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At Eighty-Two: A Journal
The New York Times–bestselling author of At Seventy returns with a memoir about advancing age, including her experience with a series of strokes. In this poignant and fearless account, Sarton chronicles the struggles of life at eighty-two. She juxtaposes the quotidian details of life—battling a leaky roof, sharing an afternoon nap with her cat, the joy of buying a new mattress—with lyrical musings about work, celebrity, devoted friends, and the limitations wrought by the frailties of age. She creates poetry out of everyday existence, whether bemoaning a lack of recognition by the literary establishment or the devastation wrought by a series of strokes. Incapacitated by illness, Sarton relies on friends for the little things she always took for granted. As she becomes more and more aware of “what holds life together in a workable whole,” she takes solace in flowers and chocolate and reading letters from devoted fans. This journal takes us into the heart and mind of an extraordinary artist and woman, and is a must-read for Sarton devotees and anyone facing the reality of growing older.This ebook features an extended biography of May Sarton.
419 pages, Kindle Edition
First published May 1, 1995
106 people are currently reading
306 people want to read
About the author
May Sarton
151 books607 followersMay Sarton was born on May 3, 1912, in Wondelgem, Belgium, and grew up in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Her first volume of poetry, Encounters in April, was published in 1937 and her first novel, The Single Hound, in 1938. An accomplished memoirist, Sarton boldly came out as a lesbian in her 1965 book Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaids Singing. Her later memoir, Journal of a Solitude, was an account of her experiences as a female artist. Sarton died in York, Maine, on July 16, 1995.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 35 reviews
April 12, 2016
Sarton’s own title for her last journal was Kairos: “a unique time in a person’s life; an opportunity for change.” It chronicles roughly 13 months, from July 1993 to August 1994; Sarton died in July 1995 of a recurrence of breast cancer. After 15 years in the small town of Nelson, New Hampshire, where my favorite of her books (so far), Journal of a Solitude, was written, she’d moved on to the seafront city of York, Maine, pop. 10,000 – vs. 300. Even so, after over 20 years in York, she was regularly recognized on the street and people were solicitous. She had an active social life and a busy network of female helpers, including a secretary who took her dictated cassette tapes and typed them up for Sarton to edit by hand.
As will be familiar to readers of Journal of a Solitude, Sarton was depressed about various things. She suffered from nearly lifelong clinical depression; in her 82nd year, her doctor even tried her on Prozac for some weeks, but it didn’t help. But more generally, she had many sources of worry. The brutal winter of 1993 seemed endless. She was overwhelmed with correspondence (all still letters in those days), the upkeep on a sizeable house and constant medical concerns – even a two-hour lunch with friends could exhaust her. Work was slow on her new project, a short book about her beloved cat, Pierrot. Sarton was uneasy that her biographer, Margot Peters, was gleaning information by means she didn’t expect, sometimes even gaining access to the tape dictation before she herself did. Although Sarton agreed to the biography, she felt uncomfortable about the methods and worried for the result.
And then there was the state of the world outside York: Bosnia, Haiti, Nelson Mandela, impending animal extinctions, and so on. Sarton seemed hugely impressed with how Clinton was dealing with things. She might have counseled activism – “we must simply do something ourselves, whatever we can, instead of being so overwhelmed by the bed news everywhere that we become passive. Act now to wrest some positive thing out of the chaos” – but more often she just let the sadness swallow her. Still, it is impressive to see that she was still engaged with the world, even at her age; illness hadn’t rendered her entirely insular.
The chief cause of melancholy, though, was that Sarton feared there was no lasting legacy for her work, especially her poems. She was not getting the reviews or sales she wanted for the Collected Poems, published in 1993, nor was she much anthologized anymore. She fully recognized that she had devoted readers, ones who wrote letters telling her how much her writing meant to them, but that wasn’t always enough.
It is sad for me, a new fan who only discovered her work last year, to encounter such phrases and think of the years she must have spent feeling like a failure. I applaud Open Road Media for making e-books of Sarton’s greatest works available to more readers, and I can only hope that more people will come to appreciate “the sacramentalization of the ordinary” one finds in her memoirs. “Something is natural and open in these journals, and they are deeper than they look.”
Related read: Somewhere Towards the End by Diana Athill
As will be familiar to readers of Journal of a Solitude, Sarton was depressed about various things. She suffered from nearly lifelong clinical depression; in her 82nd year, her doctor even tried her on Prozac for some weeks, but it didn’t help. But more generally, she had many sources of worry. The brutal winter of 1993 seemed endless. She was overwhelmed with correspondence (all still letters in those days), the upkeep on a sizeable house and constant medical concerns – even a two-hour lunch with friends could exhaust her. Work was slow on her new project, a short book about her beloved cat, Pierrot. Sarton was uneasy that her biographer, Margot Peters, was gleaning information by means she didn’t expect, sometimes even gaining access to the tape dictation before she herself did. Although Sarton agreed to the biography, she felt uncomfortable about the methods and worried for the result.
And then there was the state of the world outside York: Bosnia, Haiti, Nelson Mandela, impending animal extinctions, and so on. Sarton seemed hugely impressed with how Clinton was dealing with things. She might have counseled activism – “we must simply do something ourselves, whatever we can, instead of being so overwhelmed by the bed news everywhere that we become passive. Act now to wrest some positive thing out of the chaos” – but more often she just let the sadness swallow her. Still, it is impressive to see that she was still engaged with the world, even at her age; illness hadn’t rendered her entirely insular.
The chief cause of melancholy, though, was that Sarton feared there was no lasting legacy for her work, especially her poems. She was not getting the reviews or sales she wanted for the Collected Poems, published in 1993, nor was she much anthologized anymore. She fully recognized that she had devoted readers, ones who wrote letters telling her how much her writing meant to them, but that wasn’t always enough.
I must give up all thoughts of success in the ordinary sense. I have not had it. Nobody believes this and everybody says, “Think of all your readers.” Yes, but the great number of my readers are ordinary people...right now I feel that in spite of having a great many people read me, I am a failure as a writer. There is no getting around that.
I recognize at long last that I will never make it as a writer in the canon. I do have readers—and God bless them—but I do not have any place in the literary world, and that is a fact.
It is sad for me, a new fan who only discovered her work last year, to encounter such phrases and think of the years she must have spent feeling like a failure. I applaud Open Road Media for making e-books of Sarton’s greatest works available to more readers, and I can only hope that more people will come to appreciate “the sacramentalization of the ordinary” one finds in her memoirs. “Something is natural and open in these journals, and they are deeper than they look.”
Related read: Somewhere Towards the End by Diana Athill
December 1, 2018
Being very old I Iiken to being very young. At around 70 you’d be like a toddler, and as you grow more ancient after that, it would be just like the toddler becoming younger and younger until the century mark where you reach the helpless state of an infant. The big difference here, of course, is that while you are very young you have your parents to take care of you towards strength. In old age you would most likely be just by yourself, navigating in growing weakness towards humanity’s common end.
May Sarton, famous poet and novelist, wrote this journal from May to August 1994 when she was already 82 years old. She passed away in July 1995, a few months after she turned 83 on 3 May 1995.
She lived in York, Maine in a two-storey house with two flights of stairs, and with her cat named Pierrot who sometimes ignores her. An only child, she was never married and had no children. In one entry she mentioned of her fear of what her former lovers have told her biographer but did not name them. In a much earlier journal she had disclosed that she is a lesbian. One night, as another entry mentioned, she was amazed by an erotic dream: she having sex with some people she knew and some strangers. She found this unpleasant and she expressed dislike of graphic sex in contemporary novels.
She wasn’t alone with her cat all the time. With her fame, she had many friends, fans, admiring acquaintances from nearby communities, volunteer helpers who’d do errands for her, even a writing then writing her biography. Some press people would interview her occasionally mostly about her books. People would send her flowers since they knew she likes to always have bouquets of flowers inside her house, which is by the sea, and she would often wake up with glorious vistas from her window or balcony, or be entertained by birds singing. She also liked music, good films, poems, food and wine. She walks slow, but she could still drive her car. She was, however, old, and getting older every day.
How is it to be old? There many moments of helplessness, fear, rage and frustration. She’d feel mysterious pains and aches all over her body already burdened with a general feeling of weariness. Often she’d just wanted to lie down on her bed. Her muscle and nerve coordination is going, like her memory. Her biographer would know more things about her and her family than what she could recall. She’d often breaks glasses, loses things, and considered one of the nastiest things is to lose a book she is reading, eager to continue, but not finding the damn thing anywhere in the house. When she is downstairs, she’d try very hard to remember what she needs to bring upstairs, and when she is upstairs she fears going downstairs as she might again realize that she forgotten to bring something upstairs which she needed to bring downstairs. Sometimes, with friends, her failing memory would be a source of amusement. But more often than not, it was a hellish torture. She receives a lot of mails from all over, but she would have the energy to write a response to only a few even if she wanted to respond to more of them. There is still a lot which she could work on, or give attention to, but her mind and body would not cooperate anymore (“simply getting to the next day is enormous”). Yet she perseveres heroically:
“And I looked at (the magazines) superficially and began to feel sicker and sicker and wondered how I could get upstairs and whether I could work. By about quarter to ten I thought, ‘I am simply too ill, I have to give up now. I cannot go on any longer.’ But something else in me said, ‘You have got to climb the stairs, those two flights of stairs, and do a little, a very little, and that will be it for the day.’ So I did …
“…it is an extraordinary life I am leading because it is all the time impossible. The effort is staggering. The wish to die is staggering. To give up. Not to have to make the effort any longer. But at the same time there is the marvellous joy of….”
And she’d find something, anything, to make her go on.
May Sarton, famous poet and novelist, wrote this journal from May to August 1994 when she was already 82 years old. She passed away in July 1995, a few months after she turned 83 on 3 May 1995.
She lived in York, Maine in a two-storey house with two flights of stairs, and with her cat named Pierrot who sometimes ignores her. An only child, she was never married and had no children. In one entry she mentioned of her fear of what her former lovers have told her biographer but did not name them. In a much earlier journal she had disclosed that she is a lesbian. One night, as another entry mentioned, she was amazed by an erotic dream: she having sex with some people she knew and some strangers. She found this unpleasant and she expressed dislike of graphic sex in contemporary novels.
She wasn’t alone with her cat all the time. With her fame, she had many friends, fans, admiring acquaintances from nearby communities, volunteer helpers who’d do errands for her, even a writing then writing her biography. Some press people would interview her occasionally mostly about her books. People would send her flowers since they knew she likes to always have bouquets of flowers inside her house, which is by the sea, and she would often wake up with glorious vistas from her window or balcony, or be entertained by birds singing. She also liked music, good films, poems, food and wine. She walks slow, but she could still drive her car. She was, however, old, and getting older every day.
How is it to be old? There many moments of helplessness, fear, rage and frustration. She’d feel mysterious pains and aches all over her body already burdened with a general feeling of weariness. Often she’d just wanted to lie down on her bed. Her muscle and nerve coordination is going, like her memory. Her biographer would know more things about her and her family than what she could recall. She’d often breaks glasses, loses things, and considered one of the nastiest things is to lose a book she is reading, eager to continue, but not finding the damn thing anywhere in the house. When she is downstairs, she’d try very hard to remember what she needs to bring upstairs, and when she is upstairs she fears going downstairs as she might again realize that she forgotten to bring something upstairs which she needed to bring downstairs. Sometimes, with friends, her failing memory would be a source of amusement. But more often than not, it was a hellish torture. She receives a lot of mails from all over, but she would have the energy to write a response to only a few even if she wanted to respond to more of them. There is still a lot which she could work on, or give attention to, but her mind and body would not cooperate anymore (“simply getting to the next day is enormous”). Yet she perseveres heroically:
“And I looked at (the magazines) superficially and began to feel sicker and sicker and wondered how I could get upstairs and whether I could work. By about quarter to ten I thought, ‘I am simply too ill, I have to give up now. I cannot go on any longer.’ But something else in me said, ‘You have got to climb the stairs, those two flights of stairs, and do a little, a very little, and that will be it for the day.’ So I did …
“…it is an extraordinary life I am leading because it is all the time impossible. The effort is staggering. The wish to die is staggering. To give up. Not to have to make the effort any longer. But at the same time there is the marvellous joy of….”
And she’d find something, anything, to make her go on.
July 31, 2014
Written shortly before she died and published posthumously, this painfully honest journal covers Sarton’s 92nd year, from July 1993 to August 1994. It’s a chronicle of old age and failing strength, and poignant acceptance of all she can no longer do. The daily chores, the demands of interviewers and correspondents, the sheer effort involved in the simplest of tasks is realistically portrayed, and the author often feels frustrated and sorry for herself. But she’s aware too of all the good things that are still in her life and is never self-pitying. She dictated these memoirs so there’s an immediacy to them that is both compelling and always fresh. The book is one of the best portraits of old age I have ever read, and is a valuable part of Sarton’s complete oeuvre. Very enjoyable.
July 25, 2021
I enjoy published journals, and I’m a big fan of creative solitude. So May Sarton’s ‘Journal of a Solitude’ was appealing when I read it many years ago, and I assumed, in my current study of books about solitude, that Sarton’s later journals would be equally appealing.
What I’ve found is that Sarton didn’t live anything like the life of solitude that she espoused. Where in her earlier journals, she was always jetting off to do a reading somewhere, in this one and in ‘Endgame’, the reader is treated to a never ending litany of visits from friends and what she unpleasantly called ‘minions’ (the people she paid to help her).
I knew that May Sarton was an insecure woman who needed a great deal of external validation. I didn’t realize she wasn’t at all shy about praising herself. This particularly obnoxious personality trait reached new lows in this journal when Sarton floated the idea that genius is borne of an unhappy childhood, and then in the next sentence suggested this obviously wasn’t true because her childhood had been happy.
Unfortunately, I’d already purchased two more of Sarton’s journals so, not wanting to waste money, will read and review them at some point. But not for a while.
What I’ve found is that Sarton didn’t live anything like the life of solitude that she espoused. Where in her earlier journals, she was always jetting off to do a reading somewhere, in this one and in ‘Endgame’, the reader is treated to a never ending litany of visits from friends and what she unpleasantly called ‘minions’ (the people she paid to help her).
I knew that May Sarton was an insecure woman who needed a great deal of external validation. I didn’t realize she wasn’t at all shy about praising herself. This particularly obnoxious personality trait reached new lows in this journal when Sarton floated the idea that genius is borne of an unhappy childhood, and then in the next sentence suggested this obviously wasn’t true because her childhood had been happy.
Unfortunately, I’d already purchased two more of Sarton’s journals so, not wanting to waste money, will read and review them at some point. But not for a while.
July 31, 2008
May's final journal, as she died within a year of the last entry. I was glad to see she ditched the holistic doctor, with her stringent diet and constant expensive visits; seemed quackery to me. She talks less about being in pain, although complains often of being "weak". The most significant item in this one was her finally lashing out at her (sainted) father for the way he treated both her and her mother. Unfortunately, there are regular statements that she "feels" she will die soon, as well as outbursts that she wishes that to happen. It's obvious that in spite of her "minions" (the term she uses to describe her various workers, which she claims is endearing, and I found horrible), and the ever-present protege Susan, that May was headed for a nursing home had she lived much longer. I'm now quite interested in reading her official biography for the full story!
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April 10, 2019Sarton's last journal. She battles the effects of depression and a recent stroke in rural Maine. Still interested in nature, animals and poetry. She tries her best to remain creative, a publisher has her working on a book about her cat and she is upset that her work is not considered in a major anthology of women's poetry- she can't understand why. Her work continues to sell though and she has a large group of fans and friends who keep in touch and visit sort of putting the lie to her claim about loving solitude. She never wrote a bad journal and died in July 1995 about a year after closing this one. Bought it at The Last Bookstore in Los Angeles.
August 4, 2014
I first read this book by chance when I was 40. I knew nothing about her nor was I having any age issues. I never forgot it and have since read many of her journals but not her poetry or fiction. Unlike Simone De Bouvier who wrote about aging in sweeping and philosophical terms, Sarton writes of the simple process of getting through each day, still working, still visiting with friends, still curious, still living every moment as much as possible. It's the only time I've ever viewed exactly what it will be like if I'm lucky enough to reach 80 with brain and talent in place and body well enough for independent living. Determination and pathos and acceptance and frustration and melancholy pop up but none take over. I realize now I should certainly read more from her.
June 5, 2022
This is the last of May Sarton's journals and is, by far, the saddest. It is sad because she is so obviously depressed and so very aware of her aging and of being close to the end of her life. She speaks of others who have been able to become serene as they are but cannot seem to get past old hurts and the need to be constantly busy. Her correspondence has always been shown in her journals as a burden and delight, but in this it seems mostly a burden. She died a year and a half after the end of this journal. I hope she was able to find some peace.
May 8, 2015
It's very interesting to read May Sarton's journals in sequence starting with "Journal of a Solitude." Naturally there is a huge difference between "At Seventy" which is quite upbeat and "At Eighty-Two", which is very sad, considering her strokes and illness during her last dozen years. Having also read Diana Athill's memoirs, I find we have much to learn. The end of life demands courage, especially as life has been extended via medical miracles of technology. Should we as a society be grateful to have an extra 20-30 years? That is the big question. If one can be healthy and maintain a positive, appreciative attitude towards life and not become burdensome to family and friends...maybe.
July 16, 2015
May Sarton's genius was in relating her creative push and the sacredness of little things in daily life. This journal was both beautiful and sad. There is no way to miss that she is winding down, fighting, for the most part gallantly, the approaching end of her life both as writer and octogenarian. It is, at times, difficult to read having been familiar with the vibrant, creative May to watch and listen as she fights the inevitable, but fight she does, every step of the way. Her journals are, for me, her supreme achievement.
July 21, 2014
I loved the book and enjoyed the read about her life, ash she reaches the end of time, having to deal with a leaky roof, buying a new mattress, devoted friends and limitation brought on by age, how she created poetry out of life and took solace in flowers, chocolate and reading and her journey allows us into her heart, the mind of a extraordinary woman and the realities of growing older.
January 14, 2009
Sarton is gutsy and tells it like it is. She struggles with depression and the reality of living life after a stroke. Still, she sparkles with wit and relevance. Filled with lovely nuggets of truth.
September 4, 2010
I learned a lot about May Sarton in this book but she realy focused too much on her health.
She does lead a very active life and admits to being depressed but does not say anything about seeing a doctor.
She does lead a very active life and admits to being depressed but does not say anything about seeing a doctor.
January 11, 2010
I have this one on hold at my library
January 25, 2014
her journals are marvelous
September 17, 2014
Review to follow soon.
* I was given this book from the publisher and NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
* I was given this book from the publisher and NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
January 30, 2015
This was, shockingly, my first Sarton book - and I am so excited to go back and read many of her other books. Next up is Journal of a Solitude...
June 25, 2016
May Sarton
I love reading other people's journals, especially as they age. It's not about parties, or when they go out, but more about life in general.
I love reading other people's journals, especially as they age. It's not about parties, or when they go out, but more about life in general.
April 28, 2008
excellent
February 13, 2023
I don't know what it is about May Sarton's journals that I love so much. I went through a glut of her books last year and didn't bother ordering this one as I thought it would lose something because - owing to illness and age - it had been dictated and not written by her hand. Then, in a visit to Chapters bookshop in Dublin, last week, I found a battered copy of this book in their second-hand department for a shocking one euro. It was worth way more than that to me. I opened the first page and fell into to it just as I had done with the others. All she does is describe her days which are not dramatic but you end up getting caught up in the furnace not working or the breakfast tray needing to be carried to her favourite room. A bonus is her mentioning the books she is reading - I always end up ordering some. As a writer, I am fascinated by her constant yearning to be more successful and mourning her absence from published anthologies containing her peers. She was still trying to be a successful writer in her eighties and trying to be content with the numbers of her books and rights sold. In my eyes, she was hugely successful as she earned a good living and was completely independent until the very end. She moans about her ill health but, at the same time, she is almost accidentally inspirational as she is out driving a week after a stroke and had to deal with a lot of physical pain. Anyway, I just love her journals and that's all there is to it!
February 1, 2024
I read this journal after 'Journal of Solitude' and 'At Seventy'. I am 68 in April and my initial interest in these books was as a case study in aging...what to expect. I have watched others decline, but of course I had only the external view. This is a very intimate view of her internal experience. It reminds me of the Ted talk by Jill Boite Taylor, a neurologist, describing the experience of having a stroke: https://www.ted.com/talks/jill_bolte_...
Her day to day focus narrows during these books. Her mental acuity diminishes somewhat too. But the great theme of Eighty-Two, is that has Sarton declines, she is still very lovable. To me, facing the same journey, that is a wonderful message.
It is also a remarkable inventive achievement to conceive of and write these three books, recognizing how helpful these books could be to other people.
Now I want to read Sarton much more, her novels and poetry.
I am very grateful to May Sarton for her wonderful legacy.
Her day to day focus narrows during these books. Her mental acuity diminishes somewhat too. But the great theme of Eighty-Two, is that has Sarton declines, she is still very lovable. To me, facing the same journey, that is a wonderful message.
It is also a remarkable inventive achievement to conceive of and write these three books, recognizing how helpful these books could be to other people.
Now I want to read Sarton much more, her novels and poetry.
I am very grateful to May Sarton for her wonderful legacy.
August 8, 2021
Let me first say. I own and read all her journals and plan to read again after Margo’s biography. I also own several other works but reading this last journal, it gave me insight to getting old. I am aging and appreciate May’s words. But something that bothered me more and more with each journal, why does she or anyone else consider her an expert in solitude???? Just because she used the word in a title of her book? Because she was never alone. Lunches,dinners,people staying on the weekends, lectures readings, people people people! I know this was the 90’s but did anyone think to put her desk and bedroom on the first floor?????? And who needs a tray of breakfast in bed every day of your life? The Queen of England is the only person that does this. I will continue to read Sarton even tho she does irritate me 50% of the time.
November 19, 2023
This is the last journal written by May Sarton in the year prior to her death in 1995. Having been captivated by her "Journal of a Solitude" published in 1973, I found this one heavy going. She was, of course, ill at the time and experiencing the symptoms that would lead to her death in the near future, and also finding the frailty and debility of age extremely frustrating, as was her battle with depression, which she also suffered from. Mostly the book is weighed down by a litany of complaint about the weather, her ill health, the obduracy of the literary world in insufficiently acknowledging her work and so on. Still, it's May Sarton, so there are occasional gems amid the grimness.
September 3, 2017
I've loved reading this book as I have all of May Sarton's other journals...they are full of the things that make up an every day life, the highs and lows, the thoughts and experiences that are easily forgotten but are lovely to see through another's eyes. This book written in her 82nd year is particularly insightful about the process and frustrations of ageing and is one I feel sure I'll revisit again as I get older...
July 1, 2024
The magic of Sharing
There’s something very intimate and revelatory about her journals. It’s as if she’s telling us “look, it’s ok, I’m simply saying what we are all feeling “. It’s no big deal, just have a banana and cereal with a friend, cause in the end it’s you, not the food that they want to partake of. A good friend with excellent rapport is the yummiest thing in the world, after all.
There’s something very intimate and revelatory about her journals. It’s as if she’s telling us “look, it’s ok, I’m simply saying what we are all feeling “. It’s no big deal, just have a banana and cereal with a friend, cause in the end it’s you, not the food that they want to partake of. A good friend with excellent rapport is the yummiest thing in the world, after all.
August 13, 2019
For some reason, I expected there to be some words of wisdom in a journal by a writer in her eighties, at the end of her life. Unfortunately, there is mostly a description of her physical pain, anxieties, depression, and increasing loss of mobility. The writing is real, though, maybe too real. She does look her problems right in the face.
November 16, 2025
I can empathize
I am just 71 but I have inflammatory arthritis and my body is so sore all the time. Reading this journal helped me to understand that I am not the only one that is having trouble dealing with my life as it is now compared with my life when I was well. May is so honest about her feelings.
I am just 71 but I have inflammatory arthritis and my body is so sore all the time. Reading this journal helped me to understand that I am not the only one that is having trouble dealing with my life as it is now compared with my life when I was well. May is so honest about her feelings.
October 27, 2018
The final couple journals of Sarton's are a disappointment. There's little about creativity and living the life of a single woman artist, and more crankiness and focus on health issues. I get she's getting older but I think her editors should have stopped while she was ahead.
March 19, 2019
I'm too partial to May Sarton not to like her work.
She had me with "Journal of a Solitude" and although her later work isn't as profound, it's still meaningful and truthful and heart touching. Definitely worth the read.
She had me with "Journal of a Solitude" and although her later work isn't as profound, it's still meaningful and truthful and heart touching. Definitely worth the read.
May 21, 2019
This is not a genre I am familiar with "Journals". Initially it was captivating, revealing a different outlook on life, expectations and life-style. Numerous references to other authors and books, some of which I would like to look at.
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