T is for tedium, and by tedium I do not mean the heartsickness of Leopardi's
noia,or the deadening emptiness of Baudelaire's ennui. I do not mean those
encounters with the void that leave the sufferer in despair or, as we are
more likely to say, in a deep depression. By tedium I mean no more than
the household variety of boredom, the sweet monotony of daily life. My tedium
is a luxury. In its arms, I am passive. I sit around and peruse a book, or
check the fridge, or do a puzzle. Pretty soon my laziness palls. I try to
extricate myself. I drink some coffee. This gets me working. And I say to
myself that it couldn't be done without tedium, most benign of pressures.
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