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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.

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
Always
Hiss
Muck
Astrology
Bed
Planets
Gets
Wells
Well

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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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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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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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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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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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 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...
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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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
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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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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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