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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.

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
Eleven
Town
Towns
Silent
Stars
Dies
Night
Starry
Boils

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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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All in all, I'd say, the world is strangling.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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All who love have lied.
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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A woman who writes feels too much.
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I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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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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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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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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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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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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