And the concern we feel seems strangely personal. Perhaps this is understandable. Because, if it is a loved one who makes the choice to be alone, then we are left to grieve and to wonder what it is within us that was not sufficient, not *enough* to make a social life worthwhile. The word "selfish" appears with surprising frequency, almost as though we come into the world with a debt that can never be paid except through a commitment to eternal life in community. By virtue of being human we appear to have inherited a social contract, signed on our behalf and without our foreknowledge or consent.
But for all that, and despite all the love we may feel towards each other, towards the world, there comes a time, for some, that will not be denied. Sartre may have dramatically concluded that "l'enfer, c'est les autres" (hell is other people), but for many, the call may not be a pull away, but a call towards. Not a pull to illness or despair, but a call towards a wondrous curiosity and the knowledge that there is more, if only we have the courage and the will to seek it. All that we love travels with us into silence, and it is those left behind who are bereft. Perhaps that is why we, the silence-seekers, are inevitably selfish. And yet there never really was a choice.