Misanthrope’s Corner

FOR the past year my local radio station has been running an ad for a mental-health clinic. It begins with a somber voice-over reciting statistics about depression, then launches into a minidrama featuring a teenager sobbing, “I can’t take it anymore!” In another version, a man dissolves in tears and blubbers, “It’s no use! Nothing helps!”

Whenever they came on I always yelled a string of unprintables at the radio, but sometime in October I lapsed into an oddly placid silence. I knew why. Campaign ’96 had turned me into what the South calls a “good soul,” meaning crazy, but not enough to commit; the kind of craziness that involves rocking back and forth, smiling absently, and not bothering anybody. I stopped yelling at the radio because I knew how those people in the ads felt: I couldn’t take it anymore either.

About the Author

Florence King

Florence King was a contributing editor of National Review.

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FOR the past year my local radio station has been running an ad for a mental-health clinic. It begins with a somber voice-over reciting statistics about depression, then launches into a minidrama featuring a teenager sobbing, “I can’t take it anymore!” In another version, a man dissolves in tears and blubbers, “It’s no use! Nothing helps!”

Whenever they came on I always yelled a string of unprintables at the radio, but sometime in October I lapsed into an oddly placid silence. I knew why. Campaign ’96 had turned me into what the South calls a “good soul,” meaning crazy, but not enough to commit; the kind of craziness that involves rocking back and forth, smiling absently, and not bothering anybody. I stopped yelling at the radio because I knew how those people in the ads felt: I couldn’t take it anymore either.