The Philosophy of Literature part 2

                The Philosophy of Literature.
                Vladimir Vorobyov Abadensky

                Literature as the Voice of Solitude: Misunderstanding, Alienation, and the Search for the True “Self”
                (Part of the dissertation “The Philosophy of Literary Being: Origins, Evolution, and Influence on Human Consciousness”)

2.1. Solitude as a Structure of Literary Experience
From its very inception, literature has been an act of isolation. The author is a figure removed from the world. He creates a reality where he can finally be understood — even if that hope is destined to collapse. Socrates spoke through Plato not because he couldn’t write, but because he didn’t believe writing could replace a living soul. And in this lies the essence: literature is born from the pain of rupture with the world, from the attempt to fill the void.

The writer’s solitude is not domestic melancholy or a fleeting grudge against society, but an ontological condition. He is alone not because he is unloved, but because he sees too deeply, feels too sharply, and knows: true closeness is impossible without language. And language is always limited. So he returns to the word again and again — as a last hope, as a spell to raise the dead.

2.2. Alienation in Existentialism: Sartre, Camus, Kafka
Sartre claimed that “hell is other people.” Not because others are cruel, but because they are a mirror in which you do not recognize yourself. Literary being for Sartre is an attempt to escape the gaze of the other, to defend one’s “self” in a world where you are constantly reduced to a function, a role, a phrase.

Camus, on the other hand, speaks of the absurdity of existence. His hero is Sisyphus, rolling the stone not for a goal, but because there is no other way. Literature, for Camus, is also Sisyphean labor: writing in the knowledge that understanding will never come — yet continuing, because therein lies freedom.

With Kafka, solitude takes on a cosmic scale. His characters — Gregor Samsa, Josef K. — are not just misunderstood: they cannot be understood by definition. Kafka’s world is an allegory of total alienation, where language does not connect but divides. And that’s why his prose is prophetic. It reveals that solitude is not an anomaly — but the norm in a world stripped of explanation.

2.3. Literature as the Only Way to Be Among People
Mikhail Bakhtin wrote that a person exists only in dialogue. But what if dialogue is impossible? What if the other doesn’t listen — or refuses to? Then the text becomes an act of faith: that someone, somewhere, someday will read and recognize you. Literature is a message in a bottle, cast into the ocean of time.

For Dostoevsky, the word was not just a means of communication — but a battlefield. His characters argue not to find truth, but to avoid madness. His flood of speech is the only way not to drown in silence. And in that, he is closer to us than it seems: because today, in a world of masks and avatars, a cry is also a form of life.

For Proust, memory is a bridge over the abyss. His long, winding sentences are not affectation, but a desperate attempt to hold on to a vanishing self. His literature is a meditation on solitude as a path to self-knowledge. It shows that solitude can be not only pain — but a source of revelation.

2.4. The Digital Word and the Illusion of Connection
In the 21st century, people speak more than ever — but never have they felt so alone. Likes, comments, reposts create the illusion of dialogue, but these are empty shells. Real presence has been replaced by simulation. We read others’ thoughts without knowing who wrote them. We trade depth for speed.

Today’s writer is no longer a prophet or a teacher, but a figure dissolved in noise. His words drown in memes and the dust of daily news. And that is why real literature today is an act of heroism. Because it demands silence. It requires a stillness in which true listening becomes possible. And thus — a meeting.

Literary solitude in the 21st century is not just the author’s isolation — but the reader’s as well. In the labyrinth of hyperlinks and the rush of updates, it becomes harder to find a text in which one can stay. A true text today is like a temple with no sign. Someone may stumble upon it by chance — but whoever enters will not leave unchanged.

2.5. Literature as a Form of Salvation
But solitude is not only a curse. It is also an opportunity. In solitude, thoughts arise that are impossible in the crowd. In silence, the inner voice is heard. True literature is not that which fills the void — but that which allows us to remain within it. To endure. To emerge changed.

Literature is a form of prayer. Without guarantees, without answers — but with hope. The hope that someone, someday, will find your text and say: “I felt the same.” And then solitude ceases to be a prison. It becomes a bridge.

And even if that bridge is narrow, fragile, like a rope over the abyss — it still connects shores. Because a word, once spoken from the heart, will always find a response. Even if a century must pass.

That is why literature does not merely save — it affirms: you are not alone.
Even when no one is near. Even when all is silent. Because somewhere, beyond the lines, someone is already seeing the world through your eyes. And that is no longer emptiness. It is a meeting.

2.6. Culmination: Literature as a Space of Silent Recognition
The human “self” is fragile, vulnerable — yet infinitely complex. In a world where language has become transaction, advertising replaces confession, and dialogue is algorithmic, literature remains the last refuge of personality. Where dialogue ends — writing begins.

The culmination of literary solitude is not a scream, not a curse, not even protest. It is silence in which recognition is born. When you read a line written by someone in another country, in another century, and suddenly realize — you have been understood. Not explained — but recognized. Not comforted — but confirmed in your being.

This is the true power of literature. Not in plot, not in ideas, not in linguistic beauty. But in that instant feeling of belonging, when two solitudes touch. Without words, without promises. Just a glance through the text.

This is the philosophy of literary being: to be alone — and still to speak.
To be misunderstood — and still to write.
Because the word is not just a tool. It is a way of life.

And as long as there are those who write — and those who read — solitude will not be the end, but the beginning. The beginning of a dialogue, however voiceless. The beginning of new being — in text, in memory, in eternity.