I'm touched by this bit of Hopkins's poem that Teju Cole inserts at the end of his essay titled Gueorgui Pinkjassov, which begins: “Glory be to God for dappled things –” This feeling of looking upwards, of finding perspective amid multiple tiny worries, is like taking a long breath.

Cole is not Catholic. When Aleksandar Hemon interviewed him – the transcript of which is included in Known and Strange Things – and talks about existential pessimism, he asks Cole what he believes. Cole answers: “imagination, gardens, science, poetry, love, and a variety of nonviolent consolations.” This is faithfully represented in his essays.

Gratitude is an expression of confidence. It is professing a belief in generosity. It is saying: “there is enough.” Then, sometimes, I lose the feeling. Gratitude is a stranger. Or worse: gratitude becomes a caricature – an exercise repeatedly recommended by self-help authors that becomes a sort of skimpy inventory; here we count things that have not yet been taken from us: health, eggs and toast, the children’s laughter, today’s sunset. Listing them makes the items subject to disappearance, or forgetfulness.

Writers restore meaning to words. Where gratitude becomes worn, like love, writers who revive them should be blessed. For their effort I am temporarily lifted out of the quagmires of doubt.