As a youngster, there was nothing I liked better than Sunday afternoons at my grandfather’s farm in western Pennsylvania. Surrounded by miles of winding stone walls, the house and field provided endless hours of fun for a city kid like me. I was used to tidy living rooms that seemed to whisper, “Not to be touched!”

I can still remember one afternoon when I was eight years old. Since my first visit to the farm, I had wanted more than anything to be allowed to climb the stone walls surrounding the houses. My parents would never approve. The walls were old; some stones were missing, others loose and falling. Still, my idea to climb across those walls grew so strong that finally, one spring afternoon, I had all my courage to enter the living room, where the adults had gathered after Sunday dinner.

“I, uh—I want to climb the stone walls,” I said. Everyone looked up. “Can I climb the stone walls?” Immediately voices of disagreement went up from the women in the room. “Heavens, no! You’ll hurt yourself!” I wasn’t too disappointed; the response was just as I’d expected. But before I could leave the room, I was stopped by my grandfather’s loud voice. “Now hold on just a minute,” I heard him say. “Let the boy climb the stone walls. He has to learn to do things for himself.”

“Go,” he said to me, “and come and see me when you get back.” For the next two and a half hours I climbed those old walls—and had the time of my life. Later I met with my grandfather to tell him about my adventures. I’ll never forget what he said. “Fred,” he said, smiling, “You made this day a special day just by being yourself. Always remember, there’s only one person in this whole world like you, and I like you exactly as you are.”

Many years have passed since then, and today I host the television program Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, seen by millions of children throughout America. There have been changes over the years, but one thing remains the same: my message to children at the end of almost every visit. “There’s only one person in this whole world like you.” the kids can count on hearing me say, “and people can like you exactly as you are.”

Do you sometimes argue about what seems to you to be a simple fact? Do you argue whether it’s cold outdoors or whether the car in front of you is going faster than the speed limit (限速)?

If you get into such arguments, try to think about the story about the six blind men and the elephant. The first blind man who felt the elephant’s trunk (象鼻) said it was like a snake. The second who felt the elephant’s side said it was like a wall, while the third said it was like a spear (矛) as he touched the animal’s tusk. The fourth, who took hold of the elephant’s tail insisted that it was like a rope. The fifth man said it looked liked a tree as he put his arms around one of the elephant’s legs. The last, who was tall and got hold of the elephant’s ears, said it was like a huge fan.

Each man’s idea of the animal came from his own experience. So if someone disagrees with you about a “simple fact”, it’s often because his experience in the matter is different from yours.

To see how hard it is for even one person to make up his mind about a “simple fact”, try this simple experiment. Get three large bowls. Put ice water in one. Put hot water in the second. Put lukewarm water (温水)in the third. Now put your left hand in the hot water. Put your right hand in the lukewarm water. Your right hand will tell you the water is cold. Your left hand will tell you it is hot.

Friday was "Chatty Bus day", an experiment aimed at getting people to talk to each other on public transport. This is not an idea that would appeal to those who commute in the rush hour, because there is a smaller distance within which it's just as uncomfortable to talk. Elbow(肘) room is a precondition for sociability. It is no coincidence that the first truly personal music player, the Sony Walkman, was invented in Japan where the commuter trains are literally crowded with people.

We will also not talk to strangers who are physically too far away, of course. No one wants to shout their small talk. Only on country buses or similar unhurried and uncrowded forms of public transport can people reach out to their neighbors, confident that they are doing so from a position of strength and autonomy.

For all these drawbacks, the idea of talking to strangers is still a good one, and the promotion of sociability is good for society. Although it does seem to be a general rule that people are friendlier the fewer there are of them and more hostile and indifferent as cities get more crowded, there are still considerable cultural variations. And there is evidence that friendlier places are also healthier, and their inhabitants happier.

It is true that the apparent loneliness of many people on public transport is a false impression.

Many will be caught up with conversations with distant friends on their phones; some will be talking to the people in books. Some may be in willed solitude with their headphones. But there are always people who would be interested in an unexpected conversation with a stranger. This need not go on for too long.

It is not large and possibly life-changing conversations that are what most people in loneliness miss most. What they really need is not deep thought but superficiality. The kind of conversation that you could have with anyone reminds you that you yourself might be anyone. It is a release from the prison of the self, which is where lonely people serve their sentences, uncertain whether they ever can be paroled(假释). Friendship may be too rare a gift to hope for, but sometimes the kindest thing to say is also the simplest: "Don't be a stranger"-and sometimes that's also enough.