(Found Poem in Michel de Montainge’s “Of Solitude” translated by George B. Ives)
Our sickness is of the soul; now the soul can not escape from itself. We have a soul that can be turned to itself; it can be its own company; it has the means of attack and of defence, of giving and of receiving. Let us not fear the becoming dull in this solitude from wearisome inactivity; in lonely places be to yourself a multitude. The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.
