I came across this article about a Russian family who was able to live in complete isolation for forty years. It's interesting because even after being offered the chance to move back to civilization the family refused. It's most likely human stubbornness and fear of the unknown that prompted this decision, but perhaps there's also in play a little bit of not caring to be stuck so close to strangers. I myself have noted how little I care for my fellowman; they may care for things that I don't give a whit about, or they don't give enough weight to the things that move me. I have elected a life that quietly lets others be, yet some of these people in their perversity still feel entitled to interrupt my peaceful existence. 

What I've noticed is that people have these stories about themselves and others. These stories are largely fueled by their own insecurities and petty thoughts, but invariably are all about them being better than others. Woe be to you if you somehow manage to give cause for someone to think that you could figure as a villain in their stories. In order to gain support for their narrative they will trumpet it aloud to sympathetic ears, give malicious intention to the most ineffectual of actions, make themselves out to be martyrs in some theater of their imagining. People have been baked in ovens because of such fiction being believed by too many.

Where people gather reality becomes soft. However, being alone in Siberia renders reality a bit more objective. That is, you either you find the means to survive or you don't. The food you catch or grow may be enough to fill your belly or it might barely sate your hunger. In this minimalist existence the tiniest of things gains true material significance. Everything is pure.