Quote

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.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Forget
Another
Able
Might
Must
Manner
Something
Pick
Always
Picks
Word

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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Suddenly I'm not half the girl I used to be. There's a shadow hanging over me . . . From me to you out of my electric devil.
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I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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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.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
Anne Sexton