(4)

I am, now as I have by and large always been, a solitary traveler through life.  Even in childhood I never had more than one or two friends at a time; larger social groups only served to bring out my inherent tendency towards shyness.  This shyness was due, I think, not so much to a lack of self-confidence on my part as to an ever-present distrust of the conformity I sensed required before inclusion within any larger group of people would be allowed.  I'm tempted to call this distrust instinctive – as indeed it may well be:  who can say, when those who might have been born with such an instinct are, by the very nature of their distrust, desirous of nothing more than remaining forever beyond a closer psychological inspection?  I, at any rate, have always found it necessary, in my relationships with other people, to first establish some degree of shared intimacy between us before giving way to trust.  Lacking the discovery of some genuine, sympathetic chord which might connect myself to another, I confess myself to being more or less flummoxed as to how to proceed with even the most mundane sort of conversational transaction.  Because, I suppose, of my own introversion, and because of my desire to reduce the sense of estrangement from society my introversion sometimes brings, I always seek some revelation of a personal nature from other people:  an expression of their hopes and dreams, their fears and worries, their pleasures and regrets, no matter how modest or commonplace these might be.  Without the sense of sharing such revelation brings, I feel unequipped to establish that feeling of connectedness which is, to my mind, the most necessary prerequisite to social intercourse.  Perhaps, if not allowed this sharing, I feel threatened by a sense of other people's anonymity, seeing in it only the potential for my own physical endangerment.  Perhaps I have for some reason never progressed beyond a childish need to feel myself surrounded by those who care so much for my well-being that they are willing to open themselves up to me, heart and soul, so that I might be reassured that we are all, at our innermost cores, more alike than different.  I don't know.  But I have always been drawn to those who were willing, in however momentary a fashion, to address this need, and fascinated by those who have learned how to cope without its fulfillment.

I recall to mind one of my coworkers from the factory, a man towards whom I have long felt a strange and intriguing attraction.  He is an odd fellow – even profoundly so – for he is apparently unable, or perhaps merely unwilling, to connect in any meaningful way with other people.  Could it be, perhaps, that he is one of my "silent brothers"?  Has he too "turned his back" on the world?  I do not know.  I notice, at the factory, that he talks, jokes, even complains with the best of them; and yet it's as if there's a gap, an absence, where the common urge for a deeper sense of connectedness usually exists.  Whether he experiences this himself as an aberration or as a source of freedom I cannot tell; his independence – and his isolation – from that increase in intimacy by which people normally come to know one another, and through which the majority of us seek to discover, by means of our likenesses and differences, the relevance of ourselves, is so complete that it is impossible to say whether or not it was for him a matter of choice.  He does not seem unhappy.  Indeed, every remark directed towards him, whether it be friendly or angry, compliment or insult, is greeted with precisely the same measure of deferential indifference, this indifference manifesting itself by the mask-like appearance of a placid, nonchalant smile.  People sometimes react very strongly to that smile:  it beguiles, but they are never quite sure who it is that's being deceived.  Whatever their opinion, they find no receptivity for it, nor any recognizable response to it, in him.  Their feelings are simply forced back upon themselves, made servile, mute, and laid bare for their owners' inspection, should that matter to them.  To him it does not appear to matter at all.  He absorbs the desires of others with infinite equanimity, and acknowledges their need – not in the least.

SIREN SONG