Geoffrey wrote:a happy person is
someone who has been deceived
without knowing it -
an unhappy person is
someone who has found out
I don't like this at all. It doesn't have the weight of the usual philosophy you find in a Fortune Cookie.
A person deceived without knowing it doesn't become happy because of his ignorance. As I walk to work, unaware of some deceit, it may rain on me, I may have an illness, I may have an accident, my football team may have lost, I may be dreading my first appointment. How do I become happy just because I don't know I have been deceived? If you meant he is happy with the person whom he does not know has deceived him, he may nonetheless not enjoy that other's company, or have an instinct about him that he is not to be trusted and yet does not know of the deceit.
The discovery of deceit may be joyful because it helps you make a decision to end a relationship, or to sack someone. It may give satisfaction by the apparent confirmation that all people are fundamentally bad.
1.
A happy person is
someone who reads
a decent poem before he goes to bed
An unhappy person is someone
who reads a weak poem
before he goes to bed.
2.
a happy person is
someone who has deceived himself
not realising his poem is poor
an unhappy person is
someone who has found out
that his poem is poor
having really thought it was good
another type of happy person
is someone who has found out
his poem is dire
but is inspired to improve
by friendly fire
3.
yet another type of happy person is one who remembers the song by Neil Innes, and the sweet way he sang it
How sweet to be an Idiot,
As harmless as a cloud,
Too small to hide the sun,
Almost poking fun
At the warm but insecure, untidy crowd.
How sweet to be an idiot,
And dip my brain in joy,
Children laughing at my back,
With no fear of attack,
As much retaliation as a toy.
How sweet to be an idiot. How sweet.
I tiptoed down the street,
Smiled at everyone I meet,
But suddenly a scream
Smashes through my dream.
Fee fie foe fum.
I smell the blood of an asylum.
(Blood of an asylum. But mother, I play so beautifully. Listen. Ha ha.)
Fie fye foe fum.
I smell the blood of the asylum.
Hey you. You're such a pennant.
You got as much brain as a dead ant,
As much imagination as a caravan sign,
But I still love you. Still love you.
Oooh, how sweet to be an idiot.
How sweet. How sweet. How sweet.
