Surprised to find myself enjoying Ionesco’s seriously existentialist novel, Le Solitaire, (Viking 1973), in that it mirrors current thoughts of my imminently transitory existence. As if I am the 21st century’s incarnation of a 19th century Franco-Russian Jew, who, doing nothing particularly well, except, perhaps, putting down in words, the absurd context, for lack of a better explanation, we call, life. In Ionesco’s Hermit, I experience a recognizable emptiness I find familiar, which actually brings me peace, knowing that, as painful as it sometimes is, life is not to be missed.