If we are to understand the human condition, and if we are to accept ourselves in all the complexity, self-doubt, extravagance of feeling, guilt, joy, the slow freeing of the self to its full capacity for action and creation, both as human being and as artist, we have to know all we can about each other, and we have to be willing to go naked.

May Sarton

May Sarton

Profession: Poet
Nationality: Belgian

Some suggestions for you :

Words are more powerful than perhaps anyone suspects, and once deeply engraved in a child's mind, they are not easily eradicated.

There is only one real deprivation... and that is not to be able to give one's gifts to those one loves most.

The reasons for depression are not so interesting as the way one handles it, simply to stay alive.

Each day, and the living of it, has to be a conscious creation in which discipline and order are relieved with some play and pure foolishness.

We fear disturbance, change, fear to bring to light and to talk about what is painful. Suffering often feels like failure, but it is actually the door into growth.

In a total work, the failures have their not unimportant place.

The more articulate one is, the more dangerous words become.

It is the privilege of those who fear love to murder those who do not fear it!

To go with, not against the elements, an inexhaustible vitality summoned back each day to do the same tasks, to feed the animals, clean out barns and pens, keep that complex world alive.

The trouble is that old age is not interesting until one gets there, a foreign country with an unknown language to the young, and even to the middle-aged.

I reach and have reached the timeless moment, the pure suspension within time, only through love.

Once more I realize acutely that solitude is my element, and the reason is that extreme awareness of other people (all naturally solitary people must feel this) precludes awareness of one's self, so after a while the self no longer knows that it exists.

For any writer who wants to keep a journal, be alive to everything, not just to what you're feeling, but also to your pets, to flowers, to what you're reading.

I know that I myself have felt that prickling of the scalp that Emily Dickinson tells us is the sign of recognition before a true poem.