I loved reading her journals -- Journal of A Solitude -- and then a string of others. She made her own life seem so pretty, taking careful notice of nature and beauty. Two years after her 1995 death, a biography by a woman named Margot Peters was published; it struck me as authoritative and truthful; it portrayed May Sarton as a nasty person, someone you'd never want to meet. Who knew? Who knows? Everyone slants, everyone lies. Only fiction is true.
Her grave marker was designed by one of her friends. I think it verges on ugly. May Sarton, who had it set before her death, thought it stunningly beautiful. It is, at least, out of the ordinary, and that's generally a good thing.