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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.

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
Nothing
Whole
Love
Riddled
Like
Breakfast
Longing
Satisfaction
Dies
Desire

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All who love have lied.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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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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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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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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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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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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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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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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