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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.

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
Entire
Loss
Streets
Dream
Life
Oily
People
Alibis
Street
Lifetime

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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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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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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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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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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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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All who love have lied.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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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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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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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. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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