Dr Sam Carr, in his recent publication, All the Lonely People, provides a heartwarming assertion to the readers that loneliness is a common occurrence, rather than a rare condition limited to the bereaved or elderly. Carr, through his interactions with both young and old, identifies four primary roots of loneliness: a break in important relationships, the unseen pain of past distress, the feeling of being a foreigner, and paradoxically, our attempted flight from loneliness.
Despite being an academic psychologist, Carr’s All the Lonely People does not delve into scholarly analysis of loneliness. Instead, it shares human stories, aiming to bridge the gap between our immense internal feelings and our meagre expressive capabilities.
Every chapter of the book holds its own narrative. Carr advises his readers to navigate the stories similar to the intrigued exploration of a statue or sculpture. Though some sections can provide a more enthralling experience than others, all together they maintain the reader’s attention. Carr occasionally revisits well-worn images of loneliness but enough original content is there to pique the readers’ interest.
Readers are introduced to the “double isolation” of an immigrant caught between two cultures, the stifled torment of a woman who, influenced by the “stiff upper lip culture”, prefers euthanasia to emotional dependence, and the isolating plight of a young man addicted to pornography who feels disconnected from his girlfriend due to his unattainable sexual expectations.
In one particularly affecting chapter, Carr captures a personal car chat with Alex, his teenage son, concerning his bout of loneliness. Any reader who has gone through adolescence can relate to this ubiquitous brand of loneliness transcending time, culture and location – the fear that revealing one’s true self or sharing real musical preferences would lead to being seen as less interesting or unworthy of friendship. However it originates, this unique loneliness usually ends with merely pretending to enjoy what everyone else does, because blending in or erasing one’s identity seems to be a better alternative than becoming an outcast.
Carr isn’t afraid to expose his own weaknesses, such as his tendency to shield himself from others’ judgement by taking up the guise of an observer or an “invisible spectator”. He confesses openly about his concern that Alex’s solitude might be a reflection of his own shortcomings as a parent. However, the reader infers that although it distresses Carr to accept that his child is as isolated as any other, he also gains solace from understanding that Alex was shielded from the “empty wasteland” of his tense relationship with his own father, an aloof alcoholic who seemed equally hesitant to express or accept affection.
In contrast to Carr’s experiences of solitude, borne initially out of being a precociously mature child in a disordered family and later as a lone father surrounded by nuclear families with immaculate gardens, Alex’s solitude might just be an unstoppable outcome of learning to coexist in a world populated by other sentient beings.
These observations guide us to two pivotal assertions in the book. First, Carr suggests that if solitude is a core part of human existence, it may not be helpful to medicalise it. Second, he depicts loneliness as a subjective experience, unique to each individual. He makes an awkward comparison to the multitude of shades on a “Dulux colour chart” – reminiscent of ones he used to gaze at in childhood.
Whilst Carr more or less successfully intertwines personal experience with third-party accounts of loneliness, there are moments when his self-revelation doesn’t seem to provide any significant instruction. His retelling of a socially uncomfortable date with a stranger, almost culminating in a casual fling, merely proffers a mundane view of the inability of transient closeness to alleviate loneliness, or specifically, his feeling of being out of place as a lone father. The reader similarly grimaces when he tentatively introduces the trite statement “it wasn’t her, it was me” with the half-hearted acknowledgement, “I know it’s a cliche”.
[ The unbearable silence of old age loneliness ]
[ Sinéad Kennedy: ‘Loneliness isn’t exclusive to the elderly; anyone can feel isolated’ ]
Carr appears to find solace in equating solitude with a type of rebirth, using the Jungian term, a “mortificatio”. He suggests that experiencing pain can lead to self-understanding and favourable progress, although not everyone has the mental fortitude to weather such a storm. I, on the other hand, am drawn to the less romanticised and almost sardonic perspective of loneliness, personified by 72-year-old widow, Paula. After surviving the emotional pain of her husband’s demise, she finally found joy in newfound freedom from the hopes and desires of others. Her statement, “…I’m able to do what I want to do for the very first time in my life,” resonates strongly with me.