How much time do you actually spend alone, without craning your face into your phone? What do I, or you, mean by solitude; the unbroken beauty of expansive quiet time alone, or doing stuff on your own (which I would argue might not be solitude, but mere distraction from alone-ness. All views to the contrary welcome by the way). Two books I have read that sing about solitude and are so different they uttterly compliment each other are – Sylvain Tessons Consolations of the Forest . The story of his six months alone in a cabin in Siberia, wrestling with heartbreak and alcoholism, as he survives on dried pasta Tabasco sauce and litres upon litres of vodka. It is poetic and also very funny, especially about how pathetic we each feel after a break up and particularly when it’s by text. Meanwhile, The Book of Silence by Sara Maitland is quieter, introspective and brilliantly conversational. “Don’t feel sorry for me” she says at one point, explaining how she chose to go live on a deserted Scottish hillside, a deliberate, radical decision to dive into silence. She also writes a brilliant history of those she calls “silence hunters,” hers is one of the few books I’ve read twice and now I’ll go back to again.
I spend a lot of time alone, mostly by choice. I also travel a lot, usually on my own. Rarely do I feel lonely, though when it has struck me, I have usually been in a city, often a city I know, suddenly feeling unwanted and nebolous, spinning like a lost atom. I loved these two books because they storied the beauty of solitude and talked through spirals of loneliess, and the differences between, them that fascinate me. I’d love to have a drink with both of them – in Sylvain’s case, maybe a coffee. He’s a boozer that guy – or rather he was – and acutely perceptive: as he said, sometimes the best cure for loneliness is to spend more time on your own: think about that one.
