The renowned Buddhist scholar Stephen Batchelor may have given up the solitary life of a monk years ago, but his latest book shows that he has never lost his enthusiasm for time spent alone. In the thirty-two brief, intimate, and insightful autobiographical sketches that comprise The Art of Solitude, he reports on a wide-ranging series of travels and encounters that he undertook in 2013, while engaged in a year-long sabbatical from his normal teaching and writing duties in observation of his sixtieth birthday. The resulting book is as much a departure from his previous books as the year he draws on for its contents was a departure from his previously routine day-to-day activities.
Four separate aspects of Batchelor’s life experiences, each with its own unique relationship to solitude, claimed his attention over the course of that year – his practice of meditation, his love of art, his admiration for the essays of Montaigne, and his youthful experimentation with psychedelic drugs. Each chapter of the book falls under one of these four distinct themes. Many of the essays dazzle; none disappoints. Readers already acquainted with Batchelor through his other writings, dharma talks, or teaching engagements will be surprised by the depths of his curiosity and comprehension in all four areas.
What may well surprise, however, is the puzzling fashion in which Batchelor has structured the book. To be properly prepared for what lies ahead, the reader needs to pay careful attention to the author’s preamble. In this introductory note, Batchelor explains how, inspired by a collection of four eight-verse poems he had recently translated from an ancient Buddhist text, he decided to follow the pattern of the poetry by writing eight chapters for each of his four themes of solitude. Thus, the four sections of eight verses each (for a total of 32 verses) in the poem he had translated would be matched by a corresponding structure of four topics of eight chapters each (for a total of 32 chapters) in the book he would write.
Then he added one further structural twist. Batchelor chose not to group his chapters by these four main topics, but instead to sequence them randomly. He would follow only one rule, that no two successive chapters could belong to the same topic. As he further explains in his preamble, he wanted to apply to his book the same “principle of noncontiguity” that he employs in his artistic pastime of constructing collages out of random discarded pieces of paper, cloth, and plastic that he happens upon in his various walks and wanderings. In his own words, “no two pieces from the same material can be adjacent to each other in the final composition, ensuring that each piece of the collage is maximally differentiated from the pieces around it. This enables every piece to stand out vividly in its own ‘solitude’ from the matrix of which it is also an integral part.”
Unfortunately, while the abstract relationship of this noncontiguity principle to the book’s unifying theme of solitude is clear, the concrete differences in perceptual and intellectual intake between a viewer’s experience of standing before a completed collage and a reader’s experience of sitting down with a book one page at a time are much too distinct to warrant Batchelor’s applying the principle alike in the two separate mediums.
For me, the “maximal differentiation” of each chapter from its immediate predecessor and its immediate successor was a bit unsettling. Perhaps I am too much of a serial processor by nature, but I required a second reading – this time sequencing the chapters according to which of the four main topics they fall under (a task made much easier by the bibliography, which is conveniently organized by those four topics). And, a task I found quite rewarding; re-reading Batchelor always is.
In spite of its structural challenges, The Art of Solitude ranks as a worthy addition to Batchelor’s growing bibliography. The insights he offers in this collection – about his deep appreciation of classic and modern art, about the subtle hints of Buddhism he finds in Montaigne’s philosophy of life, and most especially about his own practice of mindfulness meditation – are among the most personal and profound he has yet to publish. True to its title, it stands alone among his other books.
So, the question is not whether you should read The Art of Solitude, but how you should read it. Best, I think, to devise your own approach. You might read it one chapter a day, perhaps as a part of your daily meditation practice. Or, you might read it in your own random order, opening it to any particular page and then just reading the particular essay it happens to contain. Or, you might read it straight through from beginning to end, and you just might find yourself captivated by the noncontiguity that I found so disruptive.
I rather suspect that the collage-maker in Batchelor would appreciate, and approve of, such an array of random reading strategies being brought by his readers to this deliberately random collage of a book.