Why is it that such beauty can come from sadness? Why is it that it seems that the most moving of poetry comes from such depths of sorrow, that joy is never so exquisitely expressed? There is no other music quite like the blues, none other with such soul — that phrase perhaps meaning that no other communiqué pours the contents of one soul into another quite as well. Is it that all of us so readily relate to pain, that it is the greatest thrust of the human condition? And perhaps it is in us not to react automatically with glad at another’s happiness. Perhaps it is the opposite of the saying, after all, that when you cry, the whole world understands, and when you laugh, no one else wants to know why. Perhaps it is part of the ineffable Plan, that the consolation of sadness is the more immortal fruit. Still, I’d rather be happy. And I think I am not alone in this, foolishness that it may be — wisdom elsewhere, dwelling in the house of mourning.