Journal of a Solitude by May Sarton (May 2018)
One Saturday afternoon, I was reading May Sarton’s account of living alone in (New Hampshire?) while riding a bus out to visit a friend. A woman sitting near me got my attention and commented that ‘it seems like a sad book’. I hadn’t thought about it in those terms but it didn’t take me very long to agree. They say not to judge a book by its cover – or in this case, by its title – but my traveling companion’s verdict was spot on. Journal of a Solitude covers many different emotions but at the heart of it is an ever-present melancholy borne of Sarton’s isolation.
One of Sarton’s thoughts jumped right out at me in my reading – the way we handle depression is far more interesting than why we become depressed. It served as a thesis statement of sorts for the book and her insights often expanded on this thought. In one section, she notes that fulfilling simple, living needs – like feeding a cat – always brings joy back into life. In another, she writes that the value of solitude comes in feeling the full force of the inner storm, a practice that becomes impossible when others are around to help cushion against these attacks from within. For Sarton, the pleasure of having friends and family around came with the risk of sending the truth of her inner turmoil back into hiding.
One challenge this book met head-on was the difficult task of examining the private until the universal revealed itself. By examining her innermost fears, dilemmas, and desires so closely, Sarton helps the readers who are working tirelessly to resolve their own problems by allowing them to find kinship in her experiences. The way Sarton observes her life and harnesses her emotions gives her readers the opportunity to see themselves in the narrative. I'm also sure that countless others have used her writing as a starting point in their own efforts to teach, motivate, or comfort others who are struggling through their own version of Sarton's story.
But although the book shares many positive moments as it relates to solitude, ultimately a thought Sarton shares summarizes this book’s main lesson – what others have done with solitude does not mean we should prop up the myth that this is good or, for most people, possible. It can be misread ironically, I suppose, since on the surface the book itself seems to be doing the very thing this statement warns against. However, I think such an interpretation would be mistaken. Sarton never glorifies nor encourages solitude – she simply observes her life in great detail and, in the process, produced this book that I felt was one of the best I’ve read so far this year.
One up: Longtime TOA readers will know that I enjoy coming across informal definitions about art (and artists) in my reading. In this book, Sarton proposes that great artists must demand the impossible while also retaining the capacity for despair when they cannot have it. She adds that as artists age, they constantly are challenged to maintain one quality or the other for the sake of maintaining the tension needed for creating art.
One aspect I like about this definition is how easily it is applied to non-artistic fields. A creator must constantly think of something that does not exist and feel so affronted by the fact of its non-existence that he or she takes the initiative to bring it into the world. Though despair might not always be the perfect word for this situation, broadly speaking I think it emphasizes how the long journey from fresh inspiration to completed invention requires the creator to feel that something important about the world is missing until the impossible invention restores natural order.
One down: I disagreed with the thought that it is impossible to derive a sense of accomplishment from tasks that, by nature, are never complete. Sarton cites housework as an example of such a task (and there are many others).
My disagreement comes from how most of everything I enjoy doing tends toward the unfinished. When I run, read, or write (the “Three R’s”) I almost never stop to think hey, I’ve finished but I do frequently feel a sense of accomplishment whenever these activities go well for me.
I wonder if Sarton herself might disagree with the thought. In another portion of the book, she points out how hobbies that cannot be hurried are valuable because they remind us that not everything can be rushed to completion. Even though a hobby can be valuable even if it does not bring a sense of completion, it is hard for me to look at these two ideas separately and imagine believing in each thought simultaneously.
Just saying: Sarton comments that there is nothing as disruptive to a day as a planned lunch. Her biggest gripe about planned lunch is how it brings an unneeded restriction to the open-ended nature of a productive morning.
I’m not sure I ever thought about it in those terms but I think I’ve always agreed. A close look at my calendar reveals a lack of lunch plans. In fact, the only times I ever plan a lunch are when I already have another event going on around lunchtime. This implies, I guess, that I’ve always intuited what Sarton does so well to put into words.
