The premise of classic utilitarian philosophy rests on the fundamental status of pleasure and pain, each denoted as the countervailing opposites of experience. Pain is inherently bad and pleasure inherently good; the course of moral conduct aims to maximize pleasure and minimize pain for the greatest number of sentient subjects. Modern proponents of act utilitarianism like Peter Singer oppose actions that inflict widespread suffering, such as industrial animal agriculture, which inflicts misery on untold billions every year. While this moral philosophy provides a trenchant critique of social practices that exploit the many for the benefit of the few, on the level of psychoanalysis, the concept of pain and pleasure as opposites is dubious. The pursuit of pleasure is often fraught with torment, and the want of happiness spells a recipe for dissatisfaction.
Let us define pleasure as the sensual experience of delight, enjoyment, and gratification. There are subtle forms of pleasure: the warmth of the sun on the skin, a swim in the lake on a hot summer day, a cup of tea on snowy afternoon. In this blog entry, I shall limit the discussion to acute sensual enjoyment that correlate with excitation in the reward circuitry in the brain, stimulants that suffuse the synapses with dopamine: slice of cake, a dram of whiskey, a night of passionate sex. Aphrodisia —as Michel Foucault has argued — refers to corporeal pleasures that is not limited to sexual gratification. Aphrodisia belongs to a regime of subjective experience that carries a potency apt to subsume motivation and totalize impulse. There is a power in physical pleasure: the sensual experience of aphrodisia takes the corporeal subject beyond the physical plane; the body slips beyond the soma via experience. Sensation is not merely sensate – it is a euphoria greater than the sum of nerve endings pulsing and neurons firing. While the physiological process of pleasure is non-other than physical, the first-hand experience of pleasure registers on a different plane. Aphrodisia totalizes subjectivity, such that the physical creature, for a moment, transcends the bounds of the epidermis and merges with a bliss that obliterates body and mind. Intense pleasure is rapture, an ecstasy that displaces the physical.
At its most elemental, pleasure is intensity. It is the concentration of excitation and stimulation. The intensity that underwrites pleasure helps to explain the gratification that many people derive from harrowing experiences such as roller-coasters and horror movies. The intensity itself need not be pleasurable; it is the acuity of experience, the burst of sensation, the rush of excitation that produces pleasure. A thrill is pleasure on the edge of danger, a hit of intensity on the hither side of harm. Keenness of stimulation transects both pleasure and pain. There are forms of pain that are pleasurable (such as a deep tissue massage) and forms of pleasure which are painful (such as sadomasochistic sex). Intensity imbues experience with vibrancy; the vivacity of sensation finds itself active in disparate experiences, the constant that makes sensation salient, such that the line between pain and pleasure recede into one another. With intensity as the irreducible fundament of experience, we see that pleasure is not the antithesis of pain, but its proximal manifestation. Both ramify from the primal drive to feel, to sense, to perceive.
If pleasure and pain are united within the urge to feel, the pursuit of one is often accompanied by the shadow of the other. Momentary gratification is followed by a longer period of desire, the compulsion to grasp what is unavailable, thus making craving an affliction rather than a delight. The pangs of an addict are a distinct suffering—a drug-induced high is no more than a momentary relief from relentless craving. Short of addiction, a creature inured to pleasure can develop a dependency as aphrodisia inserts itself into disposition and thus impairs agency and autonomy. Against the advice of doctors, a diabetic cannot help but indulge in sweets. Resisting better judgement, a man with a cardio-vascular condition continues to feast on fatty meats. He finds himself unable to opt for a healthier course. He lives in servitude to his tastes and preferences. He rationalizes his indulgence, spins tales to render moderate his excess. Addiction and dependency indicate the co-involvement of pleasure and pain; the more intense the pleasure, the more imposing the pain. Even if the pursuit of pleasure does not result in injury, the perpetual state of insatiability precludes the possibility of wholeness. An unbridled appetite weaves a distinct kind of misery.
The proximity of pain and pleasure finds stark expression in Pat Beaton’s 2005 lithograph titled “Desire.” The print depicts the fusion of human and animal form, a body bent in grotesque contortion, limbs reaching for a translucent object, a desideratum that eludes grasp. The human face lurks in the shadows, the hungry eyes transfixed. The animal and human visages evince a glaring ambiguity: the shape of their mouths indicate both the grimace of pain and the grin of pleasure. The image walks the line between comedy and tragedy, as the torsional creature writhes into an unworldly shape.
Grin of pleasure, or grimace of pain? Pat Beaton’s “Desire” 2005.
Does this suspicion of pleasure play into a severe form of asceticism, a Catholic antinomy against the flesh that endorses punishing acts of self-mortification? Hatred of the body and its sensual pleasures has wreaked havoc for many centuries, inflicting harm by turning people against themselves, leading to self-loathing and guilt. However, a critical view of pleasure need not lapse into a moralistic condemnation of the flesh. For Epicurius, pleasure is the quintessence of life’s goodness: delectable food, fine wine, exellent company that epitomize joie de vivre. From an alimentary point of view, Galen and Hippocrates saw pleasure not as a source of moral corruption, but rather as a powerful force that acts on the subject. In their view, pleasure is powerful and therefore needs to be regulated and directed; its influence was to be administered and managed. Aristotle argued for moderation in response to pleasure, as its rapturous effects have the tendency to draw the subject to excess. Moderation, therefore, is foremost amongst virtues. The immoderate, according to Aristotle, are powerless to direct their own appetites and desires. Their incontinence prevent the development of higher faculties, such as the contemplation of wisdom, which requires the mastery of self.
In the Buddhist tradition, pleasure and pain are inextricably twined. The hungry ghosts of Buddhist lore are depicted as emaciated beings with bulging bellies. They feed, but never find nourishment; they consume but are never sated. This psycho-spiritual view of desire is shared in the Western tradition, where we see the same torment at play in Tantalus, the mythical hero who is condemned to reach for fruit that is forever elusive, for water that forever recedes from his lips. Like the hungry ghosts of Buddhist lore, his hell is perpetual insatiability. Captive to pleasure, human capacity is reduced and life is squandered. Much suffering ensues.
The admonition of the Ancients throw into relief the tacit beliefs of modern culture, which sees feeling good as the antidote to feeling bad. The paradox of technological culture lies in the preponderance psycho-spiritual malaise amidst ever-increasing physical comfort, material abundance and financial wealth. The stresses of life are forms of inner pain that people attempt to alleviate through the experience of pleasure, like the consumption of food and alcohol. However, the greater potential for growth lies in facing our pain squarely, moving through the menacing cloud, discovering that its frightful shape is less solid than we supposed, that we can traverse the pain as if walking through a fog, and finding ourselves in the clarity of light on the other side.