Anne Sexton Quotes
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It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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Why have your eyes gone into their own room?
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Love your self's self where it lives.There is no special God to refer to; or if there is,why did I let you growin another place. You did not know my voicewhen I came back to call. All the superlativesof tomorrow's white tree and mistletoewill not help you know the holidays you had to miss.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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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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Dearest,although everything has happened,nothing has happened.
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Love! That red disease -
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In my sights I carve himlike a sculptor. I mold outhis last look at everyone.I carry his eyes and hisbrain bone at every position.I know his male sex and I domarch over him with my index finger.His mouth and his anus are one.I am at the center of feeling.
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The tongue, the Chinese say,is like a sharp knife:it killswithout drawing blood.
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Even so, I must admire your skill.You are so gracefully insane.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.I've been wronged all year, tediousnights, nothing but rough elbows in themand delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybabycrybaby, you fool!
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I am murdering me, where I kneeled at your kiss.I am pushing knives through the handsthat created two into one.Our hands do not bleed at this, they lie still in their dishonor.
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Beauty is a simple passion,but, oh my friends, in the endyou will dance the fire dance in iron shoes.
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All who love have lied.
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A woman who writes feels too much,those trances and portents!As if cycles and children and islandsweren't enough; as if mourners and gossipsand vegetables were never enough.She thinks she can warm the stars.A writer is essentially a spy.Dear love, I am that girl.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk:faithless to my tongue and hands,giving up the boundariesfor the heroic gin.Dead drunk is the term I think of,insensible,neither cool nor warm,without a head or foot.To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.I will try it shortly.