Anne Sexton Quotes

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.

O starry night, This is how I want to die

I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.

The joy that isn't shared dies young.

All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.

... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.

I am younger each year at the first snow.

When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving; then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.

But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.

Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.

I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.

Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.

Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.

Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren

The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.

I try to take care and be gentle to them.

Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.

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.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.

There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.

Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.

I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.

One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.

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.

I am younger each year at the first snow.

... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.

God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.

It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.

I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.

Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.

Poems aren't postcards to send home.

The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.

think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!

We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.

Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.

The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.

Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone.

Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.

A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.

I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires; I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.

To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

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.