The Essays of Montaigne/Book I/Chapter XXXVIII

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Chapter XXXVIII. Of solitude.[edit]

Let us pretermit that long comparison betwixt the active and the solitary
life; and as for the fine sayings with which ambition and avarice
palliate their vices, that we are not born for ourselves but for the
public,—[This is the eulogium passed by Lucan on Cato of Utica, ii.
383.]—let us boldly appeal to those who are in public affairs; let them
lay their hands upon their hearts, and then say whether, on the contrary,
they do not rather aspire to titles and offices and that tumult of the
world to make their private advantage at the public expense. The corrupt
ways by which in this our time they arrive at the height to which their
ambitions aspire, manifestly enough declares that their ends cannot be
very good. Let us tell ambition that it is she herself who gives us a
taste of solitude; for what does she so much avoid as society? What does
she so much seek as elbowroom? A man many do well or ill everywhere; but
if what Bias says be true, that the greatest part is the worse part, or
what the Preacher says: there is not one good of a thousand:

              "Rari quippe boni: numero vix sunt totidem quot
               Thebarum portae, vel divitis ostia Nili,"

     ["Good men forsooth are scarce: there are hardly as many as there
     are gates of Thebes or mouths of the rich Nile."
     —Juvenal, Sat., xiii. 26.]

the contagion is very dangerous in the crowd. A man must either imitate
the vicious or hate them both are dangerous things, either to resemble
them because they are many or to hate many because they are unresembling
to ourselves. Merchants who go to sea are in the right when they are
cautious that those who embark with them in the same bottom be neither
dissolute blasphemers nor vicious other ways, looking upon such society
as unfortunate. And therefore it was that Bias pleasantly said to some,
who being with him in a dangerous storm implored the assistance of the
gods: "Peace, speak softly," said he, "that they may not know you are
here in my company."—[Diogenes Laertius]—And of more pressing
example, Albuquerque, viceroy in the Indies for Emmanuel, king of
Portugal, in an extreme peril of shipwreck, took a young boy upon his
shoulders, for this only end that, in the society of their common danger
his innocence might serve to protect him, and to recommend him to the
divine favour, that they might get safe to shore. 'Tis not that a wise
man may not live everywhere content, and be alone in the very crowd of a
palace; but if it be left to his own choice, the schoolman will tell you
that he should fly the very sight of the crowd: he will endure it if need
be; but if it be referred to him, he will choose to be alone. He cannot
think himself sufficiently rid of vice, if he must yet contend with it in
other men. Charondas punished those as evil men who were convicted of
keeping ill company. There is nothing so unsociable and sociable as man,
the one by his vice, the other by his nature. And Antisthenes, in my
opinion, did not give him a satisfactory answer, who reproached him with
frequenting ill company, by saying that the physicians lived well enough
amongst the sick, for if they contribute to the health of the sick, no
doubt but by the contagion, continual sight of, and familiarity with
diseases, they must of necessity impair their own.

Now the end, I take it, is all one, to live at more leisure and at one's
ease: but men do not always take the right way. They often think they
have totally taken leave of all business, when they have only exchanged
one employment for another: there is little less trouble in governing a
private family than a whole kingdom. Wherever the mind is perplexed, it
is in an entire disorder, and domestic employments are not less
troublesome for being less important. Moreover, for having shaken off
the court and the exchange, we have not taken leave of the principal
vexations of life:

              "Ratio et prudentia curas,
               Non locus effusi late maris arbiter, aufert;"

     ["Reason and prudence, not a place with a commanding view of the
     great ocean, banish care."—Horace, Ep., i. 2.]

ambition, avarice, irresolution, fear, and inordinate desires, do not
leave us because we forsake our native country:

                    Post equitem sedet atra cura;"

               ["Black care sits behind the horse man."
               —Horace, Od., iii. 1, 40].

they often follow us even to cloisters and philosophical schools; nor
deserts, nor caves, hair-shirts, nor fasts, can disengage us from them:

                    "Haeret lateri lethalis arundo."

          ["The fatal shaft adheres to the side."—AEneid, iv. 73.]

One telling Socrates that such a one was nothing improved by his travels:
"I very well believe it," said he, "for he took himself along with him"

                   "Quid terras alio calentes
                    Sole mutamus? patriae quis exsul
                    Se quoque fugit?"

     ["Why do we seek climates warmed by another sun? Who is the man
     that by fleeing from his country, can also flee from himself?"
     —Horace, Od., ii. 16, 18.]

If a man do not first discharge both himself and his mind of the burden
with which he finds himself oppressed, motion will but make it press the
harder and sit the heavier, as the lading of a ship is of less
encumbrance when fast and bestowed in a settled posture. You do a sick
man more harm than good in removing him from place to place; you fix and
establish the disease by motion, as stakes sink deeper and more firmly
into the earth by being moved up and down in the place where they are
designed to stand. Therefore, it is not enough to get remote from the
public; 'tis not enough to shift the soil only; a man must flee from the
popular conditions that have taken possession of his soul, he must
sequester and come again to himself:

                         "Rupi jam vincula, dicas
               Nam luctata canis nodum arripit; attamen illi,
               Quum fugit, a collo trahitur pars longa catenae."

     ["You say, perhaps, you have broken your chains: the dog who after
     long efforts has broken his chain, still in his flight drags a heavy
     portion of it after him."—Persius, Sat., v. 158.]

We still carry our fetters along with us. 'Tis not an absolute liberty;
we yet cast back a look upon what we have left behind us; the fancy is
still full of it:

          "Nisi purgatum est pectus, quae praelia nobis
          Atque pericula tunc ingratis insinuandum?
          Quantae connscindunt hominem cupedinis acres
          Sollicitum curae? quantique perinde timores?
          Quidve superbia, spurcitia, ac petulantia, quantas
          Efficiunt clades? quid luxus desidiesque?"

     ["But unless the mind is purified, what internal combats and dangers
     must we incur in spite of all our efforts! How many bitter
     anxieties, how many terrors, follow upon unregulated passion!
     What destruction befalls us from pride, lust, petulant anger!
     What evils arise from luxury and sloth!"—Lucretius, v. 4.]

Our disease lies in the mind, which cannot escape from itself;

          "In culpa est animus, qui se non effugit unquam,"
          —Horace, Ep., i. 14, 13.

and therefore is to be called home and confined within itself: that is
the true solitude, and that may be enjoyed even in populous cities and
the courts of kings, though more commodiously apart.

Now, since we will attempt to live alone, and to waive all manner of
conversation amongst them, let us so order it that our content may depend
wholly upon ourselves; let us dissolve all obligations that ally us to
others; let us obtain this from ourselves, that we may live alone in good
earnest, and live at our ease too.

Stilpo having escaped from the burning of his town, where he lost wife,
children, and goods, Demetrius Poliorcetes seeing him, in so great a ruin
of his country, appear with an undisturbed countenance, asked him if he
had received no loss? To which he made answer, No; and that, thank God,
nothing was lost of his.—[Seneca, Ep. 7.]—This also was the meaning of
the philosopher Antisthenes, when he pleasantly said, that "men should
furnish themselves with such things as would float, and might with the
owner escape the storm";—[Diogenes Laertius, vi. 6.] and certainly a
wise man never loses anything if he have himself. When the city of Nola
was ruined by the barbarians, Paulinus, who was bishop of that place,
having there lost all he had, himself a prisoner, prayed after this
manner: "O Lord, defend me from being sensible of this loss; for Thou
knowest they have yet touched nothing of that which is mine."—[St.
Augustin, De Civit. Dei, i. 10.]—The riches that made him rich and the
goods that made him good, were still kept entire. This it is to make
choice of treasures that can secure themselves from plunder and violence,
and to hide them in such a place into which no one can enter and that is
not to be betrayed by any but ourselves. Wives, children, and goods must
be had, and especially health, by him that can get it; but we are not so
to set our hearts upon them that our happiness must have its dependence
upon them; we must reserve a backshop, wholly our own and entirely free,
wherein to settle our true liberty, our principal solitude and retreat.
And in this we must for the most part entertain ourselves with ourselves,
and so privately that no exotic knowledge or communication be admitted
there; there to laugh and to talk, as if without wife, children, goods,
train, or attendance, to the end that when it shall so fall out that we
must lose any or all of these, it may be no new thing to be without them.
We have a mind pliable in itself, that will be company; that has
wherewithal to attack and to defend, to receive and to give: let us not
then fear in this solitude to languish under an uncomfortable vacuity.

                    "In solis sis tibi turba locis."

     ["In solitude, be company for thyself."—Tibullus, vi. 13. 12.]

Virtue is satisfied with herself, without discipline, without words,
without effects. In our ordinary actions there is not one of a thousand
that concerns ourselves. He that thou seest scrambling up the ruins of
that wall, furious and transported, against whom so many harquebuss-shots
are levelled; and that other all over scars, pale, and fainting with
hunger, and yet resolved rather to die than to open the gates to him;
dost thou think that these men are there upon their own account? No;
peradventure in the behalf of one whom they never saw and who never
concerns himself for their pains and danger, but lies wallowing the while
in sloth and pleasure: this other slavering, blear-eyed, slovenly fellow,
that thou seest come out of his study after midnight, dost thou think he
has been tumbling over books to learn how to become a better man, wiser,
and more content? No such matter; he will there end his days, but he
will teach posterity the measure of Plautus' verses and the true
orthography of a Latin word. Who is it that does not voluntarily
exchange his health, his repose, and his very life for reputation and
glory, the most useless, frivolous, and false coin that passes current
amongst us? Our own death does not sufficiently terrify and trouble us;
let us, moreover, charge ourselves with those of our wives, children, and
family: our own affairs do not afford us anxiety enough; let us undertake
those of our neighbours and friends, still more to break our brains and
torment us:

         "Vah! quemquamne hominem in animum instituere, aut
          Parare, quod sit carius, quam ipse est sibi?"

     ["Ah! can any man conceive in his mind or realise what is dearer
     than he is to himself?"—Terence, Adelph., i. I, 13.]

Solitude seems to me to wear the best favour in such as have already
employed their most active and flourishing age in the world's service,
after the example of Thales. We have lived enough for others; let us at
least live out the small remnant of life for ourselves; let us now call
in our thoughts and intentions to ourselves, and to our own ease and
repose. 'Tis no light thing to make a sure retreat; it will be enough
for us to do without mixing other enterprises. Since God gives us
leisure to order our removal, let us make ready, truss our baggage, take
leave betimes of the company, and disentangle ourselves from those
violent importunities that engage us elsewhere and separate us from

We must break the knot of our obligations, how strong soever, and
hereafter love this or that, but espouse nothing but ourselves: that is
to say, let the remainder be our own, but not so joined and so close as
not to be forced away without flaying us or tearing out part of our
whole. The greatest thing in the world is for a man to know that he is
his own. 'Tis time to wean ourselves from society when we can no longer
add anything to it; he who is not in a condition to lend must forbid
himself to borrow. Our forces begin to fail us; let us call them in and
concentrate them in and for ourselves. He that can cast off within
himself and resolve the offices of friendship and company, let him do it.
In this decay of nature which renders him useless, burdensome, and
importunate to others, let him take care not to be useless, burdensome,
and importunate to himself. Let him soothe and caress himself, and above
all things be sure to govern himself with reverence to his reason and
conscience to that degree as to be ashamed to make a false step in their

               "Rarum est enim, ut satis se quisque vereatur."

     ["For 'tis rarely seen that men have respect and reverence enough
     for themselves."—Quintilian, x. 7.]

Socrates says that boys are to cause themselves to be instructed, men to
exercise themselves in well-doing, and old men to retire from all civil
and military employments, living at their own discretion, without the
obligation to any office. There are some complexions more proper for
these precepts of retirement than others. Such as are of a soft and dull
apprehension, and of a tender will and affection, not readily to be
subdued or employed, whereof I am one, both by natural condition and by
reflection, will sooner incline to this advice than active and busy
souls, which embrace: all, engage in all, are hot upon everything, which
offer, present, and give themselves up to every occasion. We are to use
these accidental and extraneous commodities, so far as they are pleasant
to us, but by no means to lay our principal foundation there; 'tis no
true one; neither nature nor reason allows it so to be. Why therefore
should we, contrary to their laws, enslave our own contentment to the
power of another? To anticipate also the accidents of fortune, to
deprive ourselves of the conveniences we have in our own power, as
several have done upon the account of devotion, and some philosophers by
reasoning; to be one's own servant, to lie hard, to put out our own eyes,
to throw our wealth into the river, to go in search of grief; these, by
the misery of this life, aiming at bliss in another; those by laying
themselves low to avoid the danger of falling: all such are acts of an
excessive virtue. The stoutest and most resolute natures render even
their seclusion glorious and exemplary:

                    "Tuta et parvula laudo,
          Quum res deficiunt, satis inter vilia fortis
          Verum, ubi quid melius contingit et unctius, idem
          Hos sapere et solos aio bene vivere, quorum
          Conspicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis."

     ["When means are deficient, I laud a safe and humble condition,
     content with little: but when things grow better and more easy, I
     all the same say that you alone are wise and live well, whose
     invested money is visible in beautiful villas."
     —Horace, Ep., i. 15, 42.]

A great deal less would serve my turn well enough. 'Tis enough for me,
under fortune's favour, to prepare myself for her disgrace, and, being at
my ease, to represent to myself, as far as my imagination can stretch,
the ill to come; as we do at jousts and tiltings, where we counterfeit
war in the greatest calm of peace. I do not think Arcesilaus the
philosopher the less temperate and virtuous for knowing that he made use
of gold and silver vessels, when the condition of his fortune allowed him
so to do; I have indeed a better opinion of him than if he had denied
himself what he used with liberality and moderation. I see the utmost
limits of natural necessity: and considering a poor man begging at my
door, ofttimes more jocund and more healthy than I myself am, I put
myself into his place, and attempt to dress my mind after his mode;
and running, in like manner, over other examples, though I fancy death,
poverty, contempt, and sickness treading on my heels, I easily resolve
not to be affrighted, forasmuch as a less than I takes them with so much
patience; and am not willing to believe that a less understanding can do
more than a greater, or that the effects of precept cannot arrive to as
great a height as those of custom. And knowing of how uncertain duration
these accidental conveniences are, I never forget, in the height of all
my enjoyments, to make it my chiefest prayer to Almighty God, that He
will please to render me content with myself and the condition wherein I
am. I see young men very gay and frolic, who nevertheless keep a mass of
pills in their trunk at home, to take when they've got a cold, which they
fear so much the less, because they think they have remedy at hand.
Every one should do in like manner, and, moreover, if they find
themselves subject to some more violent disease, should furnish
themselves with such medicines as may numb and stupefy the part.

The employment a man should choose for such a life ought neither to be a
laborious nor an unpleasing one; otherwise 'tis to no purpose at all to
be retired. And this depends upon every one's liking and humour. Mine
has no manner of complacency for husbandry, and such as love it ought to
apply themselves to it with moderation:

          ["Endeavour to make circumstances subject to me,
          and not me subject to circumstances."
          —Horace, Ep., i. i, 19.]

Husbandry is otherwise a very servile employment, as Sallust calls it;
though some parts of it are more excusable than the rest, as the care of
gardens, which Xenophon attributes to Cyrus; and a mean may be found out
betwixt the sordid and low application, so full of perpetual solicitude,
which is seen in men who make it their entire business and study, and the
stupid and extreme negligence, letting all things go at random which we
see in others

                    "Democriti pecus edit agellos
          Cultaque, dum peregre est animus sine corpore velox."

     ["Democritus' cattle eat his corn and spoil his fields, whilst his
     soaring mind ranges abroad without the body."
     —Horace, Ep., i, 12, 12.]

But let us hear what advice the younger Pliny gives his friend Caninius
Rufus upon the subject of solitude: "I advise thee, in the full and
plentiful retirement wherein thou art, to leave to thy hinds the care of
thy husbandry, and to addict thyself to the study of letters, to extract
from thence something that may be entirely and absolutely thine own." By
which he means reputation; like Cicero, who says that he would employ his
solitude and retirement from public affairs to acquire by his writings an
immortal life.

                              "Usque adeone
          Scire tuum, nihil est, nisi to scire hoc, sciat alter?"

          ["Is all that thy learning nothing, unless another knows
          that thou knowest?"—Persius, Sat., i. 23.]

It appears to be reason, when a man talks of retiring from the world,
that he should look quite out of [for] himself. These do it but by
halves: they design well enough for themselves when they shall be no more
in it; but still they pretend to extract the fruits of that design from
the world, when absent from it, by a ridiculous contradiction.

The imagination of those who seek solitude upon the account of devotion,
filling their hopes and courage with certainty of divine promises in the
other life, is much more rationally founded. They propose to themselves
God, an infinite object in goodness and power; the soul has there
wherewithal, at full liberty, to satiate her desires: afflictions and
sufferings turn to their advantage, being undergone for the acquisition
of eternal health and joy; death is to be wished and longed for, where it
is the passage to so perfect a condition; the asperity of the rules they
impose upon themselves is immediately softened by custom, and all their
carnal appetites baffled and subdued, by refusing to humour and feed
them, these being only supported by use and exercise. This sole end of
another happily immortal life is that which really merits that we should
abandon the pleasures and conveniences of this; and he who can really and
constantly inflame his soul with the ardour of this vivid faith and hope,
erects for himself in solitude a more voluptuous and delicious life than
any other sort of existence.

Neither the end, then, nor the means of this advice pleases me, for we
often fall out of the frying-pan into the fire.—[or: we always relapse
ill from fever into fever.]—This book-employment is as painful as any
other, and as great an enemy to health, which ought to be the first thing
considered; neither ought a man to be allured with the pleasure of it,
which is the same that destroys the frugal, the avaricious, the
voluptuous, and the ambitious man.

     ["This plodding occupation of bookes is as painfull as any other,
     and as great an enemie vnto health, which ought principally to be
     considered. And a man should not suffer him selfe to be inveagled
     by the pleasure he takes in them."—Florio, edit. 1613, p. 122.]

The sages give us caution enough to beware the treachery of our desires,
and to distinguish true and entire pleasures from such as are mixed and
complicated with greater pain. For the most of our pleasures, say they,
wheedle and caress only to strangle us, like those thieves the Egyptians
called Philistae; if the headache should come before drunkenness, we
should have a care of drinking too much; but pleasure, to deceive us,
marches before and conceals her train. Books are pleasant, but if, by
being over-studious, we impair our health and spoil our goodhumour, the
best pieces we have, let us give it over; I, for my part, am one of those
who think, that no fruit derived from them can recompense so great a
loss. As men who have long felt themselves weakened by indisposition,
give themselves up at last to the mercy of medicine and submit to certain
rules of living, which they are for the future never to transgress; so he
who retires, weary of and disgusted with the common way of living, ought
to model this new one he enters into by the rules of reason, and to
institute and establish it by premeditation and reflection. He ought to
have taken leave of all sorts of labour, what advantage soever it may
promise, and generally to have shaken off all those passions which
disturb the tranquillity of body and soul, and then choose the way that
best suits with his own humour:

               "Unusquisque sua noverit ire via."

In husbandry, study, hunting, and all other exercises, men are to proceed
to the utmost limits of pleasure, but must take heed of engaging further,
where trouble begins to mix with it. We are to reserve so much
employment only as is necessary to keep us in breath and to defend us
from the inconveniences that the other extreme of a dull and stupid
laziness brings along with it. There are sterile knotty sciences,
chiefly hammered out for the crowd; let such be left to them who are
engaged in the world's service. I for my part care for no other books,
but either such as are pleasant and easy, to amuse me, or those that
comfort and instruct me how to regulate my life and death:

               "Tacitum sylvas inter reptare salubres,
               Curantem, quidquid dignum sapienti bonoque est."

     ["Silently meditating in the healthy groves, whatever is worthy
     of a wise and good man."—Horace, Ep., i. 4, 4.]

Wiser men, having great force and vigour of soul, may propose to
themselves a rest wholly spiritual but for me, who have a very ordinary
soul, it is very necessary to support myself with bodily conveniences;
and age having of late deprived me of those pleasures that were more
acceptable to me, I instruct and whet my appetite to those that remain,
more suitable to this other reason. We ought to hold with all our force,
both of hands and teeth, the use of the pleasures of life that our years,
one after another, snatch away from us:

                         "Carpamus dulcia; nostrum est,
               Quod vivis; cinis, et manes, et fabula fies."

     ["Let us pluck life's sweets, 'tis for them we live: by and by we
     shall be ashes, a ghost, a mere subject of talk."
     —Persius, Sat., v. 151.]

Now, as to the end that Pliny and Cicero propose to us of glory, 'tis
infinitely wide of my account. Ambition is of all others the most
contrary humour to solitude; glory and repose are things that cannot
possibly inhabit in one and the same place. For so much as I understand,
these have only their arms and legs disengaged from the crowd; their soul
and intention remain confined behind more than ever:

          "Tun', vetule, auriculis alienis colligis escas?"

     ["Dost thou, then, old man, collect food for others' ears?"
     —Persius, Sat., i. 22.]

they have only retired to take a better leap, and by a stronger motion to
give a brisker charge into the crowd. Will you see how they shoot short?
Let us put into the counterpoise the advice of two philosophers, of two
very different sects, writing, the one to Idomeneus, the other to
Lucilius, their friends, to retire into solitude from worldly honours and
affairs. "You have," say they, "hitherto lived swimming and floating;
come now and die in the harbour: you have given the first part of your
life to the light, give what remains to the shade. It is impossible to
give over business, if you do not also quit the fruit; therefore
disengage yourselves from all concern of name and glory; 'tis to be
feared the lustre of your former actions will give you but too much
light, and follow you into your most private retreat. Quit with other
pleasures that which proceeds from the approbation of another man: and as
to your knowledge and parts, never concern yourselves; they will not lose
their effect if yourselves be the better for them. Remember him, who
being asked why he took so much pains in an art that could come to the
knowledge of but few persons? 'A few are enough for me,' replied he;
'I have enough with one; I have enough with never an one.'—[Seneca, Ep.,
7.]—He said true; you and a companion are theatre enough to one
another, or you to yourself. Let the people be to you one, and be you
one to the whole people. 'Tis an unworthy ambition to think to derive
glory from a man's sloth and privacy: you are to do like the beasts of
chase, who efface the track at the entrance into their den. You are no
more to concern yourself how the world talks of you, but how you are to
talk to yourself. Retire yourself into yourself, but first prepare
yourself there to receive yourself: it were a folly to trust yourself in
your own hands, if you cannot govern yourself. A man may miscarry alone
as well as in company. Till you have rendered yourself one before whom
you dare not trip, and till you have a bashfulness and respect for

               "Obversentur species honestae animo;"

          ["Let honest things be ever present to the mind"
          —Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., ii. 22.]

present continually to your imagination Cato, Phocion, and Aristides, in
whose presence the fools themselves will hide their faults, and make them
controllers of all your intentions; should these deviate from virtue,
your respect to those will set you right; they will keep you in this way
to be contented with yourself; to borrow nothing of any other but
yourself; to stay and fix your soul in certain and limited thoughts,
wherein she may please herself, and having understood the true and real
goods, which men the more enjoy the more they understand, to rest
satisfied, without desire of prolongation of life or name." This is the
precept of the true and natural philosophy, not of a boasting and prating
philosophy, such as that of the two former.