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I can understand people simply fleeing the mountainous effort Christmas has become... but there are always a few saving graces and finally they make up for all the bother and distress.

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
Simply
Graces
Effort
Fleeing
Understand
Distress
Become
Bother
Make
Saving
Always
Christmas
People
Finally
Grace
Mountainous

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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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One thing is certain, and I have always known it - the joys of my life have nothing to do with age. They do not change. Flowers, the morning and evening light, music, poetry, silence, the goldfinches darting about
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The poet must be free to love or hate as the spirit moves him, free to change, free to be a chameleon, free to be an enfant terrible. He must above all never worry about this effect on other people.
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Lunches are just not good. They take the heart out of the day and the spaciousness from the morning's work.
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I am not ready to die, / But I am learning to trust death / As I have trusted life.
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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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Am I too old, perhaps, ever to take in another's life to share with mine on a permanent basis? If so, I must make do with what I have... and what I have is a great richness of friends and a positively ardent love of nature. Not nothing!
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There were moments ... when it seemed that all one could be asked was just to keep the ashtrays clean, the bed made, the wastebaskets emptied, as if one never got to the real things because of the constant exhausting battle to keep ordinary life from falling apart.
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I tell the gods are still alive / And they are not consoling.
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A body without bones would be a limp impossible mess, so a day without steady routine would be disruptive and chaotic.
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We only keep what we lose.
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Wrinkles here and there seem unimportant compared to the Gestalt of the whole person I have become in this past year.
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life is always bringing unexpected gifts.
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I have written every poem, every novel, for the same purpose-to find out what I think, to know where I stand.
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a poet never feels useful.
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When addressed, a Gentleman Cat does not move a muscle. He looks as if he hasn't heard.
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Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.
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The minute one utters a certainty, the opposite comes to mind.
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One must think like a hero to behave like a merely decent human being.
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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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