Davis wasn’t the sensitive type. He was something else. The sensitive type found a piano in the middle of a party and played “Against All Odds.” The sensitive type stewed all weekend after some jerk made fun of his shirt. Davis’s emotional disturbances weren’t personal to him. They were a reaction to the immutable drift of pain, the sorrow that shrouded all lives. Bad things happened in his life—that was sad, but generally solvable. But bad things were constantly happening in everyone’s lives all the time—that was sadness, and it was here to stay.
