Ever since antiquity, happiness has been defined broadly as ‘freedom from care’, and this makes perfect sense. Without the burden of concern, true bliss can be attained. For this reason I’ve always believed that cats, dogs, and the birds in the trees can be perfectly contented, because they cannot even comprehend care (as far as we know).
For humans, blighted by self-awareness, it’s a bit more tricky. At one end of the happiness spectrum must be the Carthusian monk, who relinquishes all worldly goods, lives in a rude cell beholden to the motion of the sun, doesn’t have to speak to anyone, and perhaps devotes his life to authoring one weighty book that he signs with just his denomination, not even his name. And then he dies.
At the other…