Loneliness

It's the most lonely thing in the world to be a philosopher, W. says. You're alone, dreadfully alone. You can't tell whether your ideas are of the highest import, or the greatest idiocy. You do not know whether your hunches and intuitions point to something worthwhile, or whether they are the spasms and twitchings of something dying.

To the real philosopher, there are no stars to steer by, W. says. All the landmarks have vanished. You're on your own, in the darkness.