In his July essay in the New English Review, Theodore Dalrymple muses on the lack of gratitude in the modern world, including occasionally his own, as he observes the Paris neighborhood where he is staying.
Gratitude is not the first characteristic of the modern age, however much we may have to be grateful for. Indeed, I have myself made something of a literary career, such as it is, by grumbling. My carping criticisms have covered a wide range of deficiencies and faults, or perceived deficiencies and faults, of both the world and its inhabitants. The fact is that I enjoy complaining.