May Sarton
May Sarton
May Sarton is the pen name of Eleanore Marie Sarton, an American poet, novelist and memoirist...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNon-Fiction Author
Date of Birth3 May 1912
CountryUnited States of America
absence
Absence becomes the greatest Presence.
grief writing thinking
We have to make myths of our lives, the point being that if we do, then every grief or inexplicable seizure by weather, woe, or work can-if we discipline ourselves and think hard enough-be turned to account, be made to yield further insight into what it is to be alive, to be a human being.
long memorial figures
You will always be here with me; As long as I live, A towering figure of love.
mistake men order
A man with a talent does what is expected of him, makes his way, constructs, is an engineer, a composer, a builder of bridges. It's the natural order of things that he construct objects outside himself and his family. The woman who does so is aberrant. We have to expiate for this cursed talent someone handed out to us, by mistake, in the black mystery of genetics.
love real giving
There is only one real deprivation... and that is not to be able to give one's gifts to those one loves most.
life solitude breathe
Life comes in clusters, clusters of solitude, then a cluster when there is hardly time to breathe.
body would-be routine
A body without bones would be a limp impossible mess, so a day without steady routine would be disruptive and chaotic.
littles youth young
About loving, I have little to learn from the young.
miracle miraculous
Miracles cannot be explained, that is their miraculous nature.
book answers born
I have never written a book that was not born out of a question I needed to answer for myself.
giving inward flow
The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.
writing thinking purpose
I have written every poem, every novel, for the same purpose-to find out what I think, to know where I stand.
lying eye healing
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.
strong spring struggle
We saw the strong trees struggle and their plumes do down, The poplar bend and whip back till it split to fall, The elm tear up at the root and topple like a crown, The pine crack at the base - we had to watch them all. The ash, the lovely cedar. We had to watch them fall. They went so softly under the loud flails of air, Before that fury they went down like feathers, With all the hundred springs that flowered in their hair, and all the years, endured in all the weathers - To fall as if they were nothing, as if they were feathers.