Stumbling On The Key To Happiness

S.J.

“Why are some people so much happier than others?”

This question didn’t come up in one of my philosophy seminars but, unexpectedly, in Portuguese class. We’d been talking about the pretérito mais-que-perfeito do conjuntivo (the past perfect subjunctive) and had discussed a few examples. My professor said the easiest way to think about it is to imagine a person who completely wants to rewrite their past. They tend to use the past perfect subjunctive quite often. Like this:

“If I had won the lottery, I would be rich now.”

“If I hadn’t accepted that job, my career would have flourished.”

“If I had married her, I could have been happy.”

This awfully reminded me of my own thought patterns. I couldn’t help but think back to my life choices of the previous years: abandoning my engineering career, quitting a master’s in product design, trying to escape my problems in other countries, and finally returning to university to study languages and philosophy. Somehow, everything seemed wrong.

Had it all been a huge mistake?

My professor had hit a weak spot without knowing. My thoughts strayed. Why are some people — like me — stuck in this regretful thinking? Why are some people unable to find happiness?

The German sociologist Hartmut Rosa has an answer. In his book Resonance, he argues a well-lived life depends on our frequency of experiencing resonant moments. What are resonant moments? These are the instances where you feel like you’re on the same frequency as everything around you. You listen to a beautiful bird song, enjoy the walk to the office, and have nice chats with your colleagues. You, other people, and the world resonate with each other.

But, of course, you can also get out of sync.

It’s when birds sound like a mismatched school orchestra, the walk to the office is ruined by a car cutting you off, and you never liked your colleagues anyway. It’s only a natural consequence, then, that you’d want to escape to the past perfect subjunctive, attempting to rewrite your life’s story. If I only had [money, good looks, health], then, at last, my life would be okay.

It’s tempting to think resources like money or status would improve our lives. But Rosa thinks differently. Consider two painters. Painter A spends weeks accumulating rare oil colors, sophisticated brushes, and an immaculate canvas. This painter also spends their days amassing knowledge about brush stroke techniques, image composition, and color theory. Months go by until the paint first touches the canvas.

Painter B, in contrast, ransacks their basement for any equipment that remotely qualifies for artistic activity. Then, they get to work.

Who do you think paints the better picture? And not just that: Which painter can actually enjoy the journey of painting?

We all know the answer.

And yet, many of us approach life like painter A. We cash in some money here, get a promotion there, and accumulate more and more stuff. You know the deal. But when do we start painting? When do we stop wishing for our resources and past to change and start dealing with what we have?

When do we start living?

All this reminded me of a novel I recently read: The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. In it, the protagonist — a butler in a fine English house — dwells on his past as he goes on a road trip to visit an ex-coworker who had become his friend. In the end, this friend tells him she might have had feelings for him but somehow ended up with someone else. Eventually, it’s time to say goodbye. A bittersweet moment.

But then, something miraculous happens. The protagonist sits down at a beautifully lit pier and, rather than asking himself the usual what-if questions, he comes to a revolutionary conclusion:

“Perhaps … I should adopt a more positive outlook and try to make the best of what remains of my day. After all, what can we ever gain in forever looking back and blaming ourselves if our lives have not turned out quite as we might have wished? … Surely it is enough that the likes of you and me at least try to make a small contribution count for something true and worthy.”

We often think we must get everything right in life: get rich, achieve lots of things, marry the right person. But our humble butler here suggests a more reasonable approach: trying to make a contribution in the present is far more worthwhile than wishing for a perfect past.

"Alguma pergunta?”


I snapped back to the Portuguese lesson and stared at my workbook. I hesitated. Having been mentally absent for the lesson, I knew I had many questions. I knew I would have to do lots of revising. I knew I wasn’t ready to apply the past perfect subjunctive in my speaking practice.

And that would be alright, I figured.

Because instead of this regret-loaded verb form, I learned something else from that day’s Portuguese class. The painter who started painting, the butler who stopped looking back, the people who wished to undo their life decisions — it all clicked now. For the first time in months, maybe years, I had this deep sense of being in the right place at the right time.

It occurred to me I would be better off without the past perfect subjunctive. Not just in Portuguese but in every language I speak and every thought I harbor.

And so, after an awkward silence, I replied, “Nope. No questions. I’m ready to move on.”