On Talking to Oneself

If I sing softly to myself, perhaps some favourite melody or just an improvisation on a spontaneous theme, be it in the house or on a walk, I am considered quite sane -- or at least, not particularly strange. But if I speak softly to myself in the same way I am considered peculiar, even mad. Perhaps I am somewhat mad; I am certainly not normal, but that's hardly the same thing. When I am thinking deeply about an issue, I find it hard not to start verbalising my thoughts. When I am engrossed in a book, I find myself talking to the characters or the author. As I write this, I am muttering away, hearing how my thoughts sound aloud, which, contrary to most people's beliefs -- the great thoughtless masses -- is not a sign of madness, but rather an attempt to check that my thoughts are sensible and reasonable.

Reading aloud is considered strange for an adult. It's seen as a possible sign of mental retardation. Of course, people used to read aloud, and the ability to read silently was considered remarkable. Reading aloud often has a clarifying effect: I find if I am not quite grasping the meaning or intention of a passage, reading it aloud will more often than not help. It is also a wonderful way of experiencing what is beautiful about the writing; it has a similar intensity, a directness, to playing a musical instrument. The best way to appreciate music is to play it; the best way to appreciate language is to speak it. This should be obvious.

When I play music I often feel as if I am talking to myself. Indeed, any intellectual, reflective pursuit requires the sort of person who enjoys his own company, which does not merely mean one who enjoys being alone, but one who enjoys the social aspect of being alone. It is not to escape others necessarily, but rather to engage oneself. And one does this so that (or at least in the hope that) something fruitful will come from it that one will then share with others. But one also does it because it seems to have a purpose, a teleology, an ever-greater closeness with a transcendence which we can never meet, but which in the infinite gap between us and it we can drag ourselves inch by inch. We do this in solitude, but its rewards are found in society, in the creation of civilisation. Robinson Crusoe found this out -- the value of solitude -- when stranded on a desert island. We as a society are finding it out the opposite way as we design a world so contrary to that which made civilisation. Solitude, properly approached, is a corrective against the vices in the social world -- the vices, perhaps, that the social world creates.