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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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
Lying
Imbecile
Born
Dwarf
Heart
Imbeciles
Love
Dwarves
Like
Dwarfs
Shakes
Head
Age
More quotes by Anne Sexton
Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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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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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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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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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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