Solitude: The Eleventh Commandment

Yesterday I saw the film Into Great Silence - a documentary on a French Carthusian monastery. In my younger years, I had what could best be described as monastic fantasies. This doesn't mean that I was into monk sex, rather that I was seduced by many aspects of monasticism, particularly the Medieval eremitic variety. Whilst my contemporaries were boozing up and whoring around, I was dreaming of living on a rocky outcrop off Newfoundland in the 1600s, wearing a hairshirt and whipping myself with a poorly constructed (yet brutally effective) cat o' nine tails. At the time this seemed like an option I was forced to contemplate, albeit it one that I found significantly intriguing. The idea soon proved unsustainable though. When you've decided that masculinity is your sin there really isn't enough penance in the piggy bank to cover it. The other problem was that I didn't actually believe in God, I was just into it for the lifestyle. Something which the church frowns upon.

It is this lifestyle, however, that still fascinates me to this day. Hence the reason for seeing Into Great Silence. Cathusian Monks aren't hermits in the strictest sense of the term, although sounding oxymoronic, they're appropriately described as a community of hermits. This is due to their monasteries being situated in secluded areas, their strict adherence to the Rule of St. Benedict and emphasis on contemplation in solitude. Contrary to common perception they do not take a vow of silence, yet only talk when it is strictly necessary. As someone who periodically views indulging in anything heavier than oxygen and water as decadence, the idea of necessity has some serious resonance. Each monk acquires a task for the upkeep of the monastery whether it be chopping firewood, stitching robes, cleaning, maintenance or food preparation. With little purpose and worth in life, and little clue on how to obtain it, I find the idea of being assigned a routine of benevolent tasks has a definite appeal. I may not have the physique of a natural wood-chopper, but what I lack in butch and I can more than make up for in unwavering commitment.

The film certainly brought back some memories. The glories of my youth may not be conventional, but have a certain non-conformist sheen in retrospect. Romanticism is nothing to be ashamed of, and with Into Great Silence my heroes have finally been given the celluloid treatment they deserve. However, alluring as this existence may be, the fact that I view its appeal through a lens of defeat rather than enthusiastically embracing its central ideological principle indicates that it may not have been an appropriate path to choose.