Is It Only Me?

On narcissism, solipsism, and looking outside ourselves.

Narcissus (1597-1599) by Caravaggio in the National Gallery of Ancient Art in Rome.

We all have our little solipsistic delusions, ghastly intuitions of utter singularity: that we are the only one in the house who ever fills the ice-cube tray, who unloads the clean dishwasher, who occasionally pees in the shower, whose eyelid twitches on first dates; that only we take casualness terribly seriously; that only we fashion supplication into courtesy; that only we hear the whiny pathos in a dog's yawn, the timeless sigh in the opening of the hermetically-sealed jar, the splattered laugh in the frying egg, the minor-D lament in the vacuum's scream; that only we feel the panic at sunset the rookie kindergartner feels at his mother's retreat. That only we love the only-we. That only we need the only-we. Solipsism binds us together....That we feel lonely in a crowd; stop not to dwell on what's brought the crowd into being. That we are, always, faces in a crowd.

David Foster Wallace, “Westward the Course of Empire Takes Its Way,” Girl with Curious Hair

When I was a junior in high school and learned about existentialism, I claimed the label for myself. Truthfully, I knew little of what it meant to be an existentialist, but I really liked the song by Straylight Run and Waiting for Godot, which we read in Mr. Sweeney’s English class.

I’ve always been a fan of identity markers, especially ones that make you feel superior to your fellow man. I think that is why I still read books, not so much because the storytelling is a class above what you’d get in a digital format, but because it seems to be the thing that smart people should do, as opposed to scrolling or streaming. (I mean, really, there are benefits to reading beyond that, but I doubt you’ve ever met someone who does CrossFit or eats kale because it’s good for their long-term health; they want to look hot and feel special, like the rest of us.)

While -isms appeal to me, there are some I know are problematic. Narcissism, for example, runs in my family (surprise, surprise). The story of Narcissus recorded in Ovid’s Metamorphoses is an allegory of what vanity and self-obsession ultimately lead to. You stare so long at your reflection in the mirror that you lose sight of every person and thing around you. And then, you die. (And they’re probably glad you did because you were a real chore to be around.)

There are many modern parallels in literature and film. Holden Caulfield, the protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, spends much of the novel in his head, pointing his finger out at others who he believes suck. (Though, what I think makes him compelling or relatable is that, despite his narcissism, he has a soft spot for his little sister and is driven, in some way, by the death of his brother; we’re layered in that way, like onions.) Less relatable, though certainly funnier, are Georgie, Elaine, Kramer, and Jerry in Seinfeld. And then, of course, on the far side of the loony spectrum, you have Jake Gyllenhaal’s character in Nightcrawler, a loner who shoots videos of terrible crimes and sells them to TV stations for money.

I can hardly remember what it means without having to look up the definition on Wikipedia, but there is another ten-dollar word that gets thrown around by pseudo-intellectuals to excuse narcissistic behaviors: solipsism, the idea that only one’s mind is certain to exist. That existence, as we understand it, is only our existence—everything that we experience, whether physical objects, people, or events, exists in our consciousness alone.

In other words, there is no world outside the one in our heads.