"Miss Lonelyhearts had gone to bed again. This time his bed was surely taking him somewhere, and with great speed."
"Put on a pair of pants, my friend," he said, "we're going to a party."
"The party was at Shrike's apartment. A roar went up when Miss Lonelyhearts entered and the crowd surged forward."
The activity at the party, the fun, was reading letters outloud from the paper and asking people to solve the problems posed.
"Here's one from an old woman whose son died last week. She is seventy years old and sells pencils for a living. She has no stockings and wears heavy boots on her torn and bleeding feet. She has rheum in her eyes. Have you room in your heart for her?"
"This is a jim-dandy. A young boy wants a violin. It looks simple; all you have to do is get the kid one. But then you discover that he had dicatated the letter to his little sister. He is paralyzed and can't even feed himself. He has a toy violin, and hugs it to his chest, imitating the sound of playing with his mouth. How pathetic? However, one can learn much from this parable. Label the boy Labor, the violin Capital, and so on..."
"You are plunging into a world of misery and suffering peopled by creatures who are strangers to everything but disease and policemen. Harried by one, they are hurried by the other..."
Finally, Shrike opens a letter to Miss L. from Doyle. It reads "So that's what all your fine speeches come to, you bastard, you ought to have your brains blown out." It's signed, 'Doyle."
The pace picks up. The see-saw from sickness to health tilts to sickness and stays there. All the roosters come home to roost, and so on.