Escape from Freedom by New York Times-bestselling author and renowned psychoanalyst Erich Fromm untangles the unconscious forces that move humanity’s quest for freedom, as well as our rejection of it. Published in the midst of the Second World War, the book explains why we toggle between maintaining democracy and reverting to totalitarianism. Briefly put, Fromm’s work is founded on a common-sense premise: the notion that often what people believe their motives to be differs from the motives that actually drive their behavior. By looking closely into the hidden psychological motives of people like Luther, Calvin, Hitler, and their contemporaries, he reveals the architecture of freedom during the last half of the second millennium.

Catapulted by a longing for absolute freedom, people living during the Renaissance sought to abandon the Medieval World and all its dependencies on nature, the church, and the absolutist state. Many in the Western World believed the First World War marked the final victory of this 400-year battle in the name of freedom. Centuries of struggle seemed to have firmly established this cherished ideal: a democracy of self-governed individuals. But then, the Second World War came along. 

Many theories tried to rationalize the unthinkable catastrophe of yet another war. With time it became increasingly evident that Hitler gained power because millions in Germany willingly gave up their freedom with as much eagerness as their ancestors labored to attain it. The rest, who thought democracy was not worth defending, passively witnessed tyrannical forces take over their nation. This phenomenon revealed that the threat against freedom is not only embodied in outside social, ideological, or economic institutions, but also lives inside us. It lies in our innate inclination to depend on external domination. 

Human nature is shaped by history as much as history is built by human nature. As time marches on and humanity lives through one era of history after another, we as a race adapt to the times and develop new characteristics and skills that help us survive and transform our immediate environment. As long as these historical eras sustain our fixed physical necessities such as eating, drinking, and sleeping, we adapt to the times. We take our roles as blacksmiths, peasants, or factory workers.

But there is another need that, if unmet, will either kill us or drive us insane: the need to belong. Beyond its utility as a basis for cooperation, belonging alleviates the effects of the unique human quality of self-consciousness: our awareness of death, sickness, and aging. Belonging soothes the paralyzing feeling that each of us leads just one little life inside the huge, planet-swallowing cosmos. When we strive to become self-governed individuals, we threaten our need to belong. We renounce oneness with nature and others, creating an unbearable weight of isolation that is difficult to withstand.

Both the social history of humanity and a person’s life history go through a process of “individuation.” This requires not only becoming independent from other people, but also from the universal, all-encompassing reality of nature. In history, this process started as the abandonment of the Stone Age, fully realized somewhere between the Renaissance and the mid-1900s when man sought to become independent from the church and the absolutist state. Man also started to master nature. He created tools to maximize his work, calculate time, and shorten distances. 

In humans, the process of “individuation” begins around 10 years of age when, out of the blue, one discovers oneself and utters the equally ordinary and mystifying words, “I am me!” At this moment, a child suddenly discovers her body, thoughts, and will are her own. But as she grows in strength physically, emotionally, and intellectually she also increases in isolation and detachment from the world. Doubt and fear start to slip in as she considers the abysmal universe enfolding her insignificant life. Whether conscious of it or not, she just experienced the paradox of freedom that impacts all human life. Attaining freedom to develop as authentic agents implies becoming free from the world that once gave us comfort and meaning. 

Human biology, too, is characterized by the paradox of freedom. All species have inherited instincts that dictate automatic behaviors. The lower an animal is in the developmental scale, the more it is controlled by instincts to survive and the more limited its behavior. The higher the animal, the less it is programmed to survive and the more flexible its behavior. Insects, for instance, form social structures run entirely by a limited variety of actions that come from their automatic mechanisms. Humans, on the other hand, rely very little on instincts and instead use memory and learning, which teach them complex behaviors. Because of this we learn very slowly how to survive, making us helpless at birth and dependent on our caretakers for a long time. Yet, this ability to behave creatively is what builds culture, and building culture is a superpower. Unlike less-developed animals, we play an active (rather than reactive) role in our conduct as we grow. We think and make choices, we produce, create tools, and master nature. Human beings’ freedom of behavior is conditioned on their biological weakness and dependence during early development. 

The biblical myth of Adam and Eve also illustrates the ambiguity of freedom. Humanity’s expulsion from the Garden—a place of harmony and connectedness to nature and others—is the consequence of the first sin. The first sin is illustrated as the act of free human choice to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. The implication is that freedom is sinful and thus the beginning of human suffering. History as the story of humans capable of reason, work, and individuality begins in the act of disobedience to God. The choice to become free, once again, leaves man naked and ashamed.

Towards the end of the Middle Ages, time began speeding up and capitalism emerged. Clocks in Nürnberg struck every quarter hour, and minutes were to be spent on useful endeavors. Though capitalism now offered people the freedom (and the danger) of being responsible for their own fate and status, its first conception only benefited wealthy classes. The poor peasants and lower nobility saw a decline in their quality of life. The urban middle class, such as the artisans and traders, struggled to remain independent against great monopolist forces and could not yet attain the benefits of their new freedoms, however near they seemed. The rapid shift of the economy and their inability to participate in the competition for financial growth left many insecure, isolated, and anxious. 

Enter Martin Luther with a new religious formula for the poor and the middle class. His preachings echoed the public's resentment against the wealthy and the Catholic church’s oppression over the people. In his 1524 pamphlet titled “On Trading and Usury,” Luther writes, “They raise and lower prices as they please and oppress and ruin all the small merchants . . . as though they were lords over God’s creatures and free from all the laws of faith and love.” In a way, Luther increased peoples’ feelings of helplessness in light of the new freedoms. But he also offered people an escape from the burden of these freedoms by providing a new spiritual submission. 

Religiously speaking, Luther’s Reformation had an altogether different taste than the theology of the medieval Church. Certain Catholic principles provided security to people. These included the principles of humans’ innate ability to do good, the sufficiency of their free will and works to attain salvation, their confidence in God’s love and forgiveness, and the comfort of the sacraments on the merits of Christ’s death.

Luther, on the other hand, thought man was fundamentally depraved and lacked all freedom to choose right. Whereas sin was previously considered a frailty that inspired reverence, Luther considered it an all-pervasive infection in the soul that only an external source could absolve. God only saved those who humiliated themselves and destroyed all trust in their individual will. 

The idea that salvation depended solely on God’s will and humans' absolute, internal submission to him was not a rediscovery of a lost expression of faith. Instead, it was Luther’s designed formula to relieve the weight of an unbearable, compulsive feeling of helplessness that he shared with his contemporaries. By founding salvation on the subjective certainty of giving up all human agency to God, Luther buried faith underground, safe from doubt, the church, and the economy.

Psychologically, faith can be obtained in two entirely different ways. One, it can be an affirmation of life and connectedness to humanity founded on freely chosen love. Two, it can be a reactionary solution to a poisonous pessimism of the world, rooted in isolation. If enough people confuse feelings of worthlessness with the view that human nature is worthless, the latter type of faith strengthens and systematizes.

John Calvin, a successor of Luther, expanded on the ideas of Luther. Elemental to his philosophy was the idea that a person's salvation was predetermined by God even before birth. How God picked those to be damned eternally and those to enjoy heaven was more or less arbitrary. His sovereignty over such matters demonstrated his colossal power and was a mystery that human beings should not venture to solve. Evidently, Calvin's view of God resembled the personality of a tyrant. His relation to humans no longer represented justice or love, but a parasitic bond. The religious life no longer centered around man and his potential to be one with God. Instead, it focused on man’s self-hatred and helplessness as a means to enlarging God’s supremacy.  

In this way, Protestantism allowed the atmosphere of nothingness to creep into the human psyche. At first it was only spiritual. People were the means rather than the ends in the divine drama. By the time capitalism began to emerge, people were prepared to become mere tools in the machine of economic achievement. Though neither Luther nor Calvin intended for people to submit to economic idols, their philosophies had stripped people of their dignity, making them vulnerable. 

The capitalist spirit of “success” first found expression in Calvin’s doctrine. Calvin believed that when a person demonstrated moral effort it was proof that God had predetermined them for heaven. In other words, good works were not directed towards a desired end, but were a distinct sign that something was determined beforehand. Under capitalist influence, the emphasis on moral effort as a way to confirm one’s salvation became more and more associated with effort in one's occupation and the results of that effort. Good works were now linked with an incessant drive to work. Success in business became a sign of God’s grace; failure meant damnation. 

To achieve success people started to work relentlessly. Protestantism had warped this work ethic as a sign of “humility.” The irony, however, is that this eventually led people to become greedy. Luther and Calvin’s doctrines had made people feel powerless and insignificant. Wealth gave them the illusion that they were God’s people and that they were doing God’s work, so they kept at it, now feeling emboldened to do anything needed to profit more.  Without this willingness to engage in humiliating, self-flagellating work, Capitalism would not have taken off. Such relentless work was as essential as the discovery of steam or electricity. 

Under this framework, people’s intelligence and willpower became the most profitable traits of their identity. Relationships began to reflect an obsession with the mere utility of people rather than their full humanity. People became a commodity that generated more capital, something to sell. Owners began treating workers as such, like instruments they could use as they used a machine. Because people had lost their dignity, they were more than willing to comply.

Authoritarian characters are willing to submit to higher powers but also desire to govern others. They believe everyone is part of a web of power and weakness. An authoritarian person’s entire life combines two contrasting behaviors: a sadistic dominance over the weak and a masochistic submission to higher power. They tell people below them, “I have done so much for you, and now I am entitled to take from you what I want.” But these same people also feel that a higher power is saying the same thing to them. 

In Hitler’s life, the higher forces were God, Fate, Necessity, History, and Nature. Even though he enjoyed oppressing others, Hitler’s own desire to submit to higher forces is evident in his writings. After his defeat in the war of 1914-1918, Hitler writes that he received “a deserved punishment by eternal retribution.” He also wrote at one time that nations that mix with other races live “against the will of the Eternal Creator.” 

Both Hitler and Luther were authoritarian characters. Submitting oneself to the state and “the leader” in Nazism resembled the submission of Protestants to their cruel and arbitrary God. Both men appealed to a liberation from past oppression but merely led their people into different kinds of oppression. 

Authoritarian’s embrace self-denial in the service of their leader. This provides them with great, ascetic motivation for arduous work, courage, and faith. In fact, their highest value is to suffer without complaining on behalf of the superior. Hitler advocated for this pseudo-humility (the rotten kind) and thought that “in the hunt for their own happiness, people fall all the more out of heaven into hell.”

This masochistic dynamic takes over an authoritarian’s religious sentiments. Their emotional tendencies blind them to the miracle and wonder of creation. For them life is grim and nature is cruel. Isaiah’s promise, “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow,” cannot comfort the authoritarian personality, who is utterly fatalistic in their guilt and insecurity.

Freedom dwells in the polarities of life. The free person is able to be free yet not alone, critical yet not paralyzed by uncertainty, independent yet in community with others. Properly realized, freedom looks like a return to a harmonious relationship with all humans and nature. Spontaneous work and love are the keys.

Spontaneity can be defined by its opposite. It is not automatic behavior that conforms to the prevailing expectations of the day. Neither is it compulsive work in an effort to heal isolation and self-hatred. In terms of love, it is not the manipulation, possession, or disintegration of ourselves or others. 

Most of us have our own moments of spontaneity, even if they are few and far between. Whether we discover an altogether surprising and familiar truth or are overcome by selfless love that leads to oneness but maintains individuality, spontaneity gives us a glimpse of what a free world could be like.