According to Tolstoy, why do the things we once yearned for now evoke a sense of revulsion?

In A Calendar of Wisdom, Tolstoy observes: “Remember how passionately you once desired things that now provoke in you both disgust and unease.” This reflection stands as one of the most profound insights into the mutable nature of the human soul. Tolstoy is not merely speaking of events. He is tracing a psychological transformation. Desires that once seemed the very meaning of life may, in time, stir only discomfort and aversion within us.

This phenomenon reflects the tension between the memory of our desires and the evolution of our moral and spiritual self. Swiss psychologist Carl Gustav Jung termed the inability to detach from one’s past longings as identification with the shadow. One remains suspended between the person one once aspired to be and the self that exists now, tethered to former longings (Jung, Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, 1959). Tolstoy, however, illuminates the moment when this tether is broken: the individual gazes upon an old desire and feels no spark of the former excitement. This void, paradoxically, marks the beginning of moral awakening.

Tolstoy’s insight (that what was once passionately desired can later provoke disgust or unease) lays bare the inner mechanics of the psyche. Every desire, from its inception, contains the seeds of both vitality and disappointment. Desire propels us forward, yet simultaneously distances us from our present self, for it speaks not of here and now, but of there and later.

Psychology describes this as the desire-projection mechanism. When a longing arises, we invest it with the belief that it will make us fuller, happier, more worthy. Yet, when the outcome falls short (or even when it fulfills the letter of the wish) it often fails to satisfy. Neuroscience shows that dopamine, the chemical of anticipation, is released during the pursuit of desire, but loses its reward value upon attainment (Berridge, Neuron, 2007; Schultz, Nature Reviews Neuroscience, 2016). Once achieved, the object of desire no longer sparks the same need.

Tolstoy’s observation mirrors this biological paradox on a moral plane: at the very moment a desire is fulfilled, the soul experiences aversion. While longing enlivens us, fulfillment confronts us with emptiness felt less as satiety than as disquiet.

Psychoanalyst Erich Fromm called this condition the tragedy of man oriented toward having rather than being (To Have or To Be, 1976). According to him, modern human desires do not spring from genuine moral needs but from social pressures. Once a desire is fulfilled, a profound sense of meaninglessness and emptiness emerges. Tolstoy’s inner transformation can be seen as a reversal of this psychological trajectory: he renounced having and chose being.

The shift from passion to revulsion is not merely individual; it is a cultural phenomenon. In our contemporary world, social networks, advertisements, and consumer culture constantly urge: “Want more, acquire more, become more.” This system keeps desire alive precisely by limiting the possibility of its fulfillment. In Tolstoy’s time, such pressures manifested through religious and social norms. Today, they appear in technological and visual forms. Yet the outcome is the same: over time, humans grow to loathe their own desires, for these desires are no longer their own. They are the echoes of others.

The value of Tolstoy’s insight lies in his illumination of this inner fragmentation. Revulsion, in this sense, is not a negative state but the inner freedom born from the death of desire. The individual begins to ask: “Why did I want this?” and in asking, approaches the truth of their own being.

In Confessions (1882), Tolstoy writes:

“I had lost the meaning of life, for everything I desired had wearied me. Neither fame, nor love, nor property could give me the will to live.”

These words reveal that his inner revulsion was not caused solely by past desires, but by the mechanism of desire itself. The need to want sustains human energy, yet when the object vanishes, that energy collapses into emptiness. Tolstoy sought to fill this void through moral purification.

At this turning point, he directed himself toward discovering life’s inner meaning. For him, true freedom began when the passions fell silent. In Resurrection, through his characters, he expressed this realization:

“It is not the satisfaction of desire that frees a person, but the ability to renounce it.”

Tolstoy’s perspective resonates with numerous religious and philosophical teachings. In Buddhism, liberation from desire is considered essential for enlightenment. Similarly, in Islamic teachings, the struggle against the ego (nafs) is viewed as a path to moral purification. These parallels reveal that Tolstoy’s spiritual quest transcended the confines of religion, emerging as a universal human experience.

Russian philosopher Nikolay Berdyaev interpreted this phase of Tolstoy’s life as follows:

“Tolstoy no longer desired fame, women, or power. He desired only the truth. And in desiring the truth, all other desires within him perished.” (Berdyaev, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, 1912)

It was precisely this “death” that marked the beginning of a new life for Tolstoy. He liberated himself from being a slave to desires, coming to understand the power of silence and moral simplicity. For him, happiness no longer resided in acquisition, but in renunciation.

This reflection becomes even more relevant in contemporary societies dominated by consumer culture. Modern life is propelled by desires: the need to be admired on social media, to gain more followers, to acquire more possessions and status. These cravings have become a measure of existence itself. The sensation Tolstoy called revulsion now mirrors a quiet, unnamed fatigue experienced by many, a void born from the excess of desires.

Sociologist Zygmunt Bauman captures this modern predicament in Liquid Life:

“As humans become enslaved to their desires, they may feel a sense of freedom but it is an illusion. Behind every fulfilled wish lies another desire, condemning them to endless disappointment.” (Bauman, Liquid Life, 2005)

Tolstoy perceived this truth over a century ago. He saw that the relentless pursuit of desires distances humans from themselves. In this light, his term revulsion is not merely regret for the past. It is the inception of spiritual awakening.

In today’s world, humans are saturated with desires yet depleted in values. On social media, wanting has become the dominant mechanism that governs life: the desire to be desired, to be seen, to be validated. Yet, as these desires are fulfilled, they bring about, as Tolstoy observed, revulsion and unease. One gradually realizes that many of the things they sought were never truly their own. They were the desires of society, of fashion, of the system itself.

The contemporary relevance of Tolstoy’s insight lies precisely in this: he teaches us to ask, “Why do I desire this?” Though simple in phrasing, the answer shapes one’s very identity. Every feeling of revulsion marks the birth of a truth. As one comes to loathe past desires, one begins to discern the mechanisms that governed them. This, in turn, is the beginning of moral freedom. In this sense, revulsion is not loss. It is purification. As Tolstoy himself wrote:

“Only when a person renounces that which ignites the soul does a light begin to burn within.”
(Diary of Tolstoy, 1898)

Thus, the revulsion toward past desires is the growing pain of the human spirit. Those who endure this pain may appear lonely or bewildered, yet in reality, they are expanding the boundaries of their inner freedom. The strength of Tolstoy’s wisdom lies here: he perceives revulsion not as sin, but as a hidden stage of evolution.

Nigar Shahverdiyeva