Quote

I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.

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
Broken
Impossible
Words
Care
Take
Handled
Must
Repair
Trying
Eggs
Things
Gentle

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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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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In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.
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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
Anne Sexton
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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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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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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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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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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