Algernon refuses to be alarmed. Reading my diatribes he jollies me, as if I were a pouty kid. The condescension of his consolation! Folks focus too much on what’s wrong, he says, not what’s right. He inventories the good things about America (Algernon knows his stuff). Our GDP, technology, science, military restraint, the progress during our lifetimes for women, non-heterosexuals, persons of color. Think of our entertainment industry – and sports – and finance – consumer sentiment. Yeh, Covid was bad, but less bad here, right? Calamitous climate data he agrees is troubling – but we’ll find a way to avert extinction, we always have. Russians in Ukraine? Israelis in Gaza? The Chinese drooling for Taiwan? The rise of autocrats and retreat of democracies? Nothing’s ever perfect. What about the attacks on teachers, banning of books, assaults on fundamental rights? What about Elon Musk – Matt Gaetz – Bobby Kennedy Junior – J.D. Vance – the blob himself…

Algernon’s equanimity riles. He’s no dummy, far from it. On most public policy points we concur. Our conversations are informed, informative, polite. A world of Algernons would be a big improvement. But, oh, where’s the panic, the passion, the engagement? Doesn’t anything upset him? What about his grandkids – doesn’t he fear for their futures?

Algernon smiles, not unkindly. Would his raving improve conditions? Aren’t acrimony and antagonism contagious? Have I altered a single mind with my pungent prose? He suspects me, I suspect – though he’d never say so – of grandstanding, alliterating my polysyllabic pugnacity to parade my prowess. Who was it wrote recently, “There’s a solipsism in rage, a self-importance, which ignores one’s effect on others in one’s zeal to alert”? Quoting me against myself both flatters and frustrates. Naturally I’m grateful for his attention – reading me daily is quite a commitment, not to mention vote of confidence. Bless Algernon – in many ways, my perfect friend. I love him – no kidding. If only I could ignite his soggy kindling – wake him to our peril – goad him into rage!

Half of me envies Algernon’s placidity. Like dog-pal Henry, he is glad by nature and will not be harried from his calm. Isn’t his ease preferable to my ceaseless pitching and heaving in choppy waters. Being me is no picnic, true, though I’d hate to be anybody else.

I’m all for self-control – up to a point. Beyond that point one pokes for a pulse. “Teach us to care and not to care,” wailed T.S. Eliot in anguish,

Humans wince – that what’s makes us human. Hurt proves our heart. Imperturbability is the attitude of an automaton. Flesh and blood seek to embrace flesh and blood. I weep, therefore I am.

Remember Michael Dukakis’ response, in the 1988 Presidential debate, whether he’d support the death penalty for a monster who’d raped and murdered his wife? “No,” he said without flinching, and began explaining why, using data. Even his supporters shuddered at his coolness. Bush the First, all smiles, won in a walk, however hurtful his policies.

I am not calm about America’s prospects. Only a bloody trainwreck, I fear, will waken us to the danger of our present train of thought. Certain a wreck is coming, I want it to come sooner, so we can commence recovery (if we survive).

Grim prevision. Yet my purpose conversing is not to begrime your spirits but refresh them – not with false cheer – lies are never reassuring – but with cheer, my dread notwithstanding. What really irks me about Algernon may be my desire to resemble him. With my bounteous luck, why can’t I rejoice!

I’ll keep trying.