Everyone needs solitude, especially a person who is used to

Hear the wisdom of Wislawa Szymborska, poet of Poland and seer of human frailty, who declared: “Everyone needs solitude, especially a person who is used to thinking about what she experiences. Solitude is very important in my work as a mode of inspiration, but isolation is not good in this respect. I am not writing poetry about isolation.” In these words lies the delicate balance between the quiet that nourishes the soul and the silence that can suffocate it. She distinguishes two states that seem alike, yet are worlds apart: solitude and isolation.

For solitude is chosen, a sacred retreat, a breathing space where the heart and mind can speak clearly. It is the fountain of reflection, the sanctuary of artists, the chamber where ideas are born and truths are uncovered. In solitude, one walks not away from life, but deeper into it, seeking to understand what has been seen, felt, endured. But isolation is its cruel twin. It is the cutting off, the imprisonment of the spirit, where silence is no longer fruitful but barren. Where solitude enriches, isolation impoverishes.

Szymborska knew this distinction well. Her poetry, woven with wit and wisdom, was born from time spent in the company of her own thoughts. Yet she never wrote from the void of isolation. She wrote about humanity, about the strange dignity of ordinary things, about war and survival, about life’s paradoxes. Her voice emerged not from shutting out the world, but from stepping aside briefly in order to listen to it more carefully. Thus she tells us: poetry flourishes in solitude, but withers in isolation.

History offers us countless examples of this truth. Consider Henry David Thoreau, who withdrew to Walden Pond. His solitude there gave rise to reflections that still inspire generations. He was not isolated, for he engaged with nature, with books, with the rhythm of life around him. Contrast this with the fate of prisoners cast into solitary confinement, whose isolation breaks the mind and destroys the spirit. Both are alone, yet one finds inspiration while the other endures torment. Such is the difference between the solitude that feeds and the isolation that starves.

The ancients, too, understood this balance. Monks in deserts sought solitude, not to flee the world forever, but to purify their vision, so they might return with wisdom for their brethren. Yet hermits who strayed too far, who cut themselves off entirely, often fell into despair or madness. The lesson was clear: man may need solitude to hear the voice within, but he also needs connection to remain fully alive. Isolation without return to others is not holiness, but loss.

Szymborska’s words carry a practical lesson for all who live in this hurried age. In the noise of the world, we must reclaim solitude, moments to reflect, to breathe, to listen. Without it, life becomes a blur of unexamined days. Yet we must beware of slipping into isolation, of withdrawing so far that we lose the richness of human connection. The poet reminds us: inspiration requires distance, but never disconnection.

O seekers, take this counsel: make time each day for solitude. Step into silence not to escape, but to reflect. Write, meditate, walk, or simply breathe, so that your experiences may bear fruit in understanding. But also cherish companionship, for you are not made to dwell in isolation. Let your poetry—whether written in verse, or in the way you live—be born of solitude, but shaped for the world.

Thus the voice of Szymborska endures: solitude is a gift, isolation a curse. Seek the first, avoid the second. For in solitude, inspiration is born, and through inspiration, the soul offers its deepest song to humanity.