“There are small pink roses on the desk. What a strange sadness autumn roses often exude…” “For the first time in weeks, I’m here alone, ready to take on my ‘real’ life. That’s the strange thing: that neither friends, nor even passionate loves, are my real life, unless I have time alone to explore and discover what is happening, or what has already happened.” May Sarton hopes to make her way “through the steep, rocky depths to reach the core of the matrix, where unresolved anger and violence still linger. My need to be alone is always counterpointed by the fear of all that will happen if, suddenly, once I’m plunged into the vast, empty silence, I can’t find any support.” Sarton writes with a keen sense of observation and a great emotional charge about the inner and outer world: the seasons, daily life, books, people, ideas; and as she dwells on all of it, she shapes her artistic and spiritual journey. In this book we find ourselves closer than ever to the essence of his writing.