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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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In the garden the door is always open into the holy - growth, birth, death. Every flower holds the whole mystery in its short cycle, and in the garden we are never far away from death, the fertilizing, good, creative death.
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I sometimes think men don't 'hear' very well, if I take your meaning to be 'understand what is going on in a person.' That's what makes them so restful. Women wear each other out with their everlasting touching of the nerve.
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I suppose I envy painters because they can meditate on form and structure, on color and light, and not concern themselves with human torment and chaos. It is restful even to imagine expression without words.
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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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For inside all the weakness of old age, the spirit, God knows, is as mercurial as it ever was.
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It feels a long way up and down from zero.
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The body is a universe in itself and must be held as sacred as anything in creation....It is dangerous to forget the body as sacramental.
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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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There is a wilder solitude in winter When every sense is pricked alive and keen.
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instant intimacy was too often followed by disillusion.
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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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Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.
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We only keep what we lose.
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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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We are all, whether we know it or not, in search of a way to enrich, to drink during the fizz, to inhale deeper our gifts, in a desperation for some little understanding before death.
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O cruel cloudless space, And pale bare ground where the poor infant lies! Why do we feel restored As in a sacramental place? Here Mystery is artifice, And here a vision of such peace is stored, Healing flows from it through our eyes.
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I am not a greedy person except about flowers and plants, and then I become fanatically greedy.
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I suppose real old age begins when one looks backward rather than forward
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And one cold starry night / Whatever your belief / The phoenix will take flight / Over the seas of grief / To sing her thrilling song / To stars and waves and sky / For neither old nor young / The phoenix does not die.
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Time unbounded is hard to handle.
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