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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.

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
Skins
Became
Learned
Full
Woman
Found
Soul
Skin

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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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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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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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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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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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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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.
Anne Sexton
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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