Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins. — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the… — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday… — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you… — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
Leaving the page of the book carelessly open, something unsaid, the phone off the hook and the love, whatever it was,an infection. — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always… — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them… — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse. — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if… — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
The Witch's Life" When I was a child there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. All day she… — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his… — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
“From the Garden” Come, my beloved, consider the lilies. We are of little faith. We talk too much. Put your mouthful of words away… — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...? — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out… — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the… — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough? — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never… — Anne Sexton Copy Share Image
