by Joseph Broadworth

Created on: September 24, 2010

     It has long been thought in some quarters that solitude is a necessary component of true creative accomplishment and endeavour. Only by experiencing solitude, living it, exploring the self-awareness that is produced by it and by that tapping into some deeper thought process that can't be accessed by usual contemplation in a usual setting. This fits very nicely with the 'hermit' template that shows up many times in the Western narrative - the solitary wanderer heading out across barren lands to find some semblance of truth and enlightenment in his moribund and corrupt world. It also shows up vividly in the 'monomyth' of Joseph Campbell. A classic 'hero' must undertake a lone journey, enduring danger and hardships before overcoming all, thereby 'proving' himself. And there is also an element of individualism, more prominent in Western culture than elsewhere, that encourages the idea of the lone person standing against the tides of uniformity and complacency that threatens to swamp all people. But for us living in this modern world, solitude is never that easy to achieve, is much less a factor of desire or necessity, and seems to be sought out mostly through books or popular entertainment. In other words, we are just too damned busy with life, and an inclination towards solitude may be construed as simply selfish. Yet we see it everywhere - people alone in their cars, strolling in a mall or down the street or on their way to work. Although this brief alone-ness would be ridiculed by the ancient hermits, sometimes it is all that we have to ourselves, and we'll take it.

     There is a remote, desolate wind-swept island in the South Atlantic. The island, called South Georgia, is mostly composed of inhospitable snow-covered peaks and sheer rocky cliffs extending down to the smashing waves below, the stormy seas being characteristic of the southern waters. In a modest, sheltered little cove there is a cluster of abandoned outbuildings that mark the remains of a whaling station. Nearby is a greyish slab of weatherbeaten stone, marking the grave of Sir Ernest Henry Shackleton. It indicates his date of birth, death, and occupation 'explorer'. The great British polar explorer dropped dead of a massive heart attack at the age of 47, in 1922 while he was planning yet another expedition. If any graves can be said to be lonely, this would indeed be one of the loneliest; but one may feel that it is perfectly befitting the man who

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