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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.

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
Friends
Book
Anoint
Veins
Reach
Books

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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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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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
Anne Sexton
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I grow old on my bitterness.
Anne Sexton
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
Anne Sexton
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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