O Beata Solitudo, Sola Beatitudo!
Oh happy solitude, sole beatitude!
Albert Einstein, "Self-Portrait" in Out of My Later Years (Citadel Press, 1956), p. 5:
. . . For the most part I do the thing which my own nature drives me to do. It is embarrassing to earn so much respect and love for it. Arrows of hate have been shot at me too; but they never hit me, because somehow they belonged to another world, with which I have no connection whatsoever.
I live in that solitude which is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity.