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A house that does not have one warm, comfy chair in it is soulless.

May Sarton

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May Sarton
Age: 83 †
Born: 1912
Born: May 3
Died: 1995
Died: July 16
Diarist
Poet
Writer
May Eleanor Sarton
Chairs
Warm
House
Doe
Home
Comfy
Soulless
Chair

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Light is snow sifted / To an abstraction.
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Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.
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I believe that children long for form just as grownups do, and that it releases rather than cramps creative energy.
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Go rich in poverty. Go rich in poetry. This nothingness is plentitude.
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Once more I realize that solitude is my element, and the reason is that extreme awareness of other people (all naturally solitary people must feel this) precludes awareness of one's self, so after a while the self no longer knows that it exists.
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It is, I assume, quite easy to wither into old age, and hard to grow into it.
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It is curious how any making of order makes one feel mentally ordered, ordered inside.
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Women are at last becoming persons first and wives second, and that is as it should be.
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“How does one grow up?” I asked a friend the other day. There was a slight pause then she answered, “By thinking.”
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For poetry exists to break through to below the level of reason where the angels and monsters that the amenities keep in the cellar may come out to dance, to rove and roar, growling and singing, to bring life back to the enclosed rooms where too often we are only 'living and partly living.
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They are commiting murder who merely live.
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Sometimes one has simply to endure a period of depression for what it may hold of illumination if one can live through it, attentive to what it exposes or demands.
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He [the cat] wound himself around her legs, purring the purr of ardent desire like a kettle coming to a boil and then bubbling very fast.
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It feels a long way up and down from zero.
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You will always be here with me As long as I live, A towering figure of love.
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Does one come to enjoy even the hardships that help make one the person one is? Or is it that the past becomes a legend to be remembered with laughter?
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True feeling justifies whatever it may cost.
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Miracles cannot be explained, that is their miraculous nature.
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I feel like an inadequate machine, a machine that breaks down at crucial moments, grinds to a dreadful hault, 'won't go,' or, even worse, explodes in some innocent person's face.
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It looks as if I were meant to be alone, and that any hope of happiness is not meant. Am I too old to acquire the knack for happiness?
May Sarton