All right. The pro­blem is that there is no new pro­blem. It must awa­ken from the sleep of being part of some other, old pro­blem, and by that time its new pro­ble­ma­ti­cal exis­tence will have alrea­dy begun, car­rying it for­ward into situa­tions with which it can­not cope, since no one reco­gnizes it and it does not even reco­gnize itself yet, or know what it is. It is like the begin­ning of a beau­ti­ful day, with all the birds sin­ging in the trees, rea­ding their joy and exci­te­ment into its record as it pro­gresses, and yet the pro­gress of any day, good or bad, brings with it all kinds of dif­fi­cul­ties that should have been fore­seen but never are, so that it final­ly seems as though they are what stifles it, in the majes­ty of a sun­set or mere­ly in gra­dual dull­ness that gets dim­mer and dim­mer until it final­ly sinks into flat, sour dark­ness. Why is this ? Because not one-tenth or even one one-hun­dredth of the ravi­shing pos­si­bi­li­ties the birds sing about at dawn could ever be rea­li­zed in the course of a single day, no mat­ter how cram­med with for­tu­nate events it might turn out to be. And this brings on inevi­table reproaches, unme­ri­ted of course, for we are all like chil­dren sul­king because they can­not have the moon ; and very soon the unrea­so­na­ble­ness of these demands is for­got­ten and overw­hel­med in a wave of melan­cho­ly of which it is the sole cause. Finally we know only that we are unhap­py but we can­not tell why. We for­get that it is our own chil­di­sh­ness that is to blame.