A lifetime ago, in my late 20’s my life seemed to be growing darker, bit by bit emotionally constricted.  I tried whatever might help.  I doubled down on my devotional life, looking for “answers,” a turning point through Bible reading and prayer.  No improvement.  What to do about this absence of feeling, the colorless vacuum of emotionless living, that sapped all purpose?  My mood gradually darkened.

What to do?  Something must be done, I thought. Friends, never having experienced anything similar, had no advice to give.  And some were better educated than I.  More, better education is no panacea.

I decided I needed to get away for several days.  Maybe a change of scene, a different geography, would stimulate a different direction, one that allowed movement forward in purpose and attitude.  The idea was worth a try.  So, I decided to drive four hours to Carolina Beach, in order to spend several nights and days alone by the seashore.  Never mind that in the off-season, the tourist town is nearly deserted.

I do not recall what time of year this was, possibly in very late fall.  I do remember how chilly it was, and how empty the town was.  I found a hotel room for no more than seventy five dollars a night.  I went for walks on wind swept beaches, nothing but sky, breaking surf and a few gulls.  The loneliness was palpable.

I found that being alone did not separate me from my shadow.  The conundrum from which I sought relief remained with me.  It’s not possible to run away from you.

I was reminded of this segment of my life while reading Nietzsche’s story “The Shadow” in his Thus Spake Zarathustra.  The shadow of Zarathustra speaks to Zarathustra.  A few quotes from the story follow:

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What? Must I ever be on the way?
Whirled by every wind, unsettled, driven about?
O earth, thou hast become too round for me!
On every surface have I already sat,
like tired dust have I fallen asleep on mirrors and window-panes:
everything takes from me, nothing gives;
I become thin—I am almost equal to a shadow.

…if there be anything of virtue in me,
it is that I have had no fear of any prohibition.
With you I have broken up whatever my heart revered;
all boundary-stones and statues I have o’erthrown;
the most dangerous wishes I did pursue,
—truly, beyond every crime did I once go.

With you did I unlearn the belief in words and worths
and in great names.
When the devil casts his skin,
doth not his name also fall away? It is also skin.
The devil himself is perhaps—skin.

‘Nothing is true, all is permitted’: so said I to myself.
Into the coldest water did I plunge with head and heart.
Ah, how oft did I stand there naked on that account,
like a red crab!

Ah, where have gone all my goodness
and all my shame and all my belief in the good!
Ah, where is the lying innocence which I once possessed,
the innocence of the good and of their noble lies!
Too often, truly, did I follow close on the heels of truth:
to have it kick me on the face.
Sometimes I meant to lie, and behold!
then only did I hit—the truth.

This much has become clear to me: now I do not care any more.
Nothing lives any longer that I love,—how should I still love myself?
‘To live as I incline, or not to live at all’: so do I wish;
so wishes also the holiest.
But alas! how do I still have—inclination?
Have I—still a goal? A haven towards which my sail is set?
A good wind? Ah, only he who knows where he sails,
knows what wind is good, and a fair wind for him.
What still remains for me?
A heart weary and flippant;
an unstable will; fluttering wings;
a broken backbone.

…’Where is—my home?’ For home do I ask and seek,
and have sought, but have not found it.
O eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere,
O eternal—in-vain!”

Zarathustra replies to his shadow:

Beware lest in the end that a narrow faith captures you,
a hard, rigorous delusion!
For now everything that is narrow and fixed seduces, appeals to you.
Thou hast lost thy goal.
Alas, how wilt you forego and forget that loss?
Thereby—you have also lost your way!
You poor rover and rambler, you tired butterfly!
Will you have a rest and a home this evening?
Then go up to my cave!

—excerpt, Thus Spake Zarathustra, by Friedrich Nietzsche, No. 69 The Shadow,  p. 264