At Eighty Two : A Journal

The award-winning poet presents a daily record of her thoughts and feelings during her eighty-second year, reflecting on her youth, the vicissitudes of her cat, the rigors of a Maine winter, and the mystery of old age.

Poet, novelist, survivor and writer of journals, Sarton is back with a chronicle of 1993-1994, the year she turned 82. Newcomers to this series will be hypnotized by the progression of days as Sarton struggles to cope with life in a large Maine house. The winter is unusually harsh, the roof leaks, the garage door jams, the stairs are tiring. And if all that were not enough, she has a minor stroke. Lightening these burdens for a frail, ill woman are the friends, the frequently delivered flowers, the mail and not least Pierrot, the crotchety but so comforting cat. Sarton feels with keen despair the lack of recognition for her poetry by the literary establishment?a major anthology of 20th-century female poets published this year failed to include her?but she takes solace in affectionate letters from her readers all over the world. This journal takes us from the highs to the lows of old age: a visit from Susan Sherman, close friend and editor, is a joy; a session with biographer Margot Peters gives Sarton the chilling feeling that she is losing control of her own life. Finally, the discursive narrative comes together as a poignantly intimate portrait of a literary life.
Copyright 1995 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Sarton's final work?she died earlier this year?seems at times an endless complaint. Despite the lavish care and attention offered by her friends and readers, nothing could compensate her for her ill health and lack of critical acclaim by the literary establishment ("being nowhere as a poet"). Depression was an almost constant state for Sarton during her 1993-94 journal-recording year. She writes that she has tried her entire life to go into the inner chamber of her soul, where she is happy. Unlike A Journal of a Solitude (LJ 4/1/73), in which her perception of life is charged with understanding and insight, in this journal the inner soul is illusive. The daily deluge of devotional letters, the routine gifts of chocolate and flowers, the translation of her writings into Japanese do not boost her spirit. Sarton knew that life is full of poetry. However, she also knew "there is a pane of glass between me and almost everything," excepting her cat, Pierrot. Sarton asks, "Where is myself? God knows." There must have been some satisfaction in knowing that. For literature collections.?Robert L. Kelly, Fort Wayne Community Schs., Ind.
Copyright 1995 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Sarton's journals have for years fascinated the curious and inspired the creative. Celebrating the solitude needed to write and the interconnectedness of caring people in a lonely profession, they have also reassured others living the writer's life. Here, Sarton breaks her rule of adding nothing to a day's notation. She enlarges the entries with afterthoughts "to make a kind of dialogue out of what had been a soliloquy." The primary resultant duet is Sarton's with herself as she reflects on past successes, current work, aging friends falling prey to infirmity and death, visitors, mail, the joys or the reservations she has about books read--in short, the daily details of her eighth decade, when the swift freedom of her mind is weighted by the limitations of physical frailty. And what a mind it is! Whether sadly pondering that her own parents lived only into their seventies and never experienced true old age, or considering the delights of Pierrot, the cat who shares her afternoon naps, Sarton brings family and friends into sharp focus with quick, concentrated strokes. Whitney Scott