Anne Sexton Quotes
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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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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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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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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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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God is only mocked by believers.
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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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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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I have been cut in two.
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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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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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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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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
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I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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