Quote

There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.

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
Washed
Brush
Brushes
Hair
Towel
Joy
Cannon
Morning
Cannons
Body
Towels
Newly

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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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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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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
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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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Even without wars, life is dangerous.
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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 love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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