Intellectual Solitude
The more one comes to know the world, the less tolerance one has for the banalities of ordinary life. Gossip, envy, petty dissatisfaction — these are the feelings the average university student must contend with.
At universities, it is not enough to study great authors: one must study only those chosen by the institution and, beyond that, perform a positive social role in that environment, however degrading and hostile to wisdom it may be.
It surprises no one that the central goal of universities worldwide is no longer knowledge itself, but what knowledge will yield at the end of the arduous process: the diploma. From everything I have observed throughout my life, people boast of having a degree, not of being the finest student, nor of being among the most dedicated.
It is much like the Brazilian novel The Sad End of Policarpo Quaresma, by Lima Barreto. Written in 1915, the book brings a scene in which an elderly woman gazes at the protagonist’s bookshelf and exclaims: “Good heavens, what is the use of so many books if he isn’t even a bachelor?”
The Reflection
Learning without a community makes the process more bewildering for many, since one loses the reference points of the path others have walked toward mastery. For this reason, it is necessary to have a master and follow him for as long as possible.
This master may be a philosopher, a theologian, a spiritual figure, or a kind of “future self” — an idealized version of oneself, endowed with the qualities one hopes someday to attain.
In embracing this ideal, an imaginary path traced from beginning to end, no matter how many decades it takes to reach, the entire meaning of one’s life and the way one acts are profoundly altered.
It is essential, however, that this ideal be recalled every morning and every night, whether written on paper or set as a digital reminder. In doing so, no matter how alone one may be, there is always a figure lingering in the background, one that becomes almost an “imaginary friend,” omnipresent in thought.
For four years, I have had no one to call a friend or companion, with the sole exception of my dear girlfriend, and that is enough. As Seneca said: “The more I have mixed with mankind, the less of a man I have returned.” I have always thought more clearly in solitude than surrounded by people who shared nothing of my way of being or thinking.
Saint Thomas Aquinas taught that a friend loves the same things as you and seeks the same ends. Today, this is so rare that to encounter such a person and keep them close is a treasure almost sacred.
Whether we wish it or not, one day we will be alone, which makes the early assumption of responsibility over one’s own life something vital. We must seek strength, not security. I see many people wanting to grow wealthy, and therein lies a problem: before, they felt insecure for lacking money; now, they feel insecure for having it.
When we isolate ourselves, we tend to judge all of society as beings exiled from a distant planet, without realizing that our own constitution is shaped by what we judge. From that point, I try to discern which thoughts are genuinely mine and which are the received opinions of others, absorbed without critical reflection.
Reading this text thus far, one senses that the interior intellectual labor is immense, and for that reason, it never ends. This same reason explains why, in the end, intellectual solitude, when it is not harmful, is no cause for concern.
Curiosity carries us forward, toward discoveries, toward an understanding of the contradictions and false truths that circulate throughout the world. It is this excitement that propels us onward, even without friends with whom to speak: the inner dialogue is already intense and voracious enough.
Wars unfold within my mind; I struggle daily to rid myself of the vices that destroy the person I one day hope to become. This journey, full of setbacks and advances, is what makes life so beautiful, for so much beauty and chaos coexist in the same place.
At times, I notice in myself a curious phenomenon: I arrive at the same conclusions as certain great authors on very specific problems, whether concerning the contemporary world or philosophy. The reason is that reality does not work as many claim when they say “everyone has their own truth.”
There is only one truth. The world does not bend according to one’s perception. One thing is objective truth — the factum, that which has been done and cannot be undone. Another is subjective truth. And another still is the immutable.
In the tremendous confusion in which our lives unfold, we attempt, with many failures, to impose upon them a specific order according to our goals. And yet, more often than not, the world turns against us and casts us into the ocean of doubt, where nothing is certain but the anguish we already anticipated.
In the end, learning to think for oneself has become a matter of interior survival. In a world where people fight for politicians who do not even care about them, it is worth asking: Will I truly grow as a person by preferring the comfort of a group over the forging of my own finite and uncertain life?
The subject is complex, for it involves infinite variables. As the maxim goes: “Rules are general, but experience is particular and specific.” It is not my place to tell you what to do, but take this text as the beginning of a reflection that, when complete, may result in a decision capable of altering the entire course of your life.
This is what they call an inflection point: those rare moments when a small change in behavior traces an entirely new path forward. This is what I wish for everyone who reads this Substack: step out of the automatic.
There is no perfect plan; think about these questions constantly, for our only definitive rest will come with death.
Until then, we will give everything we have, treating each day as though it were our last. We are like the Roman generals in their triumphal processions, to whose ears a slave would whisper: “Remember that you are mortal” — and all glory shall dissolve into the dust of the past.
Perhaps this is precisely why life is worth so much: because we are, at once, so finite and so eternal.
Thank you very much for reading this far.
This post was not about studying or memorization, and yet, this is who I am. These are the subjects I love to write about. 🪶
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