18 October
Dear Fenton Johnson,
I want to thank you for writing At the Center of All Beauty. I appreciated your reflections on silence, solitude, and the creative life. I also enjoyed the serenity you evoked as I moved from page to page. More importantly, you have introduced me to Thoreau, Dickinson, Tagore, and other great writers. And while I was vaguely aware of them beforehand, I had never taken the time to read their works. I suspect my younger self was simply unready to absorb their ruminations. But the time is now ripe, and I look forward to delving in. I have you and your book to thank in part for that.
You see, I too yearn for a solitary life—one that nurtures a handful of meaningful friendships, and shuns the expectations and excesses of society and corporation. Eden for me is time for loved ones, books, and coffee. Yet such a life, as privileged as I am, is not so easy to achieve completely. Debts, debits, and curveballs have a way of accumulating, no matter how well and frugally I try to live.
There is one especially thorny issue that I am yet to reconcile in my pursuit of solitude. It pertains to my social contract—my obligations to community and humanity. You wrote briefly, for instance, that some religions perceive solitaries to be “shirkers at best, [and] troublemakers at worst.” I still wonder if there is some truth to that. Don’t get me wrong, the solitary works of Thoreau, Dickinson, and others, have certainly made the world a richer and more meaningful place. But the average solitary like myself is not going to produce timeless masterpieces. Does that make me a shirker? Perhaps. Is that a reasonable way to live? I’m not sure yet. But “one use of the solitary”, you say, “is to be useless.” Well that I can certainly be.
Indeed, I want nothing more than to live a simple, quiet life—reading books, playing chess, painting poorly, learning languages, sipping coffee, going hiking. I would enjoy every day of it. But I also know that a life away from the rat race deprives my future children and community of something. The opportunity cost is a nest egg that I can use to invest in their futures. As a person of color, the options I have today are due to the generational sacrifices of my parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and so on. So what obligations do I have to pay it forward? I think that any life in solitude must be able to answer this question honestly without self-serving rationalization. I am yet to find my answer.
You gave the impression that solitary life is not easy. It is true, for instance, that the life of Vincent van Gogh was fraught and tragic. But I’d argue that a life of solitude is less agonizing for those with an inclination for it. So I disagree when you or others say that “the most difficult path [is] also the most rewarding.” In fact, the most torturous path for van Gogh would be not as an artist but as a bureaucrat in in some droning administration. To me, a rewarding life is related not to hardship but to our inclinations.
As you can tell, I have plenty of tension to resolve in my mind’s eye. I hope to revisit these questions in the coming months or years.
Fenton, did you ever feel a conflict between your desire for solitude and your obligation to community? If so, might you proffer some wisdom? Either way, thank you for your wonderful book, and for encouraging me to reflect.
Warm regards,
Toby
Tobias Lim
Tobias Lim