To escape the heat, I dragged a reluctant Montainge downstairs, where it was cooler, and collapsed into a comfortable chair beneath the breath of an air conditioner vent. Montainge was going on about sadness, but I muted him beneath the book cover and sat listening to my youngest daughter sing in the shower in the nearby bathroom. I couldn’t quite make out what she sang, but she sounded happy, and that added a nice balance to Montaigne’s melancholy.