Still, a person who cannot express love is stopping the flow of life, is censoring where censorship is a form of self-indulgence, the fear of giving oneself away.

May Sarton

May Sarton

Profession: Poet
Nationality: Belgian

Some suggestions for you :

Everything in us presses toward decision, even toward the wrong decision, just to be free of the anxiety that precedes any big step in life.

Wrinkles here and there seem unimportant compared to the Gestalt of the whole person I have become in this past year.

Routine is not a prison, but the way to freedom from time.

How does one grow up? I asked a friend the other day. There was a slight pause; then she answered, By thinking.

Do not deprive me of my age. I have earned it.

The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.

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.

In the end what kills is not agony (for agony at least asks something of the soul) but everyday life.

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

Public education was not founded to give society what it wants. Quite the opposite.

Women are at last becoming persons first and wives second, and that is as it should be.

Adventures may be for the adventurous, but home is where the real things are sown and reaped, where in the end the real things happen.

When I talk about solitude I am really talking also about making space for that intense, hungry face at the window, starved cat, starved person.

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.