Hamza, the homespun philosopher who peddled truisms in the teahouse,
was droning on: ‘How strange is humanity! To think that man is never
satisfied! When it is winter, it is too cold for him. In summer, he complains
of the heat!’
   The others present nodded their heads sagely, for they believed that by
so doing they partook of the essence of this wisdom.
   Nasrudin looked up from his abstraction. ‘Have you not noticed that
nobody ever complains about the spring?’