Anne Sexton (1928–1974)

I really wanted to replace this book with a selection of her poetry which I could get for free somehow, which I wouldn’t feel bad doing as I’ve paid before and anyway I suppose that the dead are in it for fame, right. But I guess it’s not something that I needed—along with everything else today, ha—so I don’t know. But I do remember how Anne made me feel, and I know how I feel about that now. She wasn’t Anne Bradstreet, which is where the critics were midcentury, and where as a body they still probably are now, even if they wear the masque of the practitioners of poetry today who probably think Anne is—well, I mean, she is dead. But she did live, and although Anne is both The Girl Herself, and you know, some psycho white girl, I do think that we all know what it’s like, even if generally we successfully try not to know, right.

I don’t know. “My uncontrolled thoughts are not to be feared.” (Esther Hicks). I never wanted to be Midcentury Marcellus, you know, but I didn’t get that when I actually read Anne, which is why I’d almost like to read her again, even though I can’t really afford the time & money investment of “school”-y books anymore, and don’t quite place the same value as I once did on that stage in the life cycle, right….

(sigh, rattling around in a disturbed way inside the robot) We live; we die; we’re happy; we get angry; we’re subtle; we’re emotional…. We’re not robots….

We’re ducks.… (mere)