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Why should it happen that among the great many women whom I see and am fond of, suddenly somebody I meet for half an hour opens the door into poetry?

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
Half
Door
Happens
Meet
Women
Among
Many
Poetry
Great
Doors
Fond
Somebody
Opens
Happen
Suddenly
Hours
Hour

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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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Words are more powerful than perhaps anyone suspects, and once deeply engraved in a child's mind, they are not easily eradicated.
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Anyone who is going to be a writer knows enough at fifteen to write several novels.
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The more our bodies fail us, the more naked and more demanding is the spirit, the more open and loving we can become if we are not afraid of what we are and of what we feel. I am not a phoenix yet, but here among the ashes, it may be that the pain is chiefly that of new wings trying to push through.
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Old age is not an illness, it is a timeless ascent. As power diminishes, we grow toward the light.
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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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“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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I tell the gods are still alive / And they are not consoling.
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True gardeners cannot bear a glove Between the sure touch and the tender root.
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There the door is always open into the “holy” — growth, birth, death.
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A house that does not have one warm, comfy chair in it is soulless.
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What is destructive is impatience, haste, expecting too much too fast.
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I feel happy to be keeping a journal again. I've missed it, missed naming things as they appear, missed the half hour when I push all duties aside and savor the experience of being alive in this beautiful place.
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About loving, I have little to learn from the young.
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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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At some point I believe one has to stop holding back for fear of alienating some imaginary reader or real relative or friend, and come out with personal truth.
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Go rich in poverty. Go rich in poetry. This nothingness is plentitude.
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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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It is, I assume, quite easy to wither into old age, and hard to grow into it.
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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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