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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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
Pack
Packs
Death
Crates
America
Cauliflower
Like
Grocers
Fillers
Coffin
Coffins
More quotes by Anne Sexton
Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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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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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
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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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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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