In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

45 xxiii Solitude A philanthropic journalist tells me that solitude is bad for humankind and, in support of his thesis, cites—as unbelievers generally do—the Church Fathers. I’m aware of how the Demon prefers arid places and how the Spirit of murder and lust, left in solitude, unaccountably ignites. But possibly such solitude is dangerous only for idle and incoherent souls, who populate it with their own passions, their own chimæras. Certainly a chatterbox, his supreme pleasure to spout from pulpit or rostrum, if put on Robinson Crusoe’s island is not at all unlikely to go raving mad. I don’t ask of my journalist the courageous stamina of Crusoe, but I insist he not condemn, out of hand, all those enamored of solitude and mystery. There are, in our garrulous tribe, some who would take on the supreme penalty with less repugnance, if only they were permitted, from the gallows itself, to harangue the crowd of spectators without dread of their spiel being cut off by Santerre’s drums.8 Not that I blame them, since I suppose they are as gladdened by oratorical overflow as others are by silence and meditation. Still, I do despise them. Mainly I want the damned journalist to let me enjoy myself my own way. “So you never feel the necessity,” he says, down his apostolic nose, “of sharing your pleasures?” See there, the subtle envy! He knows I disdain his pleasure and so wants to infiltrate mine, the wretched spoil-sport. “The unfortunate inability to be alone! . . .” La Bruyère says somewhere, casting shame on those who rush into a crowd for for8 . Antoine-Joseph Santerre, Commander of the National Guard, ordered drums to cover the voice of King Louis XVI at his beheading. 46 getfulness, fearful no doubt of being unable to stand their own selves. “Practically all our mishaps come from not staying in our room,” says another sage, Pascal I think, recalling thus to the cell of meditation all the fools searching for happiness in movement and in a prostitution I would call fraternalistic, if I wanted to speak in my century’s uppity tone. ...

Share