I recently read Susan Cain’s new book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. I found it both validating and thought-provoking. One direction my thoughts went was toward John Keats (what creature is the epitome of Introvert, if not the Poet?), and a passage I had read (and underlined!) in one of his letters.
A Poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence; because he has no Identity–he is continually in for–and filling some other Body–The Sun, the Moon, the Sea…It is a wretched thing to confess; but is a very fact that not one word I ever utter can be taken for granted as an opinion growing out of my identical nature–how can it, when I have no nature?…But even now I am perhaps not speaking from myself; but from some character in whose soul I now live.
My thoughts went back to this passage–first, because I found it so striking (and sympathetic) when I first read it; and second, because Cain discusses how introverts often “take on” an extrovert persona to get through certain aspects of life. (Vastly simplified–I highly recommend reading her book! And Keats!) How many faces do I have, and which one is the “real” me?
On another front, my husband is traveling for a few weeks, and I turn once again to My Dearest Friend, the letters of John and Abigail Adams to each other during their many and looooong separations. I can’t feel too sorry for myself, with my ability to telephone or email my beloved, when remembering how those two amazing people often went weeks or even months at a time without any word from each other.
Finally, to complete this little web of contemplation, Cain happens to mention that John Quincy Adams was in fact that rare creature, a U.S. President who was also an introvert.
