![]() So when I took this book to bed with me, I was expecting a nice, soothing draught of inner peace, lit by a dawning lesbian-feminist consciousness and punctuated by insights I could use to fortify me in any struggles against loneliness, or petty tedium, that might arise. I guess I’d been saving her, and finally the day had come. (There’s a very nice black and white postcard of her, looking dignified but foxy, which lots of people seem to have pinned up by their desks.) I knew many women consider hers an exemplary, a brave, even an enviable life. I’d never read May Sarton, but I’d always looked forward to doing so one day she seems to have a cherished place in the lives of some friends whose judgement I respect. ![]() Here were two books by May Sarton, one called Journal of a Solitude, on sale for a quarter apiece just as I was starting my long-awaited sabbatical, which I had arranged to spend mostly by myself in a small New York apartment. ![]() She concludes that while they satisfy a market demand, they no longer have much to do with feminist politics. Wondering why she felt no urge to join it, Meryl Altman took a closer look at the boom in women’s memoirs. May Sarton has long had a devoted feminist readership. This article originally appeared in T&S Issue 37, Summer 1998. ![]()
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