Journal of a Solitude

by May Sarton

Of what is her genius made? That is the mystery I have been contemplating this morning.

Sometimes I long to spend the rest of my life doing just that—making things for people I love—and never to publish again.

I have an idea that those who can and do communicate it are always people who have had a hard time. Then the joy has no smugness or self-righteousness in it, is inclusive not exclusive, and comes close to prayer.

I myself am quite irresponsible (at least by my father’s standards) about money. I believe it must flow through me as food does, be spent as it is earned, be given away, be turned into flowers and books and beautiful things, be given to people who are creators or in need, never be counted except as what it is—a counter against more life of one kind or another.

I do not feel quite knit together, rather at a loose end.

It is not absurd to feel such grief. I am undone. He had given me much joy.

There is no doubt that solitude is a challenge and to maintain balance within it a precarious business. But I must not forget that, for me, being with people or even with one beloved person for any length of time without solitude is even worse. I lose my center. I feel dispersed, scattered, in pieces. I must have time alone in which to mull over any encounter, and to extract its juice, its essence, to understand what has really happened to me as a consequence of it.