"You want to know why I can't relax?" Rodgers said. "Because we've become a society that lives for the weekend, for vacations, for running away from responsibility. We're proud of how much liquor we can hold, of how many women we can charm our way into bed with, of how well our sports teams are doing."

"You used to like a lot of those things," August pointed out. "Especially the women."

"Well, maybe I'm tired of it," Rodgers said. "I don't want to live like that any more. I want to do things."

"You always have done things," August said. "And you still found time to enjoy life."

"I guess I didn't realize what a mess the country was becoming," Rodgers said. "You face an enemy like world Communism. You put everything into that fight. Then suddenly you don't have them anymore and you finally take a good look around. You see that everything else has gone to hell while you fought your battle. Values, initiative, compassion, everything. Now I've decided I want to work harder kicking the asses of those who don't take pride in what they do."

"All of which is very heartfelt," August said. "It's also beside the point, Mike. You like classical music, right?"

Rodgers nodded. "So?"

"I forget which writer it was who said that life should be like a Beethoven symphony. The loud parts of the music represent our public deeds. The soft passages suggest our private reflection. I think that most people have found a good and honest balance between the two."

Rodgers looked down at his tea. "I don't believe that. If it were true, we'd be doing better."

"We've survived a couple of world wars and a nuclear cold war," August replied. "For a bunch of territorial carnivores not far removed from the caves, that ain't bad." He took a long, slow sip of tea. "Besides, forget about recreation and weekends. What started this all was you making a joke and me approving of it. Humor ain't weakness, pal, and don't start coming down on yourself for it. It's a deterrent, Mike, a necessary counterbalance. When I was a guest of Ho Chi Minh, I stayed relatively sane by telling myself every bad joke I could remember. Knock-knocks. Good news, bad news. Skeleton jokes. You know: 'A skeleton walks into a bar and orders a gin and tonic… and a mop." his Rodgers didn't laugh.

"Well," August said, "it's amazing how funny that seems when you're strung up by your bleeding goddamn wrists in a mosquito-covered swamp. The point is, it's a bootstrap deal, Mike. You've got to lift yourself out of the muck."

"That's you," Rodgers said. "I get angry. Bitter. I brood."

"I know. And you let it sit in your gut. You've come up with a third kind of symphonic music: loud passages that you keep inside. You can't possibly think that's good."