Quote

I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

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
Language
Clarke
Like
Anne
July
Letter
Letters
Full
Eyes
Eye

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Rats live on no evil star
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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