I
Solitude is regarded with suspicion by most. How could one choose to seclude himself from others, to retire from society? There's a certain nagging thought that gnaws at the brains of the suspicious - that the solitary one harbors a secret and refuses to share it, that he has reached an understanding they cannot and will not reach, provoking envy, which is then transmuted into distrust and suspicion. Perhaps it is not envy, but in them grows disdain and the suspicion that there is something wrong with the solitary one, something deeply wrong - after all, are we not social creatures ? Most people's lives are centered around others, around a form of ‘verbal grooming.’ Like monkeys picking fleas out of each other's fur, people gossip and relay their own emotional states. The actual semantic meaning of their words matters very little.
Some of us, the solitary ones, have a great love for others. And it is precisely out of this love that we must choose solitude, lest we not lose this love. People, for us, are tiring. They can be spiteful, resentful, hateful, mediocre, bitter. Persistently bickering, kvetching, antagonizing, yammering. The constant cackle of the crowd deafens our mind and numbs our spirit. To not become resentful ourselves we turn away. We do not stoop to the level of the resentful, nor do we hope to ‘serve as an example’ of grace. The concept of ‘serving as example,’ I think, is a great illusion. Most people have their eyes buried in their own feet and won't look up. We chose the path of solitude for our own sanity and tranquility - and to spare them our own resentment.
To choose solitude is to become a friend to your own thoughts. It is to become intimate with every nook and cranny, every winding path, every joy and sorrow, every longing and contentment, and every moment of despair and gratitude that we harbor within ourselves. Many seek friendships, but they cannot even be friends to themselves. They experience great discomfort and personal malaise, and seek to lose themselves and live vicariously through others. You've known the type. Maybe you've been the type yourself—the type that jumps from relationship to relationship, who clings to others, who can never live a moment alone, whose thoughts are too loud, assailing him mercilessly, delivering heavy blows he cannot endure. Whose own very voice is a torture; inside, pesky little thoughts like little demons whisper and nag and suggest hateful things—he drowns them out with the droning voice and giggling and laughter of others.
Solitude is a love for oneself. One who constantly loses himself in others does not love himself and cannot truly love others. When we are alone, we learn to cherish our own company and cultivate self-love, which in turn allows us to offer genuine love to others. Only when love for oneself is overflowing can love be gifted unto others. Living through others is no true living.
II
Solitude gazed into the mirror and Friendship gazed back. And it said to Solitude, “One can only love his friends when he has learned to love himself, when he has become a friend to the self—for our first friends are our own thoughts”.
And Solitude smiled at Friendship, and turned towards Art, who was sitting by her side. And Art opened her many mouths and spoke in many tongues. “You are my dearest friend, Solitude. It is only through you that I find new breath of life, it is only through you that I cultivate my work and polish my skills. Through you, I wander the labyrinth of my imagination. The many distract and cloud my judgment, their droning a constant noise that drowns any possible thought or pulsion. Only through you, my beloved Solitude, do my thoughts and pulsions accumulate like great pressure in a dark cloud. And when the time has come, when the Muse's fruit has ripened do they suddenly erupt like a dizzying bolt of lightning, lighting everything afire and burning this world with my great passion and desire”.
And Solitude responded to Art with gratitude: “You are my reason for being. To you, I gift the gift of Love, which you must hold onto selfishly at first. Let it consume you, let it burn you from the inside until you are no longer recognizable. Then, from your ashes, a phoenix is born—a beautiful bird ablaze with your Love and desire. With its splendid wings, it soars high above the mountains, spreading light across the lands with every beat, gifting your overflowing Love to all. It traces paths beside the stars, leaving bright embers in its wake, forging new constellations to inspire awe and wonder for eons to come.”
III
Both artists and philosophers (and I think philosophers are artists of the intellect) experience an obsession akin to a divine madness that takes a hold of them, saps their strength, and takes on a life of its own through their work. But just as with exercise, although it may leave us exhausted, it only makes us stronger for our next endeavor.
IV
One of the goals of my backpacking trip across Europe has been to undertake a Nietzsche pilgrimage. I've been obsessed with Nietzsche since I was 17; he resonated with me more than most others could. Due to his poor health, Nietzsche spent five winters in Nice, a southern coastal town in France where the climate is very mild. There's a trail near the main city that goes from the train station of Èze to the village high in the mountains. It was this trail that he climbed when he found inspiration for the third part of "Thus Spoke Zarathustra."
Hoping to find some inspiration myself after months of being unable to write a single word, I decided to trace his steps, not just metaphorically—as I am currently reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra—but literally. Mind and spirit are one. The only way to truly understand his philosophy is to live through it, to embody it. A recurring theme in his work is that of solitude and Zarathustra retiring to the mountains, mirroring Nietzsche's own experience.
The train to Èze was crowded. It was hot, stuffy, and filled with all kinds of different people getting angry at each other. How could they not? It was suffocating—like two meaty walls of flesh pressing up against you, closing in, surrounding you by all sizes, with little to no wiggle room.
Thankfully, the trip to Èze from Nice's main station was short. As soon as we reached the station, I stepped out and breathed a sigh of relief. The air was fresh.
The trail started right next to the station, with a large sign indicating Chemin de Nietzsche. To the left, a vast sea sprawled out, extending to infinity-to the right, two tall mountains rose up proudly, like fearsome warriors guarding the gates of an ancient city. Brimming with anticipation, eager to climb the mountain, I began the ascent.
With every step, I felt myself elevated. Goosebumps ran up my arms, and tiny needle-like prickles of pleasure coursed down my spine and the back of my head. It was a genuine feeling of ecstasy I had not experienced in a while. My walk was vigorous—muscles tightening, blood pumping, lungs expanding. I was pushing myself hard. I was elated.
It truly is in such active physiological states that our thoughts are sharpest and most abundant. At such great mountainous heights, they soar high and pure in the clear blue sky.
I had my realization—not my Zarathustra, but a student's realization. To be frank, it was something I'd known in the back of my mind for a while, but the thought finally materialized in front of me. This is Nietzsche's path, not my own. And while I may choose to walk it, and must walk it if it calls to me—just as any musician must play the greats—I must ultimately forge my own path. “One repays a teacher badly if one always remains nothing but a pupil.” So, I must stay with Nietzsche as long as he can teach me something, and maybe that can be for a lifetime, but I also must endeavor to go beyond him and someday play my own melody.
“You look up when you feel the need for elevation. And I look down because I am elevated. Who among you can laugh and be elevated at the same time? Whoever climbs the highest mountains laughs at all tragic plays and tragic seriousness.
Brave, unconcerned, mocking, violent-thus wisdom wants us: she is a woman and always loves only a warrior.”
V
I gazed into the sea and it gazed back at me. The truth really is at the horizon. Maybe if I chase it, it will reveal itself within me, or maybe I must seek it on mountain peaks where the earth meets the sky.
Maybe I won't find what I'm looking for, and maybe I will soar too high and burn myself in the relentless rays of the sun—but then I will turn my ashes into art.
I've been searching for something hidden, something just out of reach, a light behind every book and person I encounter. It’s a thought waiting to take shape and burst forward, needing just a slight spark to light the whole world on fire. Or, is it a thought at all? Perhaps language cannot express what I think I can find. Perhaps it has been within me all along, and I will simply have to let it out through art.
This is a beautiful essay. I actually got goosebumps during the paragraph that is right above you holding up Zarathustra.