‘She often wondered indeed if she had ever been, or ever could be, intimate with anyone.’
Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady (1909)
What does it mean to be lonely? Emily White’s Lonely: Learning to Live with Solitude has been widely acclaimed as a brave and groundbreaking memoir on a topic that (so the argument runs) has become one of the most virulent taboos of contemporary Western culture: loneliness. That we have no shared language to describe the experience of loneliness is central to the argument of this book, its commitment to finding the words to give voice to a form of pain - and, occasionally, wonder - that is often invisible, often inaudible, to anyone but the person undergoing it. White’s first response to that absence is facts and distinctions: throughout Lonely, she is insisting on the need to distinguish among diverse ways of being lonely, to account for its specific forms of anxiety, to track its sometimes devastating effects on confidence, on spontaneity, on creativity.
On this level, White’s memoir is an extraordinary testimony to a way of being in the world subject to widespread misunderstanding - lonely people are shy, unfriendly, boring, unattractive; they lack social skills and need to go out more - as well as considerable stigma. ‘For the vast majority of people I spoke to,’ White claims, ‘the mere possibility of their loneliness becoming known made them anxious.’ Drawing on her own conversations with ‘lonely people’, as well as a growing body of social scientific ‘loneliness research’, White counters both stereotype and taboo with the insight that belongs to having experienced something that remains both difficult to bring to consciousness - individual or public - and very resistant to interpretation.
But, and precisely because White is breaking new ground, there is enormous pressure on this book to live up to its own wagers. Probably no single book could do so - though, in talking to people who self-identify as lonely, White has curated a nuanced and textured archive of an experience not often named as such. However, to the extent that White is helping to set the terms of the public discussion of loneliness for which she argues so persuasively, the explanatory lens through which she refracts her archive can be very troubling: crudely, this is a book that begins with the claim that ‘research shows a genetic basis for loneliness’ (does it?) and ends with a call for chronic loneliness to be listed in the 2012 DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders). By no means unaware of the ongoing risk of medicalizing the experience of everyday life, White nonetheless casts the very inclusiveness of the current DSM as a reason to list ‘loneliness (or “chronic loneliness")’ as a crucial first step in legitimizing and recognizing the state as an affliction. Once recognized as a mental disorder, it seems, we will be forced to take loneliness, and its consequences, seriously as a society and a culture.
A genetic inheritance? A mental disorder? An affliction? No wonder that loneliness - or the various forms of loneliness explored by White: emotional, social, situational, chronic - is represented as something like a demonic force throughout this book. As memoir, Lonely is a remarkably powerful, occasionally terrifying, depiction of the state of loneliness as one that lies in wait for us, shadowing our experiences of intimacy and companionship with the threat of a devastating loss of connection to others, to ourselves, to the world. To be lonely is not to be present, to be somehow outside of a world, looking on, looking in; the lonely do not 'belong'. One of the most telling passages in this book paraphrases the ‘lonely people’ with whom White has been speaking as follows: ‘It’s feelings of distance and disconnection, of not being fully engaged and present, that lonely people highlight when they talk about their loneliness - and these feelings emerge despite the fact that lonely people often have support networks and significant others in place.’
Here - and there are many passages like this - we catch a glimpse of what White is ‘on to’ in this book: a state that seems to exceed the models of explanation - evolutionary, genetic, social - privileged at various points in this (sometimes inchoate) narrative. Yes, people who experience loneliness may well be alone more often than they want to be - White offers an incisive, and timely, overview of the statistical increase in people living alone in America and Europe - but not being alone is no defence against it. Friends, lovers, colleagues abound in the lives of at least some lonely people; but friends, lovers and colleagues are no guarantee of meaningful connection. As White indicates, but does not develop, the silence that surrounds the experience of some forms of loneliness has to do with the difficulty of saying to a loved (or liked) one something like: ‘I feel lonely when I am with you.’
Such a sentence is neither easy to say nor easy to hear. But it is the underdeveloped crux of this book. To be lonely in a crowd is a truism; to be lonely with an intimate, to feel disconnected from our very soulmate - that is more various, less amenable to categorization and clarification, than the forms of situational and emotional loneliness explored here. In this sense, there is a deep, and unacknowledged, tension in this book between that attention to the experience of loneliness - wayward, unpredictable, frightening - and the genetic and social scientific frameworks via which that experience is being interpreted. Such frameworks strive to manage, even to answer, the ‘problem’ of loneliness. Crudely, if the accident of genetic inheritance means that some people are more subject to loneliness, then they are going to need more from those around them (more love, more security, more reassurance - especially if, as now, we live in a society in which the experience of being alone is increasingly common). This is, in effect, a need-based model: the experience of loneliness signals an unmet need; a caring and protective society (or lover, family or friend) should find ways to meet that need (‘loneliness-reduction programs’, for example).
At the level of public policy - the ‘Campaign to End Loneliness’ in the UK, for example - that responsibility is necessary (if rarely realized); scathing (and very funny) about the self-help literature that exhorts the lonely to confide in a friend or to value their inner resources, White refuses to shy away from the fact of loneliness as a collective responsibility (her discussion of research into the effects of loneliness on health, and therefore on public health costs, is sobering). But - and it is one of the strengths of this book that it forces this question - what, if anything, do such perspectives have to say to that form of loneliness as a type of uncanny stranger, nestling at the heart of everyday existence, taking hold of lives that, on the face of it, are anything but lonely? ‘I remember feeling like I didn’t really belong,’ says Rachel, recalling her experience of nursery school; ‘I honestly would say it’s probably been a lifelong issue,’ recalls Anne, similarly reflecting on her early years: in response to this evidence of a loneliness that begins in early childhood, in the midst of family and peers, White veers off into a discussion of the distinction between loneliness and depression (a distinction she insists on, not always persuasively, throughout the book: is it true, for example, that depression, unlike loneliness, does not make us feel insufficient and unsafe?).
At this point, the fact that Lonely is a mixed genre - part memoir, part survey of loneliness research - begins to impede the possibility for a focused and sustained reflection on the life-stories that White is uncovering. One instance stands out starkly: White’s own account of her grandmother, Anna, a single parent, abandoned by her (religious) family. Anna dies alone in a sanatorium at the age of twenty-four; her four-year old daughter, White’s mother, is put into the care of a foster family. In other words, Anna dies not knowing what will happen to her daughter, whilst what White describes as this ‘curious heritage’ remains unnamed in her family (a silence maintained by White herself, she acknowledges, in the course of her ongoing psychotherapy). If that silence is broken in Lonely - more than a third of the way into the book - it is also quickly passed over: a couple of pages later, White is once again feeling the ‘state latent within me, rising up from my genes.’ But it’s impossible not to wonder what might be said about the states of loneliness and aloneness if, instead of genetics and anecdote, the question of the transfer of experience from one generation to the next - in the form of story, silence, symptom - were allowed to take precedence. On one level, this is to ask for a longer historical, and a wider philosophical, perspective on loneliness than is offered by White. The research she identifies is fascinating but the insight it provides is incremental through the book: it is, much of the time, the same story being told. Yet White herself points to the importance of, say, literature in the exploration of loneliness - ‘Novelists seemed willing and able to define the contours of severe loneliness with a clarity that was simply lacking elsewhere’ - and, in a few unelaborated instances, turns to the wayward role of the imagination in the experience of loneliness. Fictional characters, she continues, have always ‘felt real’, provided companionship, a sense of fellow feeling. Close the novel, however, and those feelings vanish in the face of the real world, its unending barrage of unreal images of intimacy. It’s a significant moment in Lonely, open to an interpretation that doesn’t come because White moves on quickly to describe her own state of confusion, of not knowing the ‘truth’ about loneliness. Elsewhere, though, she alights again on the problem of ‘magical thinking’ in lonely people, the yearning for connection and intimacy that takes refuge in imaginary scenarios that, if only temporarily, yield the fellow feeling that reality - in all its complexity and disappointment - really cannot provide. ‘Fantasy,’ as White puts it, ‘offers an express route to feelings of connection.’
We are some way here from the terrain of the ‘loneliness-reduction programme’ or the self-help activity. Imagination, representation, intimacy: these are concepts with long and complex histories in aesthetics, philosophy, and the various psychologies of the mind. Pushed to the edges of Lonely, they trace the contours of another approach to loneliness as (to borrow Hannah Arendt's words) one of the 'basic experiences' that can happen to human beings who live together. Not a mental disorder, then, nor a genetic inheritance but a common terror that bears both on our relations to others and on our relationship to our selves: solitude, as Arendt puts it, becomes loneliness 'when all by myself I am deserted by my own self.' It's a daunting insight, but it may reach further than the promise of a listing in the next DSM towards the forms of terror and longing that Lonely begins to chart - terrors and longing in need of all that human ingenuity can throw at them.