Quote

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.

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
Like
Religion
Frozen
Jesus
Pull
Chunk
Christ
Bones
Axes
True
God
Horizontal
Beautiful
Touch
Vertical
Wanted
Arms
Chunks
Need
Quite
Beef
Needs
Belief
Desperately

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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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.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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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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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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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 am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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