"The Opposite of Loneliness"

I've always had a passion for reading. I love how authors draw you in to a story that becomes your reality for a few hours; I identify with the characters and underline the phrases that speak to me and cry at the end of practically every book, no matter if the subject matter is sad or not. Books have offered me an escape and a promise - there are always new worlds for me to discover and there are characters to greet me with familiarity and tenderness each time I reread a favorite.

I'm not discriminate about what I read, I love anything from mysteries to non-fiction essays - I've even picked up my brother's Magic Tree House books in desperation for something, anything to read. The book shelf in my bedroom consists of one row entirely composed of John Grisham's legal thrillers, mostly purchased for a dollar apiece at the local Goodwill, another of coming of age novels featuring strong female protagonists mixed with anthropological works...an interesting assortment to say the least, a collection of my companions for the past 19 years - Anne of Green Gables, Francie from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, crime-fighting medical examiner Kay Scarpetta, the inhabitants of Ford County, the girl with the dragon tattoo, Hassan, José Arcadio.

Today I started (and finished) reading, The Opposite of Loneliness: Essays and Stories by Marina Keegan. Her writing is so poignant, clear, and witty even. At the age of 22, she writes in a way very accessible to a 19 year old college student like myself. I am in awe of Marina Keegan's talent, but felt a keen sadness while reading the book. The friend who recommended this book to me, as well as the foreword, informed me that Keegan actually passed away a few days after her graduation from Yale University. Every essay and story was therefore tinted by this knowledge. The title essay was written regarding her impending graduation from Yale University, and about what she feels being at Yale -- the opposite of loneliness. In this essay, she writes, "We're so young. We're so young. We're twenty-two years old. We have so much time." I couldn't help but think about how her time was cut short.
One of my favorite pieces in the book was actually just an excerpt from a poem of hers, "Nuclear Spring."

So what I'm trying to say is that you should text me back.
Because there's a precedent. Because there's an urgency.
Because there's a bedtime.
Because when the world ends I might not have my phone
     charged and
If you don't respond soon,
I won't know if you'd wanna leave your shadow next to mine.

I could read that over and over and it would resonate with my every time. Almost ironically, her time was so unexpectedly short, and apparently she understood that with life, with everything really, there is this urgency and uncertainty and things change in a split second. Please believe me, I know how cliché this is shaping up to be, but there is a certain factuality to it, is there not? What if that boy never knows how much I really cared because I didn't want to seem too interested and I waited too long to show him and now it's too late? What if I go to bed angry with my family and someone doesn't wake up? There's an urgency. There's a precedent. There's a bedtime.


In the notes section of the book, Anne Fadiman (a professor and friend who helped put together Marina's work for publication) prompts the readers to think about what the opposite of loneliness is for them. I was particularly struck by this essay, and I think for me reading is the ultimate opposite of loneliness. When I am immersed in a book, I feel exactly what Marina Keegan was trying to define - it's knowing that for a few hours I get to be a part of whatever I'm reading, safely woven into the text on the pages of a (usually worn) paperback. The characters and the beauty of the way the author can string together seemingly disparate words from the English language to tell a story so well allows me to feel connected to something greater than myself; I feel the opposite of loneliness.