I feel like I’ve wandered into an Alice in Wonderland Humpty Dumpty world where words mean whatever the speaker wants them to mean.
But even in the midst of all this upside-down-ness, there are still times when I feel it’s absolute bliss to be alive. It’s not the same “bliss” I knew in my ignorant, vigorous youth, but it’s still bliss. Is that okay? Or have we reached the point where a prudent man must conceal his happiness in order not to agitate a swarm of resentful, depressed ANTIFAs, all insisting on universal misery in the name of social justice and emotional equality?
The following poem isn’t as well known as it should be.
Early in the Morning—Robert Hillyer (1895-1961)
You are sitting on the terrace of the Brasserie Wepler. (It is still there, I understand.) Your waiter is at right. He has brought you your breakfast. You are sitting under the awning that runs across the top of the frame and can see portions of empty tables in front of you. You are watching two little girls trying to cross the street. The painting is called Place Clichy and is by Pierre Bonnard.