“Not enough has been said of the value of a life lived alone, in that it is lived in a house with an open door, with room for the stranger, for the new friend to be taken in and cherished.”
~ May Sarton
The fact that a middle-aged, single woman, without any vestige of family left, lives in this house in a silent village and is responsible only to her own soul means something.
The fact that she is a writer and can tell where she is and what it is like on the pilgrimage inward can be of comfort. It is comforting to know there are lighthouse keepers on the rocky islands along the coast. Sometimes, when I have been for a walk after dark and see my house lighted up, looking so alive, I feel that my presence here is worth all the hell.
I have time to think. That is the great, the greatest luxury. I have time to be. Therefore my responsibility is huge.
To use time well and to be all that I can in whatever years are left to me. This does not dismay. The dismay comes when I lose the sense of my life as connected to many, many other lives whom I do not even know and cannot ever know. The signals go out and come in all the time.
Why is it that poetry always seems to me so much more a true work of the soul than prose?
I never feel elated after writing a page of prose, though I have written good things on concentrated will, and at least in a novel the imagination is fully engaged. Both can be revised almost indefinitely. I do not mean to say that I do not work at poetry.
When I am really inspired, I can put a poem through a hundred drafts and keep my excitement. But this sustained battle is possible only when I am in a state of grace, when the deep channels are open, and when they are, when I am both profoundly stirred and balanced, then poetry comes as a gift from powers beyond my will.
I have often imagined that if I were in solitary confinement for an indefinite time and knew that no one would ever read what I wrote, I would still write poetry, but I would not write novels.
Why?
Perhaps because the poem is primarily a dialogue with the self and the novel a dialogue with others. They come from entirely different modes of being. I suppose I have written novels to find out what I thought about something and poems to find out what I felt about something.
You can find this passage in May Sarton’s — Journal of a Solitude