A person retreats to a private inner room, sifting through the day’s stray thoughts and odd news — Amelia Earhart’s shoe, a long-dead jazz legend, a failed primary, a language invented for aliens that never answered. It feels like shirking the world’s big dramas, but the speaker isn’t really hiding; they’re collecting small marvels, from tree-climbing fish to a bee that can’t tell shapes apart. The voice is conversational and wry, sometimes even admitting a line is “strictly for effect.” Underneath the whimsy, there’s a quiet weariness and a hope of healing. What starts as a jumble of curiosities slowly shifts into something steadier. The speaker realizes that all this mental clutter, once sorted and labeled, won’t be infinite or grand — just a tiny miscellany — yet those odds and ends hint at a deep, enduring ritual. That discovery doesn’t feel like a letdown. It’s a relief, a quiet joy, the kind that makes you genuinely happy.
Happy As The Day Is Long — Summary
I take the long walk up the staircase to my secret room. Today's big news: they found Amelia Earhart's shoe, size 9. 1992: Charlie Christian is bebopping at Minton's in 1941. Today, the Presidential primaries have failed us once again. We'll look for our excitement elsewhere, in the last snow that is falling, in tomorrow's Gospel Concert in Springfield. It's a good day to be a cat and just sleep. Or to read the Confessions of Saint Augustine. Jesus called the sons of Zebedee the Sons of Thunder. In my secret room, plans are hatched: we'll explore the Smoky Mountains. Then we'll walk along a beach: Hallelujah! (A letter was just delivered by Overnight Express-- it contained nothing of importance, I slept through it.) (I guess I'm trying to be "above the fray.") The Russians, I know, have developed a language called "Lincos" designed for communicating with the inhabitants of other worlds. That's been a waste of time, not even a postcard. But then again, there are tree-climbing fish, called anabases. They climb the trees out of stupidity, or so it is said. Who am I to judge? I want to break out of here. A bee is not strong in geometry: it cannot tell a square from a triangle or a circle. The locker room of my skull is full of panting egrets. I'm saying that strictly for effect. In time I will heal, I know this, or I believe this. The contents and furnishings of my secret room will be labeled and organized so thoroughly it will be a little frightening. What I thought was infinite will turn out to be just a couple of odds and ends, a tiny miscellany, miniature stuff, fragments of novelties, of no great moment. But it will also be enough, maybe even more than enough, to suggest an immense ritual and tradition. And this makes me very happy.