on solitude

Without solitude art would have a very difficult time existing. “We all know that art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand.” (Picasso) This is the wisdom of art. This wisdom, as de Montaigne reveals relies very heavily on a life of solitude. This solitude is embedded in the artist’s natural existence as loners.

Writing at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day. (Hemingway 155)

These ideas are handed down the rungs of the ladders upon embarking on a life of writing. These quotes are whispered through the hall ways of English literature departments. Henry David Thoreau is the most representative non religious Westerner to comprehend solitude and the hermit life. His time in complete isolation from society lead to the creation of Walden as well as a wonderful collection of journal entries, exemplify in the journal of the writer as a most solitary form of writing.

I thrive best on solitude. If I have had a companion only one day in a week, unless it were one or two I could name, I find that the value of the week to name has been seriously affected. It dissipates my days, and often it takes me another week to get over it…you think I am impoverishing myself by withdrawing from men, but in my solitude I have woven for myself a silent web or chrysalis, and nymph-like shall ere long burst forth a more perfect creature, fitted for high society.” (Thoreau)

Doris Grumbach recorded her fifty days of solitude through a series of Journal entries in her book “Fifty Days of Solitude” Grumbach scarcely speaks to anyone throughout the entire fifty days. She writes and maintains contact with a handful of the outside world through this method.

I want to share with you,’ the fine thing about being alone was that the whole odious concept of sharing completely disappeared. For one, there was no one to share with. Quickly, my desire to share, never very strong at best, died away. I found pleasure in storing up, saving what I realized and saw and thought, like a miser, like a squirrel.


Like a squirrel huh? (buck teeth chomping away at my lower lower lip and making cute little squirrel noises...)

I've been thinking about solitude, since thinking about you....a friend engrossed with(in) it. hummmmm.....

I'll think more. You can only think about it alone, which is why this form of exchange is so very very logical methinks.