I read Richard Teleky’s moving essay, “On Solitude: Rereading May Sarton’s Journals” in the March 2013 issue of THE NEW CRITERION. May Sarton wrote 20 novels and almost as many volumes of poetry. But in the early 1970s, Sarton started writing a journal. Sarton shares her thoughts about her craft, her friendships, her loneliness, her need for solitude to do her writing, her lesbian life-style, her lovers, and–without meaning to–growing old. May Sarton wrote eight journals. I’m not sure I’ll read them all. May Sarton suffers a stroke and records her post-stoke life in the later journals. But this first journal is full of life and artistic indecision and honesty. Here’s a sample:

I am an ornery character, often hard to get along with. The things I cannot stand, that make me flare up like a cat making a fat tail, are pretentiousness, smugness, and the coarse grain that often shows itself in a turn of phrase. I hate vulgarity, coarseness of soul. I hate small talk with a passionate hatred. Why? I suppose because any meeting with another human being is collision for me now. It is always expensive, and I will not waste my time. (p. 22)