A week ago, revered author J.D. Salinger died at the age of 91. Salinger’s passing brought his life and work back into the public spotlight, which was a place he worked hard to avoid for most of his life. Known as much for his reclusive nature as for his most famous novel, “The Catcher in the Rye,” Salinger once wrote: “It is my rather subversive opinion that a writer’s feelings of anonymity-obscurity are the second most valuable property on loan to him during his working years.”

Coincidentally, this week also saw the public reemergence of another spotlight-shunning writer/artist. Bill Watterson, creator of the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip, gave an interview to the Cleveland Plain Dealer newspaper, thought to be the first he’s given since 1989. Watterson ended his work on Calvin and Hobbes in 1995, and since then has resisted pressure from his fans to revive the beloved comic strip. In the interview, Watterson seems incredibly down-to-earth about his success, and unwilling to remain stuck in the glory days of the past.

I don’t know the whole story behind why these men choose/chose to guard their privacy so fiercely. But these days, when the pursuit of fame for its own sake has become so widespread, I find it really refreshing to be reminded that there are creative people out there who are more interested in their work than in basking in the public spotlight.

In a recent comment on the post Austen’s Introvert, a reader mentioned having seen a reference to eight types of introversion. I was curious to know more about this, and in the course of my online searching, ran across the Web site for the Keirsey Temperament Sorter. Looking over the site, I realized that the eight types of introversion might refer to the eight Myers-Briggs profiles that include the introvert strand (ISTP, ISTJ, INTJ, INFJ, ISFP, ISFJ, INTP, and INFP).

The Keirsey system does use these profiles, but organizes them into four larger categories or temperaments (which include both introverted and extroverted types): Artisan, Guardian, Rational, Idealist. Looking at how my Myers-Briggs type (INFP) was characterized under this framework (as an Idealist temperament), I found that it very accurately described my own perception of my “type.” And it was thought-provoking to see myself as more akin to certain “E” types (ENFJ and ENFP), than to the other “I” types. I was also pleased to learn that Isabel Myers, the co-creator of the Myers-Briggs test, was a fellow INFP.

I wasn’t previously familiar with the work of Dr. David Keirsey, or with his books Please Understand Me and Please Understand Me II, but my interest has definitely been piqued. It’s a reminder that there are many helpful means out there to increase self-understanding, and that there’s always more to learn.

Although I try to embrace my introverted nature as much as possible, there are days when it’s not easy to do. Today was one of those days. Even though I know that I don’t function well in large groups, especially when the dominant language spoken (French) is one that I still struggle with, I develop a type of amnesia and put myself in these situations again and again. Surely, I think to myself, it’s not too much to navigate a room of full of perfectly nice people, who are friendly and kind, and on most days maybe it wouldn’t be a problem. But then there are days when I feel particularly “innie,” when painful social interactions have me questioning my intelligence and sanity, and I return home feeling like I just want to crawl into bed for the rest of the day.

Imagine the scenario: a party, people talking and laughing, and the introvert stands alone among them, stuck in a freeze frame while activity buzzes around her. She looks at those closest to her, how alien they seem, how at ease they are with each other, they appear to know just what to say, how to act. The introvert doesn’t understand. Who are these strange creatures, and how does one make contact with them? Someone makes a joke, and she thinks, yes, now smile, appear to be amused. But it’s no use, they are seeing through her, she’s certain, they know she’s not one of them.

That’s the kind of day it’s been. And in thinking about it, the title of the post just jumped into my head. I knew that I had heard it somewhere, so I googled it and found that’s it the title of a sci-fi novel by Robert A. Heinlein (and also a phrase found in the book of Exodus). I’ve read some Heinlein, but not this particular book, so I was surprised to discover how closely the plot mirrors my feelings about the day’s events.

Heinlein’s protagonist, Valentine Michael Smith, is a human raised on Mars by Martians. The novel chronicles his return to Earth as an adult, and the difficulties he experiences in understanding human concepts that are unknown on Mars. While there is a lot more to the book — including the introduction of the term “grok,*” one of my husband’s favorite geekisms — it’s the idea of trying to understand an alien culture that I find interesting. And the fact that though Smith may not “grok” human culture, the humans he meets likewise aren’t familiar with unique Martian beliefs that may be superior, or as valuable, as human ones.

I will try to remember this when I am again in an uncomfortable social situation. My perspective as an introvert doesn’t make me lesser than, but just different, from those around me. At least I will try to “grok” that message, if I can.

*One of the definitions of “grok” in the OED, is “to understand intuitively or by empathy;” for more info, see this Wikipedia article.

For years I’ve been a fan of the BBC adaptation of Jane Austen’s novel Pride and Prejudice, starring Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle. I first watched it soon after it came out in the mid-90s, and have watched it a few more times since then. I was thrilled to receive the Blu-ray version of it this last Christmas, and wasted little time in watching all six hours of it yet again.

Seated in front of our big screen TV with a group of girlfriends, drinking tea and eating crustless cucumber sandwiches, I saw the familiar scenes unfold, but something felt different. Like all young girls with literary aspirations, I had always identified with the witty and compassionate Elizabeth Bennet, but now I was starting to find her slightly annoying. Why was she so slow to see the true intentions of the taciturn Mr. Darcy? To me, his actions and demeanor were easily readable, but she seemed utterly blind to his real character. While I know that this is the central theme of the novel (to which the prejudice in the title refers), I had always seen things from Elizabeth’s perspective, and like her, viewed Mr. Darcy as a proud, misunderstood man who needed to be drawn out in order to be happy.

But now my perspective had completely shifted, and I felt a kinship with Mr. Darcy instead. There was nothing wrong with him, I realized, he was just an introvert! I felt with him the discomfort of forced sociability, and the frustration of being misjudged because of a wish to keep one’s private thoughts to oneself.

It may be that I’m projecting more onto the character than is reasonable, but it will be interesting to go back and read the novel through this “introvert” lens. Whether I will find confirmation of my theory there or not, I find it fascinating that with age, and increasing comfort with my own way of being in the world, old stories can transform into new friends.

First off, a nice piece from Garrison Keillor on Salon about his periodic need for solitude, in which he conjures up a New York café experience that does sound “heavenly”:

…to walk into a little cafe with an armload of newspapers and sit at the counter and read them over a bowl of chili and a grilled cheese and a white mug of coffee, and a waitress who says, “What else would you like, love?” — this is heaven…

The second item I found is an essay from The Guardian written by Rachel Denton, a woman who calls herself a hermit. In the article, Denton describes not only her daily life as a hermit, which is quite interesting, but also the experiences that led up to her decision to live a solitary life. In particular, I found it fascinating that she had once been determined to become a nun, but she found even convent life was too social for her taste.

The final link I’ve got is from the Web site of the Academy of American Poets, which features a collection of “Poems about Anonymity and Loneliness.” I take issue with the title of this sampling of poems, which they admit further on also includes poems about “solitary thought,” because I think “melancholy” is a better adjective than “loneliness.” And as I wrote about in an earlier post, melancholy can be a good thing. In any case, I like this gathering of poems, and I hope you do too.

But what struck me most about Robinson’s exchange with interviewer Sarah Fay was her account of the importance solitude holds in her life and writing:

…I’m kind of a solitary. This would not satisfy everyone’s hopes, but for me it’s a lovely thing. I recognize the satisfactions of a more socially enmeshed existence than I cultivate, but I go days without hearing another human voice and never notice it. I never fear it. The only thing I fear is the intensity of my attachment to it. It’s a predisposition in my family. My brother is a solitary. My mother is a solitary. I grew up with the confidence that the greatest privilege was to be alone and have all the time you wanted. That was the cream of existence. I owe everything that I have done to the fact that I am very much at ease being alone. It’s a good predisposition in a writer…

Although I’m an unrepentant introvert, I have to admit that the level of solitude Robinson describes would not suit me. At certain points in my life I have spent long stretches of time “without hearing another human voice,” but it’s never felt entirely comfortable. Perhaps it’s because I grew up in a large family that rarely afforded me that type of isolation, but also never left me alone with my fears and anxieties, that I would find extreme solitude difficult rather than enriching, as Robinson seems to do. In fact, what I most prefer is to be left to my own devices, but to be within earshot of someone else doing their own thing (luckily, my husband has the same kind of preference). Silence is wonderful, but the thought of being alone for days on end fills me with dread.

That’s why I’m so fascinated by how Robinson seems to revel in that solitary state. She proclaims the benefits of solitude in a way I’ve rarely heard before, and I can see why it is so important to her even though I can’t fully understand it. But even if I can’t imagine myself benefiting from that type of profound solitude, I think it’s at least necessary for me (and probably most other writers and creative thinkers as well) to experience it in smaller doses. Like cultivating an ability to sleep for brief periods of time and then return to work refreshed (a talent I would also like to have), Robinson has inspired me to do more to cultivate my capacity for deep solitude — to be able to lose myself in it, to walk around within it, like some kind of magic circle, and then be able to return to my relatively more social life. It’s strange for me to think about needing to practice solitude, because it usually comes so easily for me, but I think the kind of solitude Robinson is describing isn’t a default state, but a purposeful one. Not a retreat, but a mode of being that enables a writer to do her best work. That sounds like a great place to be.

As a poet and sometime melancholic, I found a lot to appreciate in this article, most likely because I have often had the kinds of aesthetic epiphanies that may come from contemplating the world in a melancholic light. I can’t do justice to the article here, but I would definitely recommend it to anyone who wants to challenge their thinking about the value of sadness to a fully-lived life. However, the more I thought about this article, the more I realized that a piece of the puzzle was missing; the pre-condition for my own bouts of insight into the deeper meaning of things was not sadness but the very act of reflection. I think that sadness may cause more introspection, as we look for an answer, or the silver lining, to whatever is troubling us, but I find it hard to put human suffering and pain up on such a pedestal, as something to be relished almost (of course, I’m overstating here). As I came to believe many years ago after reading theologian Dorothee Soelle’s book Suffering, it is immoral to impose the idea that suffering has to have an inherent meaning, because that expectation can lead to justifications for horrible acts of brutality. In the most extreme example, how could anyone expect a survivor of the Holocaust to agree that the experience was beneficial to them in any way?

I think part of the problem is the definition of terms. I have always thought of melancholy as a voluntary state, not something imposed by external events. The quintessential melancholic experience for me is to go for a solitary walk in a lonely park, on a cloudy or rainy day, and to revel in the thoughts that spring from that environment. Real sadness, the kind that knocks you down and makes it difficult to think straight, is not something I can easily wish on someone. I make this distinction because I think melancholy, or the ability to contemplate the world at a remove from its surface appearances, is something that comes more naturally to introverts, and it’s a quality I highly value. Sadness on the other hand, or even depression, afflicts everyone equally, and is not conducive to creativity in the same way.

This leads me to the second article I mentioned earlier, a review of a book called Shyness: How Normal Behaviour Became a Sickness by Christopher Lane. As the title might suggest, the premise of the book is that while shyness was formerly socially acceptable (a claim I might take issue with), it is more and more being treated as a mental health issue that requires medication. This is an interesting argument, but my sympathy for it is tempered by my disappointment in the author’s seeming lack of awareness about the difference between shyness and introversion. In the material quoted from his book, he conflates the two, weakening his assertion that changes to the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) have resulted in:

…the introverted individual [being] morphed into the mildly psychotic person whose symptoms included being aloof, being dull, and simply “being alone”… Apparently, social phobia—shyness— …has become a pandemic.

I am sympathetic to the author up to this last sentence; if being introverted is equated with being mentally ill, then I will take issue as well. But, if you believe, as I do, that introversion does not equal shyness, then the logic of his argument unravels. I can also agree that just because someone is shy doesn’t mean that those aspects of their behaviour should be overstated either. But I see introversion and shyness as being two completely different sets of characteristics. I have known very extroverted people who nonetheless could be considered to have mild social phobia, and I have known introverts who are exceedingly comfortable with being around others (although they usually prefer solitude).

While this might seem like a semantic quarrel, I think the broader implications of it are important. People who are truly suffering anxiety and who are not able to interact with others should not have their concerns diminished. Conversely, assumptions should not be made about a person’s mental well-being simply because of their external behaviour. As I mentioned in an earlier post, there is a big gap between preferring solitude and feeling unable to overcome it, and that difference is often known only to the individual experiencing it.

While these two articles address different topics, they both come to a similar conclusion: that we shouldn’t try to eradicate normal emotions like sadness and shyness in the name of mental health. While I admire the sentiment behind this idea, and agree with it to a certain extent, neither author is able to make a solid case for it because of what I see as the inconsistencies in their arguments: sadness is not the same thing as melancholy, and shyness is not the same thing as introversion. People who are suffering from depression or severe social anxiety do not need to hear that it is really our society that is to blame, that their problems, quite likely biochemical in nature, are all in their heads. Of course it is possible to go too far, and to try to medicate away any kind of discomfort, but I would argue that the benefits of our current knowledge of psychopharmaceuticals outweigh the potential for their abuse.

Atwood has received criticism from some quarters for her invention, mostly from people who don’t think fans should miss out on actual interaction with their favorite writers or celebrities. Atwood insists she isn’t trying to do away with book tours and signings, but is just providing another opportunity for connection when it isn’t otherwise possible. For example, those who aren’t able to travel for one reason or another could still be present in virtual form. And for celebrities concerned about the effects of frequent global travel, the LongPen could be a way to reduce their carbon footprint.

I’m not sure how to feel about the LongPen; I do enjoy meeting authors in person when they are on book tours, but it’s interesting to think about how many otherwise famously reclusive writers might make themselves available for LongPen sessions. And even though at this point I would find a book tour thrilling (meaning that I had in fact published a book), I can imagine one growing weary of the endless travel once you’ve done it a few times (and Atwood has written thirty books). I do think the LongPen could be a boon to famous introverts for whom public appearances hold little appeal, but I don’t think it can replace the real thing. For those of us who get tongue-tied in the presence of our idols, you just can’t substitute virtual embarrassment for making a fool of yourself in person.

See that person over there on the cruise reading the small print on the cereal box? That’s an introvert. See that woman across the aisle there, actually reading the inflight magazine? That, too, is an introvert. Whoever thought about putting advertisements in elevators and inside toilet doors had introverts in mind. Well … it’s better than having to talk to the other people in the elevator!!

I think this analysis is priceless, if only because I see myself so clearly in her description. Since I was a tiny tot I’ve been an incredibly avid reader, using reading as an escape from social interaction (as Fenn depicts) but also as a hedge against boredom and unhappiness. There is something so comforting to me about diving into a good book; it gives me a distraction from my sometimes wearying thoughts without draining my energy as spending time with others has a tendency to do.

While reading is always a favorite activity, I do have periods when I’m not so much in need of the written word. I’m content to dip into and out of various books, magazines, and Web sites, without suspending other activities. But at other times, the need to read feels almost like a physical necessity, and long periods of devouring a good book the only antidote.

Since we arrived in Paris I’ve been experiencing this need to read quite acutely, even though, or maybe because, suitable reading material is not so accessible. Books are heavy, and with a heavy heart I had to leave most of mine behind in storage when we got on the plane. I did bring a few, but they are mostly reference books that don’t encourage quick consumption. We have made a few forays to local English language bookstores, and I’ve been able to find a few books to hold me over, but something very special is happening tonight (I’m sure you know what it is) that promises to help me scratch this itch.

Yes, the new Harry Potter book comes out tonight, and Joe and I have already reserved our copies (one for each of us, for the sake of marital harmony) that we will pick up at approximately 1 a.m. tomorrow morning from a cute little bookstore in the 4th Arrondissement. I have enjoyed the Harry Potter series, and I’m not happy to see it come to an end, but I am happy to know that my weekend plans will revolve around the simple pleasures of a ripping good story.

While I don’t consider myself a loner (not that there’s anything wrong with that), I strongly agree with the argument Rufus puts forward, namely, that it is unfair and incorrect to assume that introversion should necessarily be equated with anti-social and violent tendencies.

I was reminded of this argument when I began reading the news coverage of the incredibly tragic events that took place at Virginia Tech on Monday. True to form, newspaper articles made liberal use of the word loner to describe the shooting suspect, subtly implying that his solitary nature somehow influenced his horrific behavior. I found the information that he had previously displayed signs of mental illness to be much more pertinent to his state of mind.

While it may be empirically true that this man did spend a lot of time alone, what gets missed is that there is a difference between having a preference for being alone, and feeling isolated. One state of being is a choice; the other may be a symptom of a larger problem. It is the difference between someone who gains happiness and contentment from their loner state, and someone who yearns for connection with the larger world, but is unable to realize it. Sadly, it seems that for some people, committing large scale acts of violence is their twisted attempt to communicate their rage and despair to others; it may be that they felt unable to communicate in any other way.

For this reason, I think there needs to be more attention paid to distinguishing between happy and unhappy loners. While those of a more extroverted nature might not be able to understand how being alone can bring happiness, there are a lot of us who understand this perfectly well. Perhaps we need to set aside our preferred mode of silence more often to make this point; to proclaim that it is possible to be healthy and happy even if—and sometimes especially if—we are left to our own devices.

The loss of this trusted confidante is said to have been the catalyst for the development of Montaigne’s life’s work: the 107 written pieces that make up the three books of his Essays. If Montaigne could no longer converse with his friend about all that was on his mind, he could pour out these thoughts and ideas onto the page instead. This is what makes Montaigne’s writing so compelling to later readers and admirers; to read one of his essays is to feel like you are listening to a friend, following his arguments, allusions, and theories about a variety of subjects.

On the subject of friendship, Montaigne concluded that “…what we ordinarily call friends and friendships are nothing but acquaintanceships and familiarities formed by some chance or convenience, by means of which our souls are bound to each other.” In contrast to this, he describes the type of friendship he enjoyed with La Boétie as one in which “…our souls mingle and blend with each other so completely that they efface the seam that joined them, and cannot find it again.” Because of this close bond, Montaigne believed it was impossible to have more than one friend of this kind; doing so would divide one’s loyalties and energy to an unsatisfactory degree.

Montaigne’s views on friendship may sound familiar to introverts, who are often known for cultivating only a few close friendships, and who may consider other relationships as “acquaintances and familiarities.” This could be the case for the reason Montaigne mentions; introverts have only so much energy to give to others. I also think it’s because introverts thrive on the one-on-one conversations that fuel deep friendships, and are less likely to feel close to people with whom they feel they cannot share this type of conversation. In my own case, I know it takes a long time for me to make friends because I need to be able to trust someone before I reveal what’s really on my mind. It’s too difficult and frustrating to make that effort if I know I don’t have someone’s full attention.

I think this tendency has made me feel lonely at times, like there weren’t enough people in the world who knew what I was like on the inside. But, when I think about this rationally, I realize that having scores of friends might never fulfill this need for true connection; if I can find it in even one person, it’s a gift worthy of celebration.

(Quotations above are from “The Complete Essays of Montaigne,” translated by Donald M. Frame)