Solitude is never with you; it is always without you and possible only in the presence of an outsider, an alien person or place as may be, that completely ignores you, that you completely ignore; so your will and your feelings remain suspended and bewildered in a tormented uncertainty; and, as every affirmation of yourself ceases, the very privacy of your awareness ceases. True solitude is in a place that lives for itself, and for you it has no trace or voice. And you, then, are the outsider there. — Luigi Pirandello, One, No One, and One Hundred Thousand. (Marsilio Publishers; Reprint edition, September 1, 1992) Originally published 1925.