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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.

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
Age
Rowing
Nineteen
Mature
Aging
Head
Middle

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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 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 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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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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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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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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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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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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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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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 a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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