Sylvain Tesson (b. 1972) is a formidable French travel writer, with experiences hiking across the Himalayas, biking around the world and following the path of Gulag escapees, all in attempts to showcase and question society’s limits and boundaries.
In The Consolations of the Forest, Tesson fulfils a promise to himself and retreats to a cabin in the woods on Lake Baikal. He avoids useless materialism and addresses what psychologist Rollo May called “the struggle of human beings with and against that which limits them.”
It’s funny: you decide to live in a cabin, and envision your self smoking a cigar under the open sky, lost in meditation . . . and you wind up checking off items on supply lists like an army quartermaster. Life comes down to grocery shopping.
Tesson brings supplies and plenty of books, reduces stimulation, amplifies solitude and writes astutely about being interrupted by humans, devastated by it, in fact: “What I came here to escape has descended on my island: noise, ugliness, testosterone-fueled herd behavior.”
Like many who find themselves in vast solitude and angry at insensitive interruption, Tesson’s deeply observational eye swims between the vast and the minute (reminds me of physicist Alan Lightman’s contemplation of the universe and its stardust) and winds everything together in meaning.
Respecting insects brings joy. Taking a passionate interest in the infinitely small helps guard against an infinitely mediocre life. For the insect lover, a puddle can be Lake Tanganyika, a pile of sand takes on the aspect of the Taklamakan Desert.
I’ve spent much time alone and this book resonated. The desire to withdraw and renew, certainly. But other aspects felt a bit too on the nose, a bit too pop-culture: “In the depths of the taiga, I changed myself completely” is all very tidy and a tad unbelievable in its perfect circle. How do you change completely? Do your beliefs change? Your manner of interaction? Surely to change would be, at the very least, to deny the compulsion to write another book about solitude.
That being said, Tesson’s underlying message rings true:
We alone are responsible for the gloominess of our lives. The world is grey because of our blandness. Life seems pallid? Change your life, head for the cabins. In the depths of the woods, if life remains dreary and your surroundings unbearable, the verdict is in: you can’t stand yourself!
As a lifelong introvert and seeker of empty spaces, I’ve found being alone isn’t about avoiding others. Nurturing and sustainable solitude is allowing others to flow through us. Remaining unaffected and yet having empathy. I cannot strike that balance nor can Tesson.
Read further on the sustaining and self-evolving powers of solitude in Lynne Schwartz’s delightful Ruined by Reading or Mary Oliver’s Upstream. Read more on the nature of creative alienation in Anna Deavere Smith’s Letter to a Young Artist. And finally, my own study of meaning ensconced in small things. (I choose women purposefully because of the sixty-nine books Tesson brings to Lake Baikal, a quick glance reveals only three are written by females.)