"I am here alone for the first time in weeks, to take up my "real" life again at last. That is what is strange –– that friends, even passionate love, are not my real life unless there is time alone in which to explore and to discover what is happening or has happened. Without the interruptions, nourishing and maddening, this life would become arid. Yet I taste it fully only when I am alone here and "the house and I resume old conversations.""
–– May Sarton (1912-1995), Belgian-born American writer
Source: May Sarton. Journal of a Solitude. New York: W.W. Norton, 1973.
via Book of Commonplace 2004-2005, p. 165.
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