What's Wrong With the World

Laus Phoenix

I

"You know what's wrong with people today?"

"What?"

"Too wrapped up in their own little dramas, mate," he said, rubbing his hands as his breath left his lips in wispy trails of steam, the easy familiarity in his voice giving the impression that he'd had to deliver this explanation many times in the past. "Think their slight knocks and the thwarting of their petty ambitions is a cause to weep over."

"Exactly!" Simon said, brightening at once. "That's precisely my point!"

"In fact," he went on, his voice trailing off at a tangent. "Some of them are wallowing so much in their self-pity that they have to tell everyone about it, as though we were all begging to hear about all the juicy details or something. People wrapped up in themselves always make small packages, that's what I say. I mean, bleeding heck, some of them even tell stories about how miserable they are, and then sit around waiting for someone to hold their hands as though they were-"

Simon politely cleared his throat.

He started. "I'm terribly sorry, I do apologise, I just got a little carried away there," he said, grinning.

II

"Dear Sirs: I am.

Sincerely, 

G.K. Chesterton".

[I originally called this book "What is Wrong," and it would have satisfied your sardonic temper to note the number of social misunderstandings that arose from the use of the title. Many a mild lady visitor opened her eyes when I remarked casually, "I have been doing 'What is Wrong' all this morning." And one minister of religion moved quite sharply in his chair when I told him (as he understood it) that I had to run upstairs and do what was wrong, but should be down again in a minute. Exactly of what occult vice they silently accused me I cannot conjecture, but I know of what I accuse myself; and that is, of having written a very shapeless and inadequate book, and one quite unworthy to be dedicated to you. As far as literature goes, this book is what is wrong and no mistake.]