Frankly then it is necessary to say that all sorrow dwells in a low region. Tragedy is in the eye of the observer, and not in the heart of the sufferer. It is so distributed as not to destroy. That which would rend you, falls on tougher textures. That which seems intolerable reproach or bereavement, does not take from the accused or bereaved man or woman appetite or sleep.
Some men are above grief, and some below it.
Few are capable of love. In phlegmatic natures calamity is unaffecting, in shallow natures it is rhetorical. Tragedy must be somewhat which I can respect. A querulous habit is not tragedy. It is full of illusion.