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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.

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
Worse
Crazy
Hell
Knowing
Makes
Kind
Sanity
Sickness

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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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Mood can be as important as sense.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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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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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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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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Love your self's self where it lives.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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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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All who love have lied.
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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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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Even without wars, life is dangerous.
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