It’s been many years—though she might prefer the expression ‘many moons’—since I read The Luminaries. The mammoth, award-winning first novel from Eleanor Catton hopefully needs no introduction. If you’re after one, I can’t help you. In this article I want to consider just one short passage from the novel about solitude, loneliness and the illusion of company. In the words of Catton’s narrator, “Solitude is a condition best enjoyed in company. Especially the company of another soul. It’s dreadful to feel alone and really be alone. But I love to enjoy the feeling when I’m not.”

It’s a delightfully thought provoking passage. While much more could be said about it, along with The Luminaries itself, Catton’s narrator makes two salient point and related points. I’ll unpack each briefly below, before making an appeal for more intentional community and greater honesty.

1. The Delights of Solitude

Firstly, a distinction can be made between solitude and loneliness. In the scene being narrated, Catton’s characters is surrounded by people and the sounds of their voices, only they are also unsighted. This is solitude without being truly alone. “I love to enjoy the feeling,” of being alone, “when I’m not,” he writes. Who would disagree?

Even as a Myers-Briggs verified extrovert, I’m partial to moments like the one described here. Though preferences may vary, most of us enjoy time alone. Personally, I prize undisturbed time for my thoughts and books and writing. Such solitudes tend towards this first kind. While my community might not be immediately present, I’m aware of them. Company stands as an unseen atmosphere to these periods of solitude, which is merely a mode of existing rather than my truest or fundamental experience of the world.

2. The Dread of Loneliness

Secondly, however, as that passage from The Luminaries says, “It’s dreadful to feel alone and really be alone.” Here the narrator describes solitude that has solidified into loneliness. This experience, strikingly, isn’t all that different from the first—at least not in appearance. You can be surrounded by people and not only feel as if you’re alone (solitude) but actually be alone (lonely). And as Catton’s narrator notes, genuine loneliness is dreadful.

The point I want to make from this passage is that genuine loneliness can occur in the crowd. Rubbing shoulders with people doesn’t extinguish a burning and acute sense of loneliness. Nor will superficial conversations and shallow community, if such combinations of words aren’t oxymoronic. Just like you can feel alone without truly being alone, you can also be profoundly alone despite being immersed in people. Despite a humming social life or stacked calendar. Despite a glossy and full life according to social media, which is little more than a carefully curated conceit. Most people can attest to this, even if most people aren’t willing to admit it.

From Dread to Dependence

There’s much more to the passage I’ve quoted from Eleanor Catton’s Luminaries, particularly its context. Being well-drilled in the dangers of misusing texts demands that I keep this reflection short; it’s a terse passage in an otherwise considerable work. So in closing I want to offer two brief implications; one for the crowds (all of us) and another for the lonely (many of us).

Firstly, we all take up a part in someone else’s crowd—the humdrum of what might otherwise be a lonely life. The possibility of dreadful loneliness despite being surrounded by people demands vigilance. It demands intentionally looking around for those hidden in plain sight. Remember, busyness and bustle are not companionship. Beneath it might be an aching isolation. Those most desperate for help are usually those who’ve long given up asking for it, so the cliché goes. But then clichés often teem with truth and therefore shouldn’t be dismissed. Furthermore, if the statistics are anything to go by, you daily interact with at least one person who’s terribly lonely.

Secondly, to the lonely, resist the urge to console yourself with superficial interactions. Don’t put on a strong face or stoically embrace your lot. Stop surrounding yourself with people while also pretending you aren’t alone. Resist packing the calendar to create the illusion of community. While well-curated social media profiles might strengthen the pretence, they won’t satisfy your soul. I realise that all of this is much easier to write than it is to enact. Admitting that you aren’t doing well is difficult—especially for men. To tell others that you’re lonely, however, isn’t merely an expression of weakness but also humility. It is to acknowledge that you fundamentally depend on others. We were made for both, whether we want it or not.