Other than his last, culminating essay On Experience, I have written most often on this Montaigne topic. It’s an evergreen subject, so that shouldn’t be surprising, and given that I’m most drawn to this project when I don’t have anyone to share my thoughts with, it makes sense.
When Montaigne writes of solitude, it’s important to remember what he was isolating himself from. From a certain perspective, Montaigne lived a life full of loss. He failed to attain most of the titles and honors he sought. Important people in his life died at an early age. He had a loveless marriage and, by all accounts, remained faithful nonetheless. All but one of his children died during his lifetime. Until he sat down to write his Essais, Montaigne’s life could be considered a disappointment, or even a failure.
So, in part, Montaigne wrote to surrender his life to that point. And maybe he thought that act alone would be sufficient. Montaigne was following the wisdom of the Roman poet Horace:
it is reason and wisdom which take away cares, not places affording wide views over the sea.
But this is simply untrue, and as Montaigne’s project progresses, he admits so in numerous ways. Reason and wisdom can help one endure the sting of isolation, but only connection can alleviate it. If you are a person like me who tends to be introverted and who finds extended social interaction draining, but self reflection energizing, this can a problem. The things that help restore my reason and expand my wisdom tend to take me away from people, which is isolating over time.
Montaigne argues that you can find complete satisfaction alone. I disagree, but I also understand the appeal of what he’s saying:
Now since we are undertaking to live, without companions, by ourselves, let us make our happiness depend on ourselves; let us loose ourselves from the bonds which tie us to others; let us gain power over ourselves to live really and truly alone—and of doing so in contentment.
Montaigne is posing a bit here. He did not stick himself up in a tower and leave the world behind. Throughout the essays, he is immersed in the world—negotiating peace, serving as a mayor, enjoying his newfound fame. He meets new people and is influenced by them as well. So we can’t take this all at face value. He’s lying to us and those who feel the pain of isolation should understand that Montaigne never experienced it himself.
My contentment with solitude comes and goes. So I half understand this Montaigne thought—yes, I have given enough by this point in my life that people should be giving more back to me. But what if they don’t? Are we supposed to just hide away and endless reflect on it?
We have lived quite enough for others: let us live at least this tail-end of life for ourselves. Let us bring our thoughts and reflections back to ourselves and to our own well-being.
Even though I am a writer, my writing is of an extremely social nature. I write so that others can talk face to face. But I also do more than that, I try to bring groups together so they speak the same language and people can move forward in agreement. I put a great deal of energy into helping others achieve goals even if it’s not in the exact manner that they had in mind. In addition, being a father is about carrying around a different type of empathy. Continuing this same paragraph, Montaigne notes how difficult this course can be:
Preparing securely for our own withdrawal is no light matter: it gives us enough trouble without introducing other concerns. Since God grants us leave to make things ready for our departure, let us prepare for it; let us pack up our bags and take leave of our company in good time; let us disentangle ourselves from those violent traps which pledge us to other things and which distance us from ourselves. We must unknot those bonds and, from this day forth, love this or that but marry nothing but ourselves. That is to say, let the rest be ours, but not so glued and joined to us that it cannot be pulled off without tearing away a piece of ourselves, skin and all. The greatest thing in the world is to know how to live to yourself.
I am in no way preparing for my departure from life, I have many more decades to live. But I do wonder just how isolated I could become as I age. I have no significant other and do not wish to marry again, which should not be confused with wishing to be forever single. There’s some kind of modern relationship out there that will work for me, I just haven’t found the form and the person willing to share it with me yet.
And actually, while I say I do not wish to marry again, I must admit (in the spirit of expressing those things that makes my mind ashamed of itself) that there’s a part of me that feels some emptiness for not having a daughter and that part of me is also open to the possibility of having another child, except that it would have to be a girl, three boys is enough for a lifetime. This seems like a more plausible proposition through adoption than childbirth, so to fully amend my statement above, I’m open to a potential future marriage only if a woman is willing to adopt one girl and no more (she can come from anywhere in the world, I’m not one to care that my children resemble me) and be ok with the fact that I will be a legitimately old man by the time our daughter leaves for college.
Putting aside this half baked idea that would take me far afield from Montaigne’s quest, it’s fair to ask, what is the ultimate aim of a solitude based on artistic creation? According to Montaigne, it is not to win the acclaim and approval of others — it is to attain a level of personal satisfaction with the quest itself:
Remember the man who was asked why he toiled so hard at an art which few could ever know about: “For me a few are enough; one is enough; having none is enough.” He spoke the truth. You and one companion are audience enough for each other; so are you for yourself. For you, let the crowd be one, and one be a crowd. It is a vile ambition in one’s retreat to want to extract glory from one’s idleness. We must do like the beasts and scuff out our tracks at the entrance to our lairs. You should no longer be concerned with what the world says of you but with what you say to yourself. Withdraw into yourself, but first prepare yourself to welcome yourself there. It would be madness to entrust yourself to yourself, if you did not know how to govern yourself. There are ways of failing in solitude as in society. Make yourself into a man in whose sight you would not care to walk awry; feel shame for yourself and respect for yourself,—let your mind dwell on examples of honour (Cicero) until you do, always imagine that you are with Cato, Phocion and Aristides, in whose sight the very madmen would hide their faults; make them recorders of your inmost thoughts, which, going astray, will be set right again out of reverence for them.
This thought leaves me with some nagging questions. Is it ever truly acceptable to just walk away from the world? Can one retain friendships while dwelling in solitude? Can a project like Montaigne’s be accomplished halfway, by building those boundaries that contemporary therapists like to extol so frequently? The honest answer is that not even Montaigne was a complete acolyte of his teachings.
Render onto Caesar what is Caesar’s perhaps. Do what you need to do to earn a living, to keep friends, to nurture your family. But wall off the rest for something that is uniquely yours. For me, this is still a work in progress. And by the time readers reach On Experience, it should be apparent that Montaigne had his ups and downs along this route as well.
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