It is almost impossible to remember how tragic a place this world is when one is playing golf.

Lynd’s epigram contrasts the world’s underlying suffering with the absorbing, almost anesthetic pleasures of leisure. Golf, with its rituals, etiquette, and narrow focus on the next stroke, becomes a temporary refuge from political turmoil, personal grief, and the general “tragic” condition of modern life. The line is not simply praise of sport; it also hints at moral unease: the very ease with which play displaces awareness suggests how readily comfort and privilege can insulate people from reality. The wit lies in the disproportion—global tragedy set against a game—making the observation both comic and faintly accusatory.