The following collection of quotes are some of the many delectable words I savored tonight while reading May Sarton’s “Journal of a Solitude”:
My own belief is that one regards oneself, if one is a serious writer, as an instrument for experiencing life. Life — all of it — flows through the instrument and is distilled through it into works of art.
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.
One should never assert that one feels well: Something awful is sure to happen.
One the surface, my work has not looked radical, but perhaps it ail be seen eventually that in a “nice, quiet, noisy way” I have been trying to say radical things gently so that they may penetrate without shock.
What bothers me is nakedness as bravado. Then it becomes embarrassing: “Look at me…aren’t I shocking?” But transparency does not shock: “Look through me and find everyman, yourself.” Somewhere between the minute particular and the essence lies the land of poetry.
If a woman has artificial flowers in her house, flowers that need dusting twice a year but never die, she is closing herself off from any understanding of death.
The most valuable thing we can do for the psyche, occasionally, is to let it rest, wander, live in the changing light of a room, not try to be or do anything whatever.
The adventure of coming [here] alone is over now and I simply maintain what I was once busy creating.
As I lay in bed for half an hour after breakfast, I felt life flow back in like brandy. I felt excited, trembling, at the thought of all I have to say here and of poems to be — gently shifting patterns like seaweed in the ocean of my mind.
Each day, and the living of it, has to be a conscious creation in which discipline and order are relieved with some play and some pure foolishness.
I did write a poem, so it was not a wholly wasted day after all.
Here there is nothing that does not see you. You must change your life.Advertisements