“My mind,” he said, “rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation.” – Sherlock Holmes

                  Daily, readers tell me they despair of our kind. The Nameless One epitomizes their distress but their sadness seeps farther, curdling their optimism, poisoning their joy. I share this despair; sharing partly explains why we gather here: misery loves company. But more is happening here than bellyaching, I hope. These dicey times possess an interest which the pleasantest lack. Making sense of our moment – better yet, making music of it – wakens me to exertion, as puzzling cases once roused Sherlock from his listless gloom.

                  Herein the paradox of human consciousness: the worst of times may feel the best and vice versa. Saddened by what I see, I’ve never been gladder to be alive. Instead of moping, I pop out of sleep like a jack-in-the-box to decipher what’s happening. Be gone, dull melancholy, I am too busy to be grim!

                  Necessity, not satiety, is the source of human joy; supposed to be happy I’m my least happy. This is as true for epochs as individuals. As that maestro of mischief, the Cat in the Hat, singsongs:

I know it is wet and the sun is not sunny,
but we can have lots of good fun that is funny.

                  Why is this, dog-pal Henry wonders. He wants is what he wants, no two ways about it. How, for humans, can it be the opposite? It makes no sense!

                  The most corrosive word in humans’ vast vocabulary is Why. Precocious tots discover this early, pestering adults to distraction with their endless whys. Why do I have to go to bed or brush my teeth soon graduate to less tractable topics: why is daddy angry, why do we die? There are reasons we die – go to heaven, make room for others, prevent life from getting tiresome – but none convinces. This mystery troubles Henry not a whit, because he doesn’t waste a minute anticipating his extinction. He is here now: let the good times roll!

                  Why did God contrive a creature who makes such bonehead mistakes – and extol these botches as his supreme accomplishment? If you or I had made Man, we might be moved to erase and start over. What other creature would have messed up Eden: after having been given all, desiring more? 

                  I suffer a pronounced case of this distress. Like Sherlock, happy I’m unhappy. This explains why most of my life I’ve made trouble for myself, defying authority, taking on impossible challenges, asking why. What is is never what I think – so what do I think? That puzzle unsettles any occasional serenity and keeps my days from getting dull.

                  I hate our human moment. I rate it dire. But would I surrender my front row seat? Not a chance.

                 Today’s awfulness enlists me – enlists all of us with brains – in civilization’s defense. Never until the Nameless One’s ascendancy have my complacencies felt less sure. The gifts I took for given – reason, kindness, beauty, freedom and the like – are being snatched by an evil ogre. Man the barricades! No matter I’m old, feeble, inadequate to the task, I’m needed – we all are – and necessity feels grand. Soldiers often report warfare as their most appalling and enthralling period: never did they feel they mattered more. Our minds, like Sherlock’s, “rebel at stagnation.” Now, just maybe, is our finest hour.