A Literary Prescription for
For the rooms that used to have more people in them.
A house empties for all sorts of reasons. The children leave, a marriage ends, someone dies, a partner moves into care, a lodger goes back to their own country. What the reasons have in common is the sound: the particular quiet of a building that was built for more, and the way six o’clock in the evening becomes the hardest hour of the day. Nobody warns you that it is the ordinary domestic things that get you — cooking for one, the second armchair, the shopping that lasts too long. These books, poems and quotes are for that specific silence: some of them company for the worst of it, some of them a serious argument that a house with one person in it can be a good place to live rather than a leftover from something better.
“All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”Blaise Pascal Pensées, 1670
Books
Three of these argue, persuasively, that being alone in a house is a capacity rather than a failure. The novels do something different: they let you sit with a character who is in exactly this position and is neither tragic nor secretly fine. And one of them, deliberately, is about a house filling up again.
Two sisters in a small town in Idaho are raised by a succession of relatives in a house that keeps emptying, and finally by an aunt who does not really believe in furniture. Robinson writes better than anyone about a building slowly losing its purpose — the rooms that stop being used, the things nobody puts away, the way a house without enough people in it starts to feel like weather rather than shelter. Strange, luminous and not quick, and worth every page.
Storr was a psychiatrist who got tired of the assumption that a life is only well lived if it is full of close relationships, and wrote this to argue the opposite case: that the capacity to be alone is a genuine achievement, and that a great deal of what people make and understand happens in an empty house. It will not fill your kitchen. What it will do is stop you treating an empty one as evidence that something has gone wrong with you.
Edith Hope, a romantic novelist, is sent to a quiet Swiss hotel out of season after doing something her friends consider disgraceful. She writes letters, watches the other guests and decides what she actually wants. Brookner is the great chronicler of the well-furnished solitary life, and she is neither self-pitying nor falsely cheerful about it, which makes her unusually good company when the house is quiet.
Maitland raised a family, then found herself living alone, and then went looking for silence on purpose: forty days in a cottage in Skye, a stretch in the Sinai desert, finally a small house on a Galloway moor. She is honest that the first weeks were awful and that some of what surfaced frightened her. Useful precisely because she is not romantic about it, and because she distinguishes between silence chosen and silence arrived at by default.
Elizabeth and Her German Garden
Elizabeth escapes her household and her husband into a neglected garden in Pomerania and writes about it for a year. She is funny, faintly subversive and entirely unapologetic about preferring her own company to almost anybody’s. It is here because it is the earliest and cheeriest argument on this list that a woman on her own in a large quiet house is not a problem to be solved, and might in fact be having rather a good time.
Thirty-two short chapters written over a year of deliberate aloneness, moving between Buddhist practice, Montaigne, art and a good deal of walking. Batchelor is interested in the difference between solitude and isolation, and his answer is roughly that solitude is aloneness you are on speaking terms with. Short pieces, no argument to sustain, easy to pick up and put down — which suits the evenings this page exists for.
Elfrida is alone in a Hampshire village with a dog and not much else when a series of events puts five broken people into one large cold house in Scotland at Christmas. Nothing dramatic happens on purpose: they cook, they walk, they leave each other alone. It is here as the counterweight to everything else on this list, because houses do fill up again, and they usually do it by accident rather than by plan.
Poems about an empty home
One about the way walls hold what you lived through, one about a soldier coming home to nobody after sixty-five years, and one sonnet arguing that what you weep for is somehow returned. Each takes under two minutes.
from “Rooms”
Charlotte Mew, 1916
Mew understood that a room is not neutral. Once you have lived through something in a particular set of walls, the walls hold it, and you cannot walk in and put the kettle on without the whole of it being there. Anyone standing in a house that used to have more people in it will recognise the mechanism exactly. Six lines is all she needs.
from “Old Poem”
Anonymous, 1st century BC, translated by Arthur Waley, 1918
A soldier comes home after sixty-five years to a house nobody has lived in. What is remarkable is where the poem chooses to break your heart: not at the door, not at the overgrown garden, but at the moment the food is ready. Cooking for one in a kitchen built for more is the specific, unglamorous shape this takes, and somebody wrote it down two thousand years ago.
“Tears”
Lizette Woodworth Reese, 1899
Reese taught in Baltimore schools for forty-five years and wrote this sonnet in 1899; it made her name and she never bettered it. The turn comes at the end and it is a large claim quietly made: that everything wept for is, somehow, given back. Blind Homer got his sight and David his son. You do not have to believe it to find it steadying at eleven at night in a house where the heating has just clicked off.
Quotes & Prose
Short lines for the hour of the evening when the house is loudest.
The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it is not.
Osho
Being solitary is being alone well: being alone luxuriously immersed in doings of your own choice.
Alice Koller
What a lovely surprise to finally discover how unlonely being alone can be.
Ellen Burstyn
The soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
In solitude the mind gains strength and learns to lean upon itself.
Laurence Sterne
From Georgia
A few short practices for the quiet hours, when there is nobody else setting the pace of the day.
Morning Yoga Nidra
A slow, restorative practice for starting the day gently when there is nobody else setting its pace.
Listen to the preview →Gratitude for Small Comforts
A meditation for noticing the small, ordinary comforts already around you — the warm cup, the soft light, the quiet moment.
Listen Now For Free
Learning to Belong to the Life You Have
On making peace with the gap between the life you imagined and the one you are living, and finding it is more than enough.
Read the Essay →
The 21-Day Meditation Course
Three weeks of short, guided meditations — a small daily appointment to put in the diary when the days have lost their old shape.
Start the 21-Day Course →Questions people ask
Start with Solitude by Anthony Storr, which takes the whole premise apart: the assumption that a good life is necessarily a crowded one. If you want a novel rather than an argument, Hotel du Lac by Anita Brookner is short and very good company, and Winter Solstice by Rosamunde Pilcher is the one to read if you want the house to fill up again by the end.
Not necessarily, and the difference matters. Loneliness is wanting company you do not have. An empty home is a physical fact: fewer people in the building than there used to be. The two often arrive together, particularly at first, but plenty of people go on to find they like the quiet and simply had no practice at it. Storr and Sara Maitland are both good on that distinction.
Lines worth keeping include “Being solitary is being alone well: being alone luxuriously immersed in doings of your own choice” (Alice Koller) and “What a lovely surprise to finally discover how unlonely being alone can be” (Ellen Burstyn). You will find these and others in the quotes section above.
Mostly small, physical things rather than large realisations. Changing what the evenings are for, so six o’clock stops being the hour when the absence announces itself. Using rooms you had stopped using. Cooking properly for one rather than standing at the counter. Having one fixed thing in the week that gets you out. None of that is a cure and all of it helps more than waiting for the feeling to pass on its own.