The coronavirus pandemic has prompted many columnists, bloggers, and popularizers to comment on solitude, usually addressed as a necessary coping mechanism. They are speaking not of solitude as such but of what author Sue Halpern describes in her book Migrations to Solitude as “involuntary solitude.” But can staying at home, social isolation in a pandemic, equate to the involuntary solitude of the recluse, the prison inmate, the patient with terminal disease, the widowed or bereaved, the mentally ill? A true solitude is not only not involuntary but a profession, a project, an embrace of persona and destiny. Not a small order, compared to what the columnists think of as a spell of isolation calling for lots of time-killers: games and puzzles, movie-binging, and the reading of tomes never intended to be read anyway.
Solitude is the realm of the hermit, the mystic, the creative artist. It belongs to a different realm than physical solitude, than the psychological realm that equates solitude with loneliness. Solitude is assigned to the introvert to a degree, but is otherwise chosen deliberately, if not consciously.
The health worker confronting illness and death is not a solitary, of course. But also not a mere unit working with others as in a military operation. (The vocabulary of war, attack, assault, defense, troops, front lines, etc.is unfortunate and ultimately misleading, revealing how society values the work — and death — of the warrior over that of anyone else.) The health worker holds to a unique and selfless vocation, not an involuntary pursuit. But the moral dimension of their arduous work lifts them, in a time of pandemic, to a loftier realm. Not loftier in an entirely moral sense, for it is not a matter of pointing out heroism versus pedestrianism. All this makes solitude for the person stuck at home–grudgingly conforming to social isolation–an opportunity to pursue better habits. Taking up better habits with reluctance and a willful involuntariness is self-defeating and bad faith.
One good reading source in a time of pandemic is Albert Camus’ The Plague. As an existentialist, Camus is attempting to reveal a necessary truth about any situation, but without moralizing, just plainly and realistically. The plague of the novel is the backdrop to a specific geography and people. Granted that several main characters are clear projections of Camus, that the city is a projection of life itself, does not detract from the detail and suspense of daily existence, or our concern for the fate of the characters.
The chief protagonist is Dr. Rieux, who comes to be in charge of the quarantined city’s medical response, who spends his days and evenings facing the plague and its death ravages unflinchingly. A journalist Rembert wants to escape the city, bribe the sentries that he may break the quarantine and return to Paris, but eventually the example of Rieux convinces him to stay and to work with the doctor. Similarly, the priest Panteloux sermonizes at the beginning that the plague was God’s punishment for the guilty. As the plague continues its course, killing indifferently, Panteloux starts searching for clearer explanations, and joins Rieux in the hospital wards. There, at Rieux’s side, they witness a child die in agony, crying out wretchedly until dying, and the doctor whirls angrily at the priest, stating that the child at least was certainly innocent. We must bend to the mysterious will of God,the priest argues. We must come to love that will. No, replies Rieux. “Until my dying day I shall refuse to love a scheme of things in which children are put to torture.” Panteloux searches for the final word, telling himself that he himself must, therefore, have grace. Rieux demurs. Panteloux congratulates Rieux for working for man’s salvation, like himself. “Salvation is much too big a word for me. I don’t aim so high. I’m concerned with man’s health, and for me his health comes first.”
The character Tarrou offers a lengthy summary of Camus’ philosophy of life.”Each of us has the plague within him,” he says. “We must keep endless watch on ourselves lest in a careless moment we breathe in somebody’s face.” The plague here is not just microbial. It is not just an abstract notion of original sin or human nature. It is the malevolence of the world and society that infects every person. It sits within waiting to manifest itself and infect others. It is, as Tarrou suggests, “a weariness from which nothing remains to set us free except death.” And until that release, “I know no place in the world of today.” When he refused to follow social conventions of war and violence, Tarrou knew that he “doomed” himself to “an exile that can never end. I leave it to others to make history … I’ve learned modesty. All I maintain is that on this earth there are pestilences and there are victims,and it’s up to us, so far as possible, not to join forces with pestilences.”
“It comes to this,” Tarrou said almost casually; “what interests me is learning how to become a saint.”
“But you don’t believe in God.” [Rieux replies].
“Exactly! Can one be a saint without God? — that’s the problem, in fact the only problem.”
In the end, the characters realize that life in the plague is simply life itself. Suffering and death are always around us, are intrinsic to existence, that they are not separate, that we are the plague itself. That is why we are in this together, not because we form society, friendship, or perform acts of heroism, sanctity, or high morals. Rather, because we are human beings, we live and die, all of us. This is the common, the universal fate we all share,and we owe one another a certain “decency,” as Camus puts it, regardless of our personal beliefs.
One last thought. This is the month of April. The opening line of T. S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” tells us: “April is the cruelest month …” It is the cruelest month because it taunts us with the coming of spring, the passing of winter, sometimes clear and sunny, sometimes filling the air with sleet and snowfall. Pity the plants perked to raise their heads above the ground to welcome a spell of warmth only to be beaten down. And the birds, their cheerful song and carefree flitters cut short by a sudden cold, killing many. Such is the course of life, misinterpreting the signs, trusting in hopes, expectations dashed, refusing to wait long enough to discover the true nature of the cycle of seasons, the cycles of nature, the cycles of life. Patience and observation are the sage’s strengths, never assuming or grasping, practicing Chuang-tzu’s wu-wei, or “no-action” or, at least no harm.