The night before last a voice spoke to me in a dream. No, seriously. Jet lag can do that, I guess. It said, “You have gotten too old for despair.”
Never mind where such voices come from—from God or from my subconscious or from the Land of Oz. I think the point was a good one. Despair is an indulgence of young Werthers. When you are old enough, there is no longer any point in it.
Yes, okay, sure, absolutely, this world is a desert. Anyone who is not in existential crisis is just not paying attention, or is uncommonly thick. All is vanity. There is no justice. Ninety-five percent of everything is garbage, and the other five percent is dross.
This is a shattering thing to admit when you are young, and expect to be trapped here for another fifty years or more. When you are yourself fifty years or more, it is hard to get worked up about it. It is almost funny.
No, it is funny. Hope is tragic, but despair is funny.