"At times he felt he had no need of others."

[breakinglight11]

There's a passage in Abel's Island, a children's novel by William Steig, that always was very resonant to me. Abel has been trapped on a deserted island since being separated from his wife in a rainstorm. He'd been frustrated with attempts to get off of the island, and so was in the meantime building a sort of life. He gets very busy, building things and finding food and reading his book and yelling to the wind. He becomes so engrossed in attending to daily tasks that he starts to get into a groove with them, deriving satisfaction from his work and growing accustomed to the wildness permitted by his complete solitude, with no other eyes on him. He is even distracted from thinking about escape, of his old life. It culminates in the line that has stuck with me more vividly than any other in the novel, more than most other lines in all of literature.

"At times he felt he had no need of others."

I think of that line all the time. The sense of completeness within the self, the blissful quietude of the introvert with oneself unto oneself. And at the same time, the faint sense of disconnection, the subtle implication that in casting away in that manner, even mentally, something important has been left behind.

I feel like that sometimes. Particularly with Bernie gone. I am the complete master of my doings, beholden to no one. Nobody gets after me for anything; very infrequently has anyone else recently sought out my attention. I go about my activities as I please. I write my pieces, my journal. I cook dinner. I go to ballet class, I run in the graveyard at night. I read, I watch endless TV. At times I feel I have no need of others.

But I worry what I lose if I withdraw too far. I crave things from the world outside myself-- interest, validation, feedback, even company or stimulation. And I won't even see those things if I don't engage. But sometimes I want to just be Abel on his island.