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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.
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
Stories
Telling
Bothered
Ever
Case
Prince
Never
Lived
Timing
Like
Marriage
Museums
Cinderella
Cases
Eggs
Diapers
Story
Twice
Dolls
Happiness
Arguing
Museum
Two
Dust
Happily
More quotes by Anne Sexton
I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
Anne Sexton
O starry night, This is how I want to die
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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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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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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.
Anne Sexton
God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
Anne Sexton
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
Anne Sexton
No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
Anne Sexton
The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
Anne Sexton
Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
Anne Sexton
I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
Anne Sexton
God is only mocked by believers.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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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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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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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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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
Anne Sexton