Grim, I relocate my mind to a cheerier scene – Manhattan, say, in the late nineteen-twenties – with its swagger, glitter, speakeasies, flappers, spats – its cocky insouciance, fearless of cocktails and jokes. America had won the so-called Great War as we won no other – at a cost of a hundred and twenty thousand lives, true, but the rest of the world lost twenty million and was still reeling as we soared. We were confident enough to be silly, poke fun at ourselves, laugh like swaggering adolescents with the world before them. Humorists vied in fun and funniness, so unlike today’s comics, with their bitter wit and heavy hearts.

                  Open the page to Ogden Nash (1902-1971) and feel your soul giggling.

The cow is of the bovine ilk;
One end is moo, the other, milk.

and

The panther is like a leopard,
Except it hasn't been peppered.

and

The turtle lives 'twixt plated decks
Which practically conceal its sex. 
I think it clever of the turtle 
In such a fix to be so fertile;

these but a few creatures in his manic menagerie, of which the funniest is man.

                  Doodles, some might say, hardly art, not taught surely – for what is there to teach? Yet we suspect this lightness will endure longer than the heaviness of many earnest coevals.

                  Does durability verify art? What better measure? “Really great, but nobody remembers him” feels a sorry verdict.

                  We wonder at a culture that begets and befriends such froth. Why do some epochs have a sense of humor, others growl?

                  Material prosperity cannot be the index, for we are richer today and much unhappier. Many of you tell me you suffer at the news; me too. Were it not for your companionship and Henry’s, I might stay in bed, my blanket over my head.

                  What we lack is confidence – that tomorrow will be better – and our children’s tomorrow. Our future feels a sorry slide to despair. Our institutions, which seemed so buoyant, our earth, which seemed certain, our relations with neighbors and nations, once a source of pride, now feel imperiled. What is there to laugh about? When did you last enjoy a belly-shaking guffaw?

                  Folks who can make fun are having fun.

The Purist

I give you now Professor Twist,
A conscientious scientist,
Trustees exclaimed, "He never bungles!"
And sent him off to distant jungles.
Camped on a tropic riverside,
One day he missed his loving bride.
She had, the guide informed him later,
Been eaten by an alligator.
Professor Twist could not but smile.
"You mean," he said, "a crocodile."                

                  That’s funny – why I can hardly say. Puck’s amusement, I suppose: “Oh what fools these mortals be!” And our delight, we sense, while delightful, is not delusive. Funny here is not silly. This humor winks like a sphinx. Why do I feel better already!

                  Immersed in our moment, we mistake our worldview as the only one possible. Everybody’s down at the mouth, more or less. Joy feels clueless, optimism naïve. Today’s victors seem angriest of all.

                  That’s why it’s healthful to get away – into other moments – to remind ourselves of possibility. Literature is my getaway car. Nosh on a little Nash and my spirit clears – for a while.

                  I cannot foresee the future. But I can well imagine my dour vision too dire. To change my tomorrow I must change my mind, for tomorrow is only an idea. 

                  Nash is not my only nostrum. I have shelves full. But I must reach, open, and ingest them, or they’re inert. 

Behold the hippopotamus!
We laugh at how he looks to us,
And yet in moments dank and grim,
I wonder how we look to him. 

Peace, peace, thou hippopotamus!
We really look all right to us,
As you no doubt delight the eye
Of other hippopotami.