At Eighty-Two: A Journal

At Eighty-Two: A Journal

May Sarton

Language: English

Pages: 352

ISBN: 039331622X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


“Reporting from the front lines on the author’s daily battle with a body and a mind that increasingly refuse to cooperate, At Eighty-Two captures this struggle with a simplicity, elegance and strength that is characteristic of its author and her lifetime of work.” ―Philadelphia City Paper

May Sarton's eagerly awaited journals have recorded her life as a single, woman writer and, in later years, as a woman confronting old age. She completed this pilgrimage through her eighty-second year a few months before she died in 1995.

Fidel Castro: My Life: A Spoken Autobiography

William Wells Brown: Clotel & Other Writings (Library of America)

Broken Vessels

Hell's Angel: The Life and Times of Sonny Barger and the Hell's Angels Motorcycle Club

I'll Never Write My Memoirs

Carnivore: A Memoir by One of the Deadliest American Soldiers of All Time

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

that it might seem too verbal; rather, the direction was so good, the actors on the whole excellent, and the audience like a gift, attentive and appreciative. It is a gloomy day though there was a bit of crimson sun to the north as the sun rose, but now it is gray, cold, and going to rain. The time at Maggie’s, which I had so looked forward to, was not entirely happy. Her house is a kind of treasure of beauty and luxury and a great sense of life, everywhere; there are beautiful things to look

this journal, I must try to do that. Now that I cannot travel it is fun to have letters from friends of mine who do. My friend Diane Amiel celebrated her fortieth birthday by going to Rwanda to see the gorillas. They are so friendly that she was able to sit three feet from a mother and her one-month-old baby while nursing. She says they are gentle creatures and have no fear of humans. So I get my travel experiences these days by reading about or hearing about other people’s travels. Sylvia

day, but I feel worse than I did when I went to the hospital in August when they thought I had pneumonia. I still have a sore throat every morning. Now I am on an antibiotic; I continually say to myself, “You must keep going so as not to have to go to the hospital this time.” I am determined to stay home, where I have my life and where I get an enormous amount of help from friends. Sally, who made the marvelous cake for Susan’s birthday on Saturday, saw that I was not feeling very well and called

successful children’s books and, I think, a couple of novels. This is the third. She is a very good writer. She is also a sailor, and when she writes about sailing, then she is super. I have a thing against sex, the sexual act described in novels. I simply do not like it, and when I try to think why I don’t like it, it is that it seems to me that cold sex, which is, after all, what it is on the page, does not work. It is repulsive rather than anything else and the same thing with active sex on

flower now and is under two feet of snow. Afterword, April 2 As I came to Easter Day in reading the journal to correct here and there, I was astonished to discover that I had not mentioned that I suffered a stroke the Saturday before, when I was alone here. I slipped off the chaise longue and could not get up. Fortunately a young man came to deliver flowers, saw my plight, and gallantly pulled me up from the floor. I felt very queer and ill but was determined to arrange the flowers, which I

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