"I am far happier now, but in some ways less alive, and I miss that acute aliveness. I enjoy everything tremendously - the sea, the flowers, my life here, the animals - but I am seldom at the pitch of ecstasy, and I sometimes feel that my mind itself has lost its edge." Life in York, Maine, several years after the New Hampshire Journal of a Solitude - poetry diminished ("I never imagined that river could go dry - but it has"); perceptions temporarily dulled by a lingering virus, then restored to familiar acuity; recurrent brooding on aging and "the fear of death. . . or rather, I should say, the fear of dying in some inappropriate or gruesome way." In the earlier days of this two-year period, a search for equilibrium, for uninterruption dominates: "It is not that I work all day; it is that the work needs space around it." A large correspondence, uninvited visitors, too many weeds among the marigolds disrupt and interfere. Later, despite the deaths of cherished friends, the drift into senility of others (including a longtime companion), the intense, intrepid Sarton emerges: warming to friends and fine conversation, railing against "the slack self-indulgent stuff that passes for poetry these days," flourishing from honors accorded, sharing her singular views - spring flowers in a snowstorm, a gray and rosy sunrise, wineglass elms in the distance. An urgent press for self-discovery, contemplative and "on the pulse." (Kirkus Reviews)
""I am far happier now, but in some ways less alive, and I miss that acute aliveness. I enjoy everything tremendously - the sea, the flowers, my life here, the animals - but I am seldom at the pitch of ecstasy, and I sometimes feel that my mind itself has lost its edge." Life in York, Maine, several years after the New Hampshire Journal of a Solitude - poetry diminished ("I never imagined that river could go dry - but it has"); perceptions temporarily dulled by a lingering virus, then restored to familiar acuity; recurrent brooding on aging and "the fear of death. . . or rather, I should say, the fear of dying in some inappropriate or gruesome way." In the earlier days of this two-year period, a search for equilibrium, for uninterruption dominates: "It is not that I work all day; it is that the work needs space around it." A large correspondence, uninvited visitors, too many weeds among the marigolds disrupt and interfere. Later, despite the deaths of cherished friends, the drift into senility of others (including a longtime companion), the intense, intrepid Sarton emerges: warming to friends and fine conversation, railing against "the slack self-indulgent stuff that passes for poetry these days," flourishing from honors accorded, sharing her singular views - spring flowers in a snowstorm, a gray and rosy sunrise, wineglass elms in the distance. An urgent press for self-discovery, contemplative and "on the pulse." (Kirkus Reviews)"@en
"May Sarton charts her second act in Maine in this graceful elegy about life, love, work, and growing olderWhen May Sarton uprooted her life after fifteen years in the refurbished New Hampshire house with the garden she tended so lovingly, she relied solely on instinct. And something told her it was time to move on. Accompanied by her wild cat, Bramble, and Tamas, a Shetland shepherd puppy-the first dog she ever owned-Sarton embarked on the next chapter of her life.The house she chose by the sea in the Maine village of York is completely isolated except during the summer months. Surrounded by n."@en
"A poet and novelist tells of moving from her New Hampshire village home to a seacoast home in Maine."
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