“A solitary, unused to speaking
of what he sees and feels,
has mental experiences
which are at once more intense
and less articulate than those
of a gregarious man.
They are sluggish,
yet more wayward,
and never without a melancholy tinge.
Sights and impressions
which others brush aside with a glance,
a light comment, a smile,
occupy him more than their due;
they sink silently in,
they take on meaning,
they become experience,
Solitude gives birth to the original in us,
to beauty unfamiliar and perilous-to poetry.
But also, it gives birth to the opposite:
to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.”
(Thomas Mann – Death in Venice)