Quote

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.

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
Never
Wells
Tremendously
Like
Well
Occasionally
Need
Sadness
Feel
Either
Feels
Head
Needs
Talk
Much
Talking
Mind
Others

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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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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.
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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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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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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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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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