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If I were to choose one single thing that that would restore Paris to the senses, it would be that strangely sweet, unhealthy smell of the Métro, so very unlike the dank cold or the stuffy heat of subways in New York.

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
Choose
Restore
Cold
Unlike
Single
Paris
Subways
Thing
Heat
Stuffy
Would
Senses
Dank
Smell
Strangely
York
Subway
Sweet
Unhealthy

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Absence becomes the greatest Presence.
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instant intimacy was too often followed by disillusion.
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The tragic thing about learning from experience is I fear that one can only learn from one's own experience. Other people's - other nations' - experiences simply do not help. They can be imaginatively learned from. But people do not act on other people's experiences.
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Anyone who is going to be a writer knows enough at fifteen to write several novels.
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What we have not has made us what we are. / ... / What we are not drives us to consummation.
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It is possible, I suppose, that we are returning to a Dark Age. What is frightening is that violence is not only represented by nations, but everywhere walks among us freely.
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I asked myself the question, 'What do you want of your life?' and I realized with a start of recognition and terror, 'Exactly what I have - but to be commensurate, to handle it all better.
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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?
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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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People who cannot feel punish those who do.
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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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We have to believe that every person counts, counts as a creative force that can move mountains.
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It is dangerous it seems to me for a civilization when there is a complete abyss betewen people in general and the artists. Or is it always so? The poets who are most ardently on the people's side write in such a way that the people cannot see rhyme nor reason to their work.
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One does not find oneself by pursuing one's self, but on the contrary by pursuing something else and learning through discipline or routine. . . who one is and wants to be.
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A house that does not have one warm, comfy chair in it is soulless.
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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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In the country of pain we are each alone.
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Inside my mother's death / I lay and could not breathe.
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People who are always thinking of the feelings of others can be very destructive because they are hiding so much from themselves.
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