Quote

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.

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
Sleeping
Bolts
Aliens
Pearl
Skin
Floats
Skins
Pills
Sleep
Pearls
Stung
White
Alien
Bolt
Splendid
Pill
Loose
Cloth

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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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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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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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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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