Because of the absence of her companion, Doris Grumbach had the opportunity to spend fifty days alone in the village of Sargentville, Maine during the winter of 1993. It was a particularly hard winter, and Grumbach was 75 years old. This was a self-created experiment. Apart from essential visits to the post office and grocers, Grumbach kept her human interactions to a minimum, and either exchanged no words or the bare minimum necessary to complete her transactions. Though she had books and music, she avoided phone calls, keeping in touch with others by letter.
The solitude Grumbach experienced was almost therapeutic. Rather than turning dulled by the lack of external contact, her senses sharpened and focused inward. She had the time to devote to completing every thought, the luxury of exploring every aspect of imaginings with multiple dimensions. And she had the literary wherewithal—a writer’s intellect, ability, and patience—to commit her thoughts to paper. The result is Fifty Days of Solitude, a beautifully-written meditation on solitude.
Quoting from May Sarton’s Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaid Singing, Grumbach differentiates between loneliness and solitude thus: “Loneliness is the poverty of self, solitude is the richness of self.” This short book is filled with other references to numerous writers, whom Grumbach uses to illustrate and crystallize her own reflections about solitude. The eerie and prolonged silence accentuated her attention to both external stimuli and introspection. Using a metaphor related to dressing in layered clothing, she explained things thus: “In this way, metaphorically, I now needed to live, with the top layer of my person known to the outside world and displayed for social purposes. But, close to the bone, there had to be an inner stratum, formed and cultivated in solitude, where the essence of what I was, am now, and will be, perhaps, to the end of my days, hides itself and waits to be found by the lasting silence.”
Grumbach’s reflections are insightful:
“I have learned that, until death, it is all life.”
“There was a reward for this deprivation. The absence of other voices compelled me to listen more intently to the inner voice.”
And there was a clear goal to this self-imposed experiment: if the presence of other humans had interfered with her writing voice, or had silenced it altogether, Grumbach wanted to rescue or resurrect it through isolation, solitude, and intense reflection.
She concludes that her modest experiment is a triumph. “If I have learned anything in these days, it is that the proper conditions for productive solitude are old age and the outside presence of a small portion of the beauty of the world. Given these, and the drive to explore and understand an inner territory, solitude can be an enlivening, even exhilarating experience.
At the end of Grumbach’s 100-or-so pages, readers will be seeking their own opportunities for fifty days of “productive solitude.”