I've been laid low by a nasty cold that has left my head feeling as if it were stuffed with particularly low-grade cotton. Perhaps because of feeling especially in-valid just now, I was tempted by the Kindle bargain offer of May Sarton's journal of her seventy-ninth year. Maybe, I thought, she'll have some wisdom to offer in regard to aging and illness.
Now, I don't think I've ever read any of her work -- though the name is familiar to me. But at this point in my life, I'm quite interested in how others deal with the endgame (what a great title!)
This journal is a very intimate and somewhat scattered account of her days: her visitors, her struggles to write, her small victories, and her growing acceptance of help from others. It's a bit like reading a friend's blog -- some posts are more interesting than others and there's a lot about the cat and the weather -- but there's an intimacy that's quite charming.
I'm not very far in but I'm finding a lot to like about Sarton who died in 1995 at the age of eighty-two. I foresee a Sarton binge -- she wrote novels and poetry and journals.