In Praise of Comedy

The art of comedy's a sacred thing, as fresh and precious in its gift of bliss as when a worshipped one's initial kiss transports us first. Like Fragonard, we swing to Lena Horne's delightful rites of spring on wings of wonder. No analysis can pull apart a pleasure pure as this. We humans laugh as nightingales might sing. We're taught to think creators must be serious, but humour's both unruly and imperious, and ridicule's the boy-god's sharpest dart. We laugh and learn, and don't let worries weary us, for dreariness is deadly, deleterious: thanks, heaven, for the comedy of art.