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

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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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You can't plan for a seizure of feeling, and for this reason I put everything else aside when I'm inspired.
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I sometimes imagine that as one grows older one comes to live a role which as a young person one merely 'played.
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For of course one is never safe when in love. Growth is demanding and may seem dangerous, for there is loss as well as gain in growth. But why go on living if one has ceased to grow? And what more demanding atmosphere for growth than love in any form, than any relationship which can call out and requires of us our most secret and deepest selves?
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life is always bringing unexpected gifts.
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letters are so much easier than living. One can give one's best.
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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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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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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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An old body when it is loved becomes a sacred treasure and sex itself must always, it seems to me, come to us as a sacrament and be so used or it is meaningless. The flesh is suffused by the spirit, and it is forgetting this in the act of love-making that creates cynicism and despair.
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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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It is sometimes the most fragile things that have the power to endure and become sources of strength.
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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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making order out of disorder any time, anywhere, can be regarded as a sacrament.
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It takes a long time for words to become thought.
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Solitude is one thing and loneliness is another.
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Gardening is an instrument of grace.
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For to be desperate is to discover strength. / We die of comfort and by conflict live.
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Now I become myself. It’s taken time, many years and places.
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I suppose one has to remember that 'life' is important too, though it's something I forget in some moods, everything except work seeming like an interruption or really non-life.
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