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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.

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
Brain
Slim
Hate
Forgetfulness
Slides
Fish
Fishes
Memory
Except
Memories

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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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Death's in the good-bye.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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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.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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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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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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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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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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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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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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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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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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