n old man gets absorbed in our national drama, same as you — the paper is full of it, the madman who has moved into our lives — and then suddenly I am distracted by the memory of lawn mowing. I once loved mowing, then I hired young men to do it, and now a gang of them comes every week and they roar around for half an hour while I read the paper. Maybe I would be happier if I mowed instead.
Mowing was my mother’s remedy for a boy’s melancholy. She didn’t believe in melancholy. Her point of view was: So you’re lonely — do something about it. There is nothing special about feeling bad. Nobody needs to hear about it. Don’t be a whiner. You think you’ve got it bad, think again: Children in China would be overjoyed to have what you’ve got.
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