Remember that time with your first girlfriend when you whispered into her ear "I Nietzsche more than ever!" just before she stood you up? Having given you this useful mnemonic to help you pronounce his name, you may be more inclined to listen to the full eighteen minutes it takes to listen to the above video clip.
I found it while I was searching for the audiobook of "The Lonely City - Adventures in the Art of Being Alone", which always suits my mood just after I've taken Padma a cup of tea in bed and I am then left with that precious half an hour or an hour of absolute solitude. I couldn't find the audiobook; instead I found Renuka Gavrani's "The Art of Being Alone - Solitude is my Home; Loneliness was my Cage". Her voice grated on me; so I settled for this shorter introduction read in a more soothing voice.
We don’t often say it out loud, but many of us are lonely, which embarrasses us and which we want to conceal despite the fact that it can also be a gift. We may not feel lonely in the dramatic, desperate sense - although I have been through times like that as well - but in the quiet, persistent way that comes from not feeling properly understood.
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As older adults, we seem to find it even harder to make the kind of friends who make us feel truly seen. Not that this is necessarily our fault; we simply live in a world where sincerity has fewer places to go.
I have found my solitude in books - and I often wished I had done so sooner - and embrace it with open arms, but the clock is ticking and at any moment I may hear Padma calling for a top-up of her cup of tea.
Solitude, I Nietzsche more than ever!
P.S. I don't quite know what prompted me to write this post, but it may have something to do with my thinking just before falling asleep last night of that terrible time I went through in early 1985 after I had come back to Australia and tried to find my feet in Sydney. I remember how I had joined a singles' group called "Northside Singles" (another story in itself which I may put into words, if you insist). I lived at McMahons Point at the time, and "Northside Singles" had been one person's money-making idea masquerading under some pseudo-religious facade, and I suddenly found myself in the midst of all those desperately lonely people, none of whom would've admitted to feeling lonely. To only mention the word would've been as indiscreet as telling someone they had "Schuppen" on the back of their jacket. As I thought this last night, I couldn't for the life of me think of the English word for "Schuppen"; then, this morning, as I went over last night's thoughts again, I could no longer think of the German word for "dandruff". What's going on? Is it early dementia? If so, which linguistic side of me is having dementia?
