Last week I read "Journal of Solitude" by
May Sarton. The book was esentially a diary of her life
for one year, as she tried to write poems. She lived
alone, but had a lot of friends. It was beautifully written,
but not a lot happened. Her house was in the American countryside,
so the weather and behaviour of the wild animals was important.
She liked to pick flowers to put in the house. At one point she
has a major temper tantrum because someone said some
of the flowers were faded. Given that I have four vases in my
flat, but I only use one to hold a device to clean the windowns,
I think I would have annoyed Sarton, if she had known me.
Anyway, she managed to conjure something sweet from the drabness
of a year in the country. I still prefer, and indeed need
the pounding energy of the city.