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No pacing, for that brings in the world. No murmuring, muttering, puttering. No reading.
 

...as its waves bounced invisibly against the cement walls.
      This is the sort of solitude Pascal was talking about. No pacing, for that brings in the world. No murmuring, muttering, puttering. No reading. This is the sort of solitude whose acceptance is a poetic or religious act. Or is a sign of an utter lack of inner resources, a solitude often, if not best, spent drunk.
      Lights reflected...

ex chapter titled “Solitude,” in
Joel Turnipseed, his Baghdad Express : A Gulf War Memoir (2003) : 109 : link

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author page at Hotel Zero (typepad) : link
not seeing more recent things; the writing is good.
 

23 May 2025