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Quotes By Anne Sexton
Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
I am not at home in myself, I am my own stranger.
I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
Live or die, but don't poison everything.
I should be working and not writing you. But this is a missing you, where are you, hello and necessary for my soul.
As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings.
I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
The joy that isn't shared dies young.
All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen....
Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
starry night, This is how I want to die
Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate…
Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far ...
The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
I burn the way money burns.
Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
And I. I too. Quite collected at cocktail parties, meanwhile in my head I'm undergoing open-heart surgery.
Even without wars, life is dangerous.
But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
In a dream you are never eighty.
Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
Death's in the good-bye.
You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
The sea is mother- death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
I know that I have died before—once in November.
I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
Rats live on no evil star
Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
Out of used furniture she made a tree.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
Being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
That’s what I do: I make coffee and occasionally succumb to suicidal nihilism. But you shouldn’t worry — poetry is still first. Cigarettes and alcohol follow
Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!