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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.

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
Another
Happens
Truth
Factual
Might
Poetic
Everything
Hunting
Kind
Behinds
Life
Behind
Secret

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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I burn the way money burns.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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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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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
Anne Sexton