He hoots all night and makes me so depressed that I
feel that I shall go mad."
"And so you come and listen to the owl in London?" I said.
"The owl in London?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, "the owl that hoots in Carmelite Street and Printing House
Square."
"Ah," she said, "but he is such an absurd owl. Now the owl down in the
country is such a solemn creature."
"He says a very foolish thing
In such a solemn way,"
I murmured.
"Yes, but in the silence and the darkness there doesn't seem any answer to
him."
"Madame," I said, "if you will look up at the stars you will find a very
complete answer."
I confess that I find the owl not only tolerable but stimulating. I like to
hear the pessimist really let himself go. It is the nameless and unformed
fears of the mind that paralyse, but when my owl comes along and states the
position at its blackest I begin to cheer up and feel defiant and
combative. Is this the worst that can be said? Then let us see what the
best is, and set about accomplishing it.
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