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, its too cold for him. In summer, he complains of the heat!’

The others present nodded their heads sagely, for they believed that by doing so they partook of the essence of this wisdom.

Nasrudin looked up from his abstraction. ‘Have you not noticed nobody ever complains about the spring?’