling good.
Mr Kahneman’s most notorious experiment took place in a Toronto hospital over a 
decade ago. He and a colleague asked patients undergoing a colonoscopy (in 
which a probe is passed up the rectum) to report their level of discomfort 
minute by minute. Later, they were asked how they felt about the procedure in 
retrospect. Their answers were surprising. The test left a worse impression on 
patient A, for whom it lasted less than ten minutes, than on patient B, who 
suffered for 24 minutes. Patients’ recollections were heavily coloured by the 
procedure’s worst moment and its last moment. The duration of the pain did not 
seem to make much difference. Patients were happier about a colonoscopy that 
lasted longer but ended better. 
Fallible memories
Mr Kahneman, who is not shy of extrapolation, thinks people often choose to 
repeat experiences that seem better in retrospect than they did at the time. 
Contrary to Bentham, the “sovereign masters that determine what people will do 
are not pleasure and pain, but fallible memories of pleasure and pain.”
If people are bad at recalling their feelings, they are worse at predicting 
them. They fail to anticipate how a person feels after moving to a new city, 
losing a limb or winning a jackpot. Prisoners imagine that solitary confinement 
will be worse than it really is; mothers-to-be think the pain of childbirth 
will be more bearable than it typically proves to be. And it is not just 
unusual events that trip people up. According to Mr Kahneman, people struggle 
to predict how their appetite for ice-cream, low-fat yogurt or music might 
change in the course of a week of enjoying them. If man is an iron-balance that 
weigh pains and pleasures, the scales are sadly askew.
As a result, many economists now ignore one of the discipline’s dreariest 
maxims: de gustibus non est disputandum, one does not quarrel over tastes. 
Robert Frank begins his 1999 book “Luxury Fever” with a long, incredulous 
description of the Viking-Frontgate Professional Grill, a barbecuer’s folly, 
sporting infra-red rotisserie, rangetop burners and brass trimmings. Such 
purchases would once have gone unquestioned by economists. The consumer was 
king: if he spent $5,000 on a grill, a $5,000 grill must be what he wanted. 
Likewise, if he picked X over Y, a colonoscopy over an enema, pushpin over 
poetry, his choice should be respected. But now economists like Mr Frank and Mr 
Kahneman delight in second-guessing such choices, citing the evidence of their 
hedonimeters.
Have fun
What sumptuary advice do they offer? In general, the economic arbiters of taste 
recommend “experiences” over commodities, pastimes over knick-knacks, doing 
over having. Mr Frank thinks people should work shorter hours and commute 
shorter distances, even if that means living in smaller houses with cheaper 
grills. The appeal of such fripperies palls faster than people expect, they 
say. David Hume suggested that “the amusements, which are the most durable, 
have all a mixture of application and attention in them; such as gaming and 
hunting.”
But as with any argument involving economists, there is more than one side to 
it. For one thing, many experiences demand a substantial outlay on commodities: 
horses, hounds and jodhpurs, for example. And as Bryan Caplan, of George Mason 
University, points out, many trinkets and fripperies themselves provide a 
stream of experiences.
Adam Smith thought there was pleasure to be had simply in admiring the 
craftsmanship of a well-made watch, even if its extra accuracy was of little 
practical benefit. Bentham appreciated his creature comforts: according to 
Negley Harte, the University of London’s historian, his embalmed body wears a 
pair of knitted underpants, unlike most of his contemporaries, who simply 
tucked their shirt-tails between their legs.
And before Mr Frank scoffs at Gillette’s latest five-blade shaving system, he 
should recall Benjamin Franklin’s belief that teaching a young man to shave, 
and keeping his blade sharp, would contribute more to his happiness than giving 
him 1,000 guineas to squander. The money would leave behind only regret. But 
self-grooming spares a man “the frequent vexation of waiting for barbers, and 
of their sometimes dirty fingers, offensive breaths, and dull razors.”
Richard Layard, an economist at the London School of Economics, provides one 
prominent example of the transformation that some dismal scientists have 
undergone. He made his mark with his 1991 treatise, “Unemployment”, co-authored 
with Stephen Nickell and Richard Jackman. On its cover, the book featured the 
painting “L’Absinthe” by Edgar Degas: a dejected woman and a dishevelled man, 
two “rather sodden” characters, as one reviewer put it at the time, pass the 
time and ease their sorrows with a tipple in a Paris café. The book was 
dedicated to the “millions who suffer through want of work”.
Today, Lord Layard argues, unemployment is no longer Britain’s biggest social 
problem. The number of jobless Britons claiming the dole is now about 960,000. 
But there are over 1m people receiving incapacity benefits because depression 
and stress have left them unfit to work.
Lord Layard’s latest book has a much jauntier image on its cover: a “happy 
eccentric” with a fez on his head, a monocle in his eye and a bunch of flowers 
in his hand. A perky character, one might say. Ambitious, policy-minded 
economists such as Lord Layard are no longer satisfied with raising the rate of 
employment. They want to lift the rate of enjoyment too.
That, it turns out, is not easy. Happiness, as measured by national surveys, 
has hardly changed over 50 years. The rich are generally happier than the poor, 
but rich countries do not get happier as they get richer. The Japanese are much 
better off now than in 1950, but the proportion who say they are “very happy” 
has not budged. Americans too have remained much as Alexis de Tocqueville found 
them in the 19th century: “So many lucky men, restless in the midst of 
abundance.”
Lord Layard and Mr Frank both blame habit and rivalry for this stagnation of 
morale. People grow accustomed to what they have—however much of it there is. 
Moreover, having a lot of things is not enough if other people have more. A 
rising tide lifts all boats, but not all spirits.
For economists, this is radical stuff. They traditionally argue that people 
best serve themselves and the public by minding their own business. Indeed, 
this laissez-faire attitude is one reason Carlyle attacked them. Economics, he 
wrote, “reduces the duty of human governors to that of letting men alone”. He 
was afraid this radical idea would “dissever and destroy most existing 
institutions of society”.
But Lord Layard argues that we cannot help minding other people’s business, as 
well as our own. Doing well is not enough: we also want to do better than our 
peers. This status anxiety runs deep in our nature, he says. Vervet monkeys at 
the top of their social tree enjoy more mates and bananas as a result, but they 
also exult in their position for its own sake. As with monkeys, so with 
mandarins. Top British civil servants tend to live longer than their 
underlings, regardless of other differences in lifestyle, according to the 
“Whitehall II” studies which have been monitoring thousands of Humphreys and 
Bernards since the 1980s.
To clamber up the pecking order, some people slave away nights and weekends at 
the office. They gain in rank at the expense of their free time. But in making 
that sacrifice they also hurt anyone else who shares their aspirations: they 
too must give up their weekends to keep up. Mr Frank reckons that many people 
would like to work less, if only others slackened off also. But such bargains 
cannot be struck unilaterally. On the contrary, people compete in costly “arms 
races”, knowing that if they do not work harder, they will lose their standing 
to someone who does.
These races are motivated by more than just prestige. As Fred Hirsch argued in 
his 1977 book, “The Social Limits to Growth”, many good things in life are 
“positional”. You can enjoy them only if others don’t. Sometimes, a quick car, 
fine suit or attractive house is not enough. One must have the fastest car, 
finest suit or priciest house.
Think of the scramble for schools, Mr Frank says. Only 10% of kids can go to 
the top 10% of schools. In many countries, wherever the schools are good, the 
houses will be expensive. Thus parents who want the best education for their 
child must overwork to afford a house in a good school district. In doing so, 
however, they raise the bar for everyone else.
Is mutual disarmament possible? Not without government help, Mr Frank and Lord 
Layard argue. The exchequer should tax earned income heavily enough to deter 
one-upmanship, they say. 
Despite appearances, this is not a naked example of punitive redistribution—the 
fiscal politics of envy. Mr Frank and Lord Layard do not want to level the 
social order. Their aim is much more conservative than that. Their taxes would 
leave the pecking order intact and envy undiminished. But people would be 
deterred from acting on the green-eyed monster. The problem these economists 
want to tackle is not inequality per se. It is that people don’t know their 
place and scramble vainly to improve it. Carlyle, who thought man should 
content himself with being the worthy follower of worthy superiors, would no 
doubt have approved.
Go with the flow
Not that Carlyle was workshy. On the contrary, he thought that work was the 
only lasting measure of a man. As he put it, whatever insight, ingenuity and 
energy a man had in him “will lie written in the work he does”. And the “only 
happiness a brave man ever troubled himself with asking much about was, 
happiness enough to get his work done.”
Economics, on the whole, disagrees. It thinks of labour as a chore. People sell 
it, at the expense of their leisure time, purely as a means to the end of 
consumption. Indeed, Carlyle first anointed economics the “dismal science” 
because liberal economists insisted that American slaves be free to sell their 
labour in the marketplace like everyone else.
For many people, work is—as traditional economics assumes—just a way to pay the 
rent. But Carlyle is not the only one to see it as much more than that. In a 
string of experiments, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, of Claremont Graduate 
University, has handed out pagers to thousands of people who agreed to log 
their mood whenever prompted to do so. People were, unsurprisingly, at their 
happiest when eating, carousing or pottering around the garden. But some 
fortunate people also found deep satisfaction from losing themselves in their 
work: “forgetting themselves in a function”, as W.H. Auden put it.
It is easier to forget yourself in some functions than in others, of course. In 
Auden’s poem, surgeons manage it “making a primary incision”, as do cooks, 
mixing their sauce, and clerks “completing a bill of lading”. This happy state, 
which Mr Csikszentmihalyi calls “flow”, arises most often in work that 
stretches a person without defeating him; work that provides “clear goals”, 
“unambiguous feedback” and a “sense of control”.
Where these things are lacking, people can sometimes sculpt their jobs to 
compensate. For example, Amy Wrzesniewski, of New York University, and her 
colleagues found hospital cleaners who would hold patients’ hands and keep them 
company, brightening their day as well as scrubbing their rooms. Other 
researchers noted that hairdressers see themselves as more than just scissors 
for hire. They serve as emotional confidants for clients they like, and “fire” 
clients they don’t.
Mr Csikszentmihalyi is now one of three scholars behind the “Good Work” 
project, which aims to make “flow” a more common experience in professional 
life. The project frets about how to square the “competing demands of 
excellence, ethics, and earnings”. In some fields of endeavour, such as genetic 
research, it found that good work was rewarded with professional success; but 
in others, professional pride and corporate profit seemed to tug in opposite 
directions. Journalism, apparently, is a “prototypically misaligned 
profession”, staffed by reporters who want to investigate great affairs of 
state but read by a public more interested in stories that are “scandalous, 
sensational, superficial”.
What to do? The Good Work project tends to blame the “market” for corrupting 
craftsmanship. But consumers cannot be made to want what producers care to 
make. Besides, “it is a thrill unique to a market society to find that people 
are willing to pay for one’s product,” writes Deirdre McCloskey in her latest 
book, “The Bourgeois Virtues”. Payment is a form of applause; all the more 
convincing because it is costly. Furthermore, when you spend what you have 
earned in the market, you can enjoy knowing that you have “pulled your own 
weight”, taking from the national product no more than you have added to it.
If people are determined to pursue their calling rather than simply taking a 
job, some professions (surgery, cookery, genetics) may become overcrowded, 
others undersubscribed. But when a job cannot find enough takers, the market 
finds ways to ennoble it: first pay, and then status, begin to rise. It becomes 
economical to automate some aspects of the work, employing machines to do the 
deadening humdrum toil that men and women are no longer willing to put up with. 
What remains of the job will be the bits only people can do: tasks that require 
insight, ingenuity and the human touch. Ms McCloskey recalls the Cincinnati 
sewerman, interviewed a few years ago on National Public Radio, who earned 
$60,000 a year and liked to tell girls he was an “environmental” worker.
The dismal sage
Did Thomas Carlyle ever make his peace with the dismal science? Even his 
admirers admit that his “bigoted dislike of Political Economists withheld him 
from studying their works” or appreciating their advances. Nor did he soften 
much in his disdain for the fruits of commercial society: cheaper cotton and 
swifter railways meant nothing to him; and in his opinion, advertising, or 
“puffing” as he called it, deserved to be taxed out of existence.
But as any economist could have pointed out, he had a lot to thank commercial 
society for. Having discovered his vocation as a cultural muckraker, he 
eventually secured an audience, a market and even the offer (which was refused) 
of Westminster Abbey as a final resting place. In periods of speedy progress, 
it seems, stubborn reactionaries at least enjoy a certain scarcity value.

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