I had somebody count the number of books

with "happiness" in the title published in the last five years

and they gave up after about 40, and there were many more.

There is a huge wave of interest in happiness,

among researchers.

There is a lot of happiness coaching.

Everybody would like to make people happier.

But in spite of all this flood of work,

there are several cognitive traps

that sort of make it almost impossible to think straight

about happiness.

And my talk today will be mostly about these cognitive traps.

This applies to laypeople thinking about their own happiness,

and it applies to scholars thinking about happiness,

because it turns out we're just as messed up as anybody else is.

The first of these traps

is a reluctance to admit complexity.

It turns out that the word "happiness"

is just not a useful word anymore,

because we apply it to too many different things.

I think there is one particular meaning to which we might restrict it,

but by and large,

this is something that we'll have to give up

and we'll have to adopt the more complicated view

of what well-being is.

The second trap is a confusion between experience and memory;

basically, it's between being happy in your life,

and being happy about your life

or happy with your life.

And those are two very different concepts,

and they're both lumped in the notion of happiness.

And the third is the focusing illusion,

and it's the unfortunate fact that we can't think about any circumstance

that affects well-being

without distorting its importance.

I mean, this is a real cognitive trap.

There's just no way of getting it right.

Now, I'd like to start with an example

of somebody who had a question-and-answer session

after one of my lectures reported a story,

and that was a story --

He said he'd been listening to a symphony,

and it was absolutely glorious music

and at the very end of the recording,

there was a dreadful screeching sound.

And then he added, really quite emotionally,

it ruined the whole experience.

But it hadn't.

What it had ruined were the memories of the experience.

He had had the experience.

He had had 20 minutes of glorious music.

They counted for nothing

because he was left with a memory;

the memory was ruined,

and the memory was all that he had gotten to keep.

What this is telling us, really,

is that we might be thinking of ourselves and of other people

in terms of two selves.

There is an experiencing self,

who lives in the present

and knows the present,

is capable of re-living the past,

but basically it has only the present.

It's the experiencing self that the doctor approaches --

you know, when the doctor asks,

"Does it hurt now when I touch you here?"

And then there is a remembering self,

and the remembering self is the one that keeps score,

and maintains the story of our life,

and it's the one that the doctor approaches

in asking the question,

"How have you been feeling lately?"

or "How was your trip to Albania?" or something like that.

Those are two very different entities,

the experiencing self and the remembering self,

and getting confused between them is part of the mess

about the notion of happiness.

Now, the remembering self

is a storyteller.

And that really starts with a basic response of our memories --

it starts immediately.

We don't only tell stories when we set out to tell stories.

Our memory tells us stories,

that is, what we get to keep from our experiences

is a story.

And let me begin with one example.

This is an old study.

Those are actual patients undergoing a painful procedure.

I won't go into detail. It's no longer painful these days,

but it was painful when this study was run in the 1990s.

They were asked to report on their pain every 60 seconds.

Here are two patients,

those are their recordings.

And you are asked, "Who of them suffered more?"

And it's a very easy question.

Clearly, Patient B suffered more --

his colonoscopy was longer,

and every minute of pain that Patient A had,

Patient B had, and more.

But now there is another question:

"How much did these patients think they suffered?"

And here is a surprise.

The surprise is that Patient A

had a much worse memory of the colonoscopy

than Patient B.

The stories of the colonoscopies were different,

and because a very critical part of the story is how it ends.

And neither of these stories is very inspiring or great --

but one of them is this distinct ... (Laughter)

but one of them is distinctly worse than the other.

And the one that is worse

is the one where pain was at its peak at the very end;

it's a bad story.

How do we know that?

Because we asked these people after their colonoscopy,

and much later, too,

"How bad was the whole thing, in total?"

And it was much worse for A than for B, in memory.

Now this is a direct conflict

between the experiencing self and the remembering self.

From the point of view of the experiencing self,

clearly, B had a worse time.

Now, what you could do with Patient A,

and we actually ran clinical experiments,

and it has been done, and it does work --

you could actually extend the colonoscopy of Patient A

by just keeping the tube in without jiggling it too much.

That will cause the patient

to suffer, but just a little

and much less than before.

And if you do that for a couple of minutes,

you have made the experiencing self

of Patient A worse off,

and you have the remembering self of Patient A

a lot better off,

because now you have endowed Patient A

with a better story

about his experience.

What defines a story?

And that is true of the stories

that memory delivers for us,

and it's also true of the stories that we make up.

What defines a story are changes,

significant moments and endings.

Endings are very, very important

and, in this case, the ending dominated.

Now, the experiencing self

lives its life continuously.

It has moments of experience, one after the other.

And you can ask: What happens to these moments?

And the answer is really straightforward:

They are lost forever.

I mean, most of the moments of our life --

and I calculated, you know, the psychological present

is said to be about three seconds long;

that means that, you know,

in a life there are about 600 million of them;

in a month, there are about 600,000 --

most of them don't leave a trace.

Most of them are completely ignored

by the remembering self.

And yet, somehow you get the sense

that they should count,

that what happens during these moments of experience

is our life.

It's the finite resource that we're spending

while we're on this earth.

And how to spend it

would seem to be relevant,

but that is not the story

that the remembering self keeps for us.

So we have the remembering self

and the experiencing self,

and they're really quite distinct.

The biggest difference between them

is in the handling of time.

From the point of view of the experiencing self,

if you have a vacation,

and the second week is just as good as the first,

then the two-week vacation

is twice as good as the one-week vacation.

That's not the way it works at all for the remembering self.

For the remembering self, a two-week vacation

is barely better than the one-week vacation

because there are no new memories added.

You have not changed the story.

And in this way,

time is actually the critical variable

that distinguishes a remembering self

from an experiencing self;

time has very little impact on the story.

Now, the remembering self does more

than remember and tell stories.

It is actually the one that makes decisions

because, if you have a patient who has had, say,

two colonoscopies with two different surgeons

and is deciding which of them to choose,

then the one that chooses

is the one that has the memory that is less bad,

and that's the surgeon that will be chosen.

The experiencing self

has no voice in this choice.

We actually don't choose between experiences,

we choose between memories of experiences.

And even when we think about the future,

we don't think of our future normally as experiences.

We think of our future

as anticipated memories.

And basically you can look at this,

you know, as a tyranny of the remembering self,

and you can think of the remembering self

sort of dragging the experiencing self

through experiences that

the experiencing self doesn't need.

I have that sense that

when we go on vacations

this is very frequently the case;

that is, we go on vacations,

to a very large extent,

in the service of our remembering self.

And this is a bit hard to justify I think.

I mean, how much do we consume our memories?

That is one of the explanations

that is given for the dominance

of the remembering self.

And when I think about that, I think about a vacation

we had in Antarctica a few years ago,

which was clearly the best vacation I've ever had,

and I think of it relatively often,

relative to how much I think of other vacations.

And I probably have consumed

my memories of that three-week trip, I would say,

for about 25 minutes in the last four years.

Now, if I had ever opened the folder

with the 600 pictures in it,

I would have spent another hour.

Now, that is three weeks,

and that is at most an hour and a half.

There seems to be a discrepancy.

Now, I may be a bit extreme, you know,

in how little appetite I have for consuming memories,

but even if you do more of this,

there is a genuine question:

Why do we put so much weight on memory

relative to the weight that we put on experiences?

So I want you to think

about a thought experiment.

Imagine that for your next vacation,

you know that at the end of the vacation

all your pictures will be destroyed,

and you'll get an amnesic drug

so that you won't remember anything.

Now, would you choose the same vacation? (Laughter)

And if you would choose a different vacation,

there is a conflict between your two selves,