Eleanor’s traumatic childhood causes her to avoid contact with other humans. When June Mullen, a social worker, comes to perform a checkup on Eleanor, she readily admits that this is “the first visitor [she’d] had since November last year.” Besides social workers, the only others who Eleanor invites into her apartment are utility workers assigned to read the meter. Until Raymond enters Eleanor’s life, she entertains no social guests. It’s most often the case that Eleanor will spend the entire weekend without seeing another human after she stops at the supermarket on her way home from work on Fridays for a frozen pizza, wine, and vodka. The extent of Eleanor’s loneliness is such that she doesn’t even allow herself to sit with herself, using alcohol to numb the pain she feels from her residual trauma.
As a result of this extreme isolation, Eleanor becomes unpracticed and unfamiliar with social etiquette, presenting herself in a way that makes others feel so uncomfortable that they distance themselves from her. Because people avoid Eleanor, it becomes harder for her to engage with others, further perpetuating her loneliness and isolation. Eleanor responds bluntly in situations that require more social nuance. For example, as she waits in line for the restroom, another woman in line comments spitefully that there’s never any wait for the “Gents,” as men “just come in, piss everywhere and then waltz off, leaving someone else to clean up after them.” Eleanor acknowledges that the woman’s remark is figurative: a scathing critique of men messing things up and made “with a specific individual in mind.” Rather than respond sympathetically to the woman, however, Eleanor comments on how “dreadful” and disgusting the men’s room must be: “just think how odd it would be if we had to display our genitals to one another when we finally reached the front of this queue!?” she offers.
Eleanor’s remark is eccentric and provides comic relief to the reader, but it wasn’t the sympathetic response the lovelorn woman had in mind, and, as a result, she calls Eleanor “a bit mental,” and they remain silent for the remainder of their wait. Situations like these are all too common for Eleanor: repeatedly, her unpracticed social skills and propensity to say exactly what she’s thinking cut off human interactions before they can develop into anything meaningful. In this way, Eleanor’s social awkwardness perpetuates her loneliness while, simultaneously, her loneliness perpetuates her social awkwardness.
If isolation and social awkwardness are a vicious circle, however, the reverse is also true: the more Eleanor ventures outside her comfort zone and engages with others, the more capable she becomes of relating to other people and feeling comfortable in social situations. At the beginning of their email correspondence, Eleanor is thoroughly dismissive of Raymond’s habit of abbreviating his writing and using emojis to convey emotion. When Eleanor agrees to accompany Raymond to Sammy’s son Keith’s birthday party and he responds with a smiley face, Eleanor laments the state of contemporary communication: “I fear for our nation’s standard of literacy.” Over time, however, she becomes more familiar with Raymond and learns to accept the conventions he adheres to to communicate. After sending a few brief messages back and forth later in the book, she states: “I had become almost inured to his illiterate way of communicating by the end of his exchange. It’s both good and bad, how humans can learn to tolerate pretty much anything, if they have it.” Eleanor won’t commit fully to embracing what she sees as Raymond’s practically “illiterate” style of writing, but she still acknowledges that, by making a habit of taking Raymond at face value, she has learned how to interact with and grow closer to him. Just as humans can “learn to tolerate” loneliness and grow accustomed to committing social faux pas, they can also learn how to communicate more effectively with others, making “good” compromises—such as eschewing full, elaborate sentences in lieu of shortened, text-speak—in order to speak with people in a way that resonates with their preferred methods of self-expression.
Along these lines, Eleanor and Raymond’s initial act of kindness toward Sammy invites a series of opportunities for Eleanor to socialize and connect with others. When Eleanor and Raymond help an old man, Sammy, who stumbles and falls unconscious while crossing the street, they become friends with Sammy and his family. Soon, Eleanor’s life is filled with visits to Sammy at the hospital, invitations to parties from Sammy’s grateful relatives, and a budding friendship with Raymond as a result of their shared act of compassion.
Through this sudden influx of opportunities to practice socializing, Eleanor gains a nuanced understanding of social practices she hadn’t felt since becoming so lonely and isolated. For example, when Eleanor and Raymond walk to Keith’s birthday party from the train station, Eleanor struggles to keep up with Raymond in her heeled boots. She observes: “I noticed him glance at me, and then he slowed his steps to match mine. I realized that such small gestures […] could mean so much.” Raymond’s gesture might be a small one, but it means a lot to Eleanor, who hasn’t had the energy or opportunity to behave thoughtfully toward others since becoming so lonely and isolated. Eleanor’s appreciation for Raymond’s keen observation demonstrates that she is catching on to the little gestures people make to connect with others, as well as the comparatively profound impact of these gestures. As Eleanor continues to notice and understand the intricacies of socialization, the implication is that she will be able to more seamlessly incorporate them into her own actions, thereby setting the groundwork for developing more successful, meaningful relationships in her own life.
Related Themes from Other Texts
The Vicious Circle of Isolation and Social Awkwardness ThemeTracker
The Vicious Circle of Isolation and Social Awkwardness Quotes in Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine
I do exist, don’t I? It often feels as if I’m not here, that I’m a figment of my own imagination. There are days when I feel so lightly connected to the earth that the threads that tether me to the planet are gossamer thin, spun sugar. A strong gust of wind could dislodge me completely, and I’d lift off and blow away, like one of those seeds in a dandelion clock.
I have always taken great pride in managing my life alone. I’m a sole survivor—I’m Eleanor Oliphant. I don’t need anyone else—there’s no big hole in my life, no missing part of my own particular puzzle. I am a self-contained entity. That’s what I’ve always told myself, at any rate.
I smiled at her. Twice in one day, to be the recipient of thanks and warm regard! I would never have suspected that small deeds could elicit such genuine, generous responses. I felt a little glow inside—not a blaze, more like a small, steady candle.
“But you’re not smart, Eleanor. You’re someone who lets people down. Someone who can’t be trusted. Someone who failed. Oh yes, I know exactly what you are. And I know how you’ll end up. Listen, the past isn’t over. The past is a living thing. Those lovely scars of yours—they’re from the past, aren’t they? And yet they still live on your plain little face. Do they still hurt?”
Some people, weak people, fear solitude. What they fail to understand is that there’s something very liberating about it; once you realize you don’t need anyone, you can take care of yourself. That’s the thing: it’s best just to take care of yourself. You can’t protect other people, however hard you try.”
I realized that such small gestures—the way his mother had made me a cup of tea after our meal without asking, remembering that I didn’t take sugar, the way Laura had placed two biscuits on the saucer when she brought me coffee in the salon—such things could mean so much. I wondered how it would feel to perform such simple deeds for other people. I couldn’t remember. I had done such things in the past, tried to be kind, tried to take care, I knew that I had, but that was before. I tried, and I had failed, and all was lost to me afterward. I had no one to blame but myself.
Grief is the price we pay for love, so they say. The price is far too high.
Polly the plant had died that morning. I’m fully aware of how ridiculous that sounds. That plant, though, was the only living link with my childhood, the only constant between life before and after the fire, the only thing, apart from me, that had survived. I’d thought it was indestructible, assumed it would just go on and on, leaves falling off, new ones growing to replace them. I’d neglected my duties these last few weeks, too busy with hospitals and funerals and Facebook to water her regularly. Yet another living thing I’d failed to look after. I wasn’t fit to care for anyone, anything. Too numb to cry, I dropped the plant into the bin, pot, soil and all, and saw that, throughout all these years, it had been clinging on to life only by the slenderest, frailest of roots.
These days, loneliness is the new cancer—a shameful, embarrassing thing, brought upon yourself in some obscure way. A fearful, incurable thing, so horrifying that you dare not mention it; other people don’t want to hear the word spoken aloud for fear that they might too be afflicted, or that it might tempt fate into visiting a similar horror upon them.
