At Eighty-Two: A Journal (Paperback)

by May Sarton (Author) "I AM MORE and more aware of how important the framework is, what holds life together in a workable whole as one enters real old..." (more)
Key Phrases: music box bird, fur person, usual days, New York, May Sarton, The Women's Press (more...)

Editorial Reviews

Amazon.com Review
Since Journal of a Solitude, May Sarton's musings on books, poetry, friendship and the pleasures of everyday life have grown richer with each new installment. In this, her last journal, Sarton continues to adjust to the feeling that she is a stranger in the land of old age. And though her struggles and daily setbacks continue, there is an optimistic, musing tone as she contemplates this unique time in a person's life. May Sarton died in July 1995, not long after completing this volume. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

From Publishers Weekly
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. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

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Product Details

• Paperback: 352 pages
• Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. (May 1, 1997)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 039331622X
• ISBN-13: 978-0393316223
• Product Dimensions: 8.2 x 5.5 x 0.8 inches
• Shipping Weight: 13 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
• Average Customer Review: 3.0 out of 5 stars See all reviews (2 customer reviews)
• Amazon.com Sales Rank: #717,064 in Books (See Bestsellers in Books)

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Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

16 of 16 people found the following review helpful:

4.0 out of 5 stars The Closing Chapter of a Stellar Life, October 2, 2000

By	Mark K. Fulk (Buffalo, NY 14222) - See all my reviews (REAL NAME)

At Eighty-Two is an incredible though painful final journal from Sarton. If you are reading Sarton for the first time, read Journal of a Solitude or (my favorite) Recovering first, and then turn to this one. Sarton deals in this journal primarily with the diminishment of old age. Being quite ill at the time, she occassionally comes accross quite bitter, but perhaps this is what makes this journal so poignant and so important for a society that either forgets about or romantizes old age.

4 of 5 people found the following review helpful:

2.0 out of 5 stars Much-diminished Sarton, June 21, 2007

By	Her Dotness (St. Louis, Missouri USA) - See all my reviews

Sarton's last several journals are, in my opinion, not worth the money. That she attempted to continue writing when she had to dictate her thoughts put much too much of a strain upon her, I feel. Sarton was a competent, sometimes excellent, writer in her earlier years, but these final few journals are more painful to read than illuminating. House By the Sea began the decline of quality of her journals, it seemed to me, perhaps due to my frustration with Sarton's apparent inability to comprehend how dangerous allowing Judy Matlack, her longtime lover and companion, to wander about unsupervised was when it was clear to any reasonably perceptive reader that Matlack was so senile that she needed near-constant supervision. Sarton, however, clearly alternated between concern for Matlack and frustration with her that arose from denial of the seriousness of Matlack's condition. In the end, it was quite sad to witness such clear evidence of Sarton's inability to consider realistically the needs of others, which ultimately foreshadowed her eventual inability to stop trying to write when doing so was clearly beyond her sadly diminished capabilities.

The succeeding journals, chronicling Sarton's gradual deterioration and accompanying fury and frustration at her decline, are wrenching and not particularly enlightening unless witnessing a once-effective writer's diminishment intrigues you for some perverse reason.

Stick with Sarton's earlier works, Plant Dreaming Deep or Journal Of a Solitude.