What do you think?
Rate this book
Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters
An expression of an extraordinary poet's life story in her own words, this book shows Anne Sexton as she really was in private, as she wrote about herself to family, friends, fellow poets, and students. Anne's daughter Linda Gray Sexton and her close confidant Lois Ames have judiciously chosen from among thousands of letters and provided commentary where necessary. Illustrated throughout with candid photographs and memorabilia, the letters -- brilliant, lyrical, caustic, passionate, angry -- are a consistently revealing index to Sexton's quixotic and exuberant personality.
433 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1977
113 people are currently reading
8221 people want to read
About the author
Anne Sexton
149 books2,492 followersAnne Sexton once told a journalist that her fans thought she got better, but actually, she just became a poet. These words are characteristic of a talented poet that received therapy for years, but committed suicide in spite of this. The poetry fed her art, but it also imprisoned her in a way.
Her parents didn’t expect much of her academically, and after completing her schooling at Rogers Hall, she went to a finishing school in Boston. Anne met her husband, Kayo (Alfred Muller Sexton II), in 1948 by correspondence. Her mother advised her to elope after she thought she might be pregnant. Anne and Kayo got married in 1948 in North Carolina. After the honeymoon Kayo started working at his father-in-law’s wool business.
In 1953 Anne gave birth to her first-born, Linda Gray. Two years later Linda’s sister, Joyce Ladd, was born. But Anne couldn’t cope with the pressure of two small children over and above Kayo’s frequent absence (due to work). Shortly after Joy was born, Anne was admitted to Westwood Lodge where she was treated by the psychiatrist Dr. Martha Brunner-Orne (and six months later, her son, Dr. Martin Orne, took over). The original diagnosis was for post-natal depression, but the psychologists later decided that Anne suffered from depression of biological nature.
While she was receiving psychiatric treatment, Anne started writing poetry. It all started after another suicide attempt, when Orne came to her and told her that she still has a purpose in life. At that stage she was convinced that she could only become a prostitute. Orne showed her another talent that she had, and her first poetry appeared in print in the January of 1957. She wrote a huge amount of poetry that was published in a dozen poetry books. In 1967 she became the proud recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Live or Die (1966).
In March 1972 Anne and Kayo got divorced. After this a desperate kind of loneliness took over her life. Her addiction to pills and alcohol worsened. Without Kayo the house was very quiet, the children were at college and most of Anne’s friends were avoiding her because they could no longer sympathize with her growing problems. Her poetry started playing such a major role in her life that conflicts were written out, rather than being faced. Anne didn’t mention a word to Kayo about her intention to get divorced. He knew that she desperately needed him, but her poems, and her real feelings toward him, put it differently. Kayo talks about it in an interview as follows: “... I honestly don’t know, never have known, what her real, driving motive was in the divorce. Which is another reason why it absolutely drove me into the floor like a nail when she did it.”
On 4 October 1974 she put on her mother’s old fur coat before, glass of vodka in hand, she climbed into her car, turned the key and died of monodioxide inhalation. She once told Orne that “I feel like my mother whenever I put it [the fur coat] on”. Her oldest daughter, Linda, was appointed as literary executor and we have her to thank for the three poetry books that appeared posthumously.
Her parents didn’t expect much of her academically, and after completing her schooling at Rogers Hall, she went to a finishing school in Boston. Anne met her husband, Kayo (Alfred Muller Sexton II), in 1948 by correspondence. Her mother advised her to elope after she thought she might be pregnant. Anne and Kayo got married in 1948 in North Carolina. After the honeymoon Kayo started working at his father-in-law’s wool business.
In 1953 Anne gave birth to her first-born, Linda Gray. Two years later Linda’s sister, Joyce Ladd, was born. But Anne couldn’t cope with the pressure of two small children over and above Kayo’s frequent absence (due to work). Shortly after Joy was born, Anne was admitted to Westwood Lodge where she was treated by the psychiatrist Dr. Martha Brunner-Orne (and six months later, her son, Dr. Martin Orne, took over). The original diagnosis was for post-natal depression, but the psychologists later decided that Anne suffered from depression of biological nature.
While she was receiving psychiatric treatment, Anne started writing poetry. It all started after another suicide attempt, when Orne came to her and told her that she still has a purpose in life. At that stage she was convinced that she could only become a prostitute. Orne showed her another talent that she had, and her first poetry appeared in print in the January of 1957. She wrote a huge amount of poetry that was published in a dozen poetry books. In 1967 she became the proud recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Live or Die (1966).
In March 1972 Anne and Kayo got divorced. After this a desperate kind of loneliness took over her life. Her addiction to pills and alcohol worsened. Without Kayo the house was very quiet, the children were at college and most of Anne’s friends were avoiding her because they could no longer sympathize with her growing problems. Her poetry started playing such a major role in her life that conflicts were written out, rather than being faced. Anne didn’t mention a word to Kayo about her intention to get divorced. He knew that she desperately needed him, but her poems, and her real feelings toward him, put it differently. Kayo talks about it in an interview as follows: “... I honestly don’t know, never have known, what her real, driving motive was in the divorce. Which is another reason why it absolutely drove me into the floor like a nail when she did it.”
On 4 October 1974 she put on her mother’s old fur coat before, glass of vodka in hand, she climbed into her car, turned the key and died of monodioxide inhalation. She once told Orne that “I feel like my mother whenever I put it [the fur coat] on”. Her oldest daughter, Linda, was appointed as literary executor and we have her to thank for the three poetry books that appeared posthumously.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 61 reviews
Read
July 4, 2008It's difficult to give this book a rating because I couldn't finish reading it!! I tried my utmost and even passed the halfway mark, but her words and her emotions stayed with me and drained me.
In some of the letters you really get to know her as a happy person. Her relationship with the monk, for example, can only be said to have been a good one. But all her letters have a desperation about them that you just want to meet her in person and tell her that all will be fine. Take her time in Europe. They had everything stolen from them, and like a teabag in hot water, she simply became stronger. It was when she realized how attractive other men can be that things went wrong and suicidal thoughts plagued her (because she felt so guilty for possibly cheating on Kayo). I think Kayo should've gone to Europe with her, it might have had a better outcome (also for their marriage).
Again, she might not have said it in so many words, but her letters really allow you to feel her desperation.
In some of the letters you really get to know her as a happy person. Her relationship with the monk, for example, can only be said to have been a good one. But all her letters have a desperation about them that you just want to meet her in person and tell her that all will be fine. Take her time in Europe. They had everything stolen from them, and like a teabag in hot water, she simply became stronger. It was when she realized how attractive other men can be that things went wrong and suicidal thoughts plagued her (because she felt so guilty for possibly cheating on Kayo). I think Kayo should've gone to Europe with her, it might have had a better outcome (also for their marriage).
Again, she might not have said it in so many words, but her letters really allow you to feel her desperation.
September 15, 2011
I had this sitting on four stars because I just didn't feel as if I loved it but when reading it, I couldn't put it down. I so rarely find that in books these days; I always feel as if I am forcing myself to plod through them. So really, I'd rate this 4.5. I think maybe I expected a little bit more, I thought her letters might've been more interesting? I don't know what it was, maybe I was anticipating more diary-like revelations but she was quite restrained, particularly towards the end. I mean, she was a flailing drama-queen, clingy and dependant, demanding and quite mad but she really did keep whatever madness was going on inside her head, inside. From what this collection portrays anyway, maybe there were more that we aren't privy to.
At the beginning, Anne writes with wild abandon - seemingly in love with almost everyone she pens a letter to. But it seems that they all reject her at some point which I thought was a bit sad, she certainly was demanding but really quite pleasant in her letters; affectionate, willing to accept constructive criticism on her work, vivacious and fascinating. Towards the end of her life, she hires a secretary who types her letters and the tone does change, though perhaps this has more to do with the sombre tone she seemed to take on after her divorce. Playful flirtatious notes give way to thank yous and business related queries.
I wish I had read this immediately after Middlebrook's biography of Sexton, I would have been able to remember what had been omitted and piece together what Anne refrained from talking about in her correspondence. I'm sure there were several affairs where letters must've been written that weren't included in this collection. I'm so nosy, I just want to crawl inside her skull and rummage around. But I'd certainly want to be able to climb back out before long. I can only presume that these letters were just a taste of Sexton and even then I sometimes felt like I was going a little mad myself reading them without rest breaks, so I can imagine that her whole, real life self would have been overwhelming for not only herself, but for those people in contact with her.
You know what made me the saddest about reading this? That we probably won't have many more books like this from the authors of our generation. "The collected emails of Aimee Bender", "The collected text messages of Jeanette Winterson"? IMAGINE if Winterson were only fifty years ago and we got to read her correspondence. I have one pen friend at the moment and I often think while I'm writing my letters to her how ashamed I'd be if I ever became an author and my shitty scrawlings peppered with "LOL"s and endless curse words went public (let alone the diagrams I doodle of food poisoning experiences). I might try harder from now on to write delightfully juicy, well-written letters just in case I ever grow talent, write books and people decide to nosy through my personal effects. I need a pen pal whom I can write to detailing how deranged my thought processes are and how much I hate everybody and everything. For the benefit of future generations who are as voyeuristic and nosy as I am.
At the beginning, Anne writes with wild abandon - seemingly in love with almost everyone she pens a letter to. But it seems that they all reject her at some point which I thought was a bit sad, she certainly was demanding but really quite pleasant in her letters; affectionate, willing to accept constructive criticism on her work, vivacious and fascinating. Towards the end of her life, she hires a secretary who types her letters and the tone does change, though perhaps this has more to do with the sombre tone she seemed to take on after her divorce. Playful flirtatious notes give way to thank yous and business related queries.
I wish I had read this immediately after Middlebrook's biography of Sexton, I would have been able to remember what had been omitted and piece together what Anne refrained from talking about in her correspondence. I'm sure there were several affairs where letters must've been written that weren't included in this collection. I'm so nosy, I just want to crawl inside her skull and rummage around. But I'd certainly want to be able to climb back out before long. I can only presume that these letters were just a taste of Sexton and even then I sometimes felt like I was going a little mad myself reading them without rest breaks, so I can imagine that her whole, real life self would have been overwhelming for not only herself, but for those people in contact with her.
You know what made me the saddest about reading this? That we probably won't have many more books like this from the authors of our generation. "The collected emails of Aimee Bender", "The collected text messages of Jeanette Winterson"? IMAGINE if Winterson were only fifty years ago and we got to read her correspondence. I have one pen friend at the moment and I often think while I'm writing my letters to her how ashamed I'd be if I ever became an author and my shitty scrawlings peppered with "LOL"s and endless curse words went public (let alone the diagrams I doodle of food poisoning experiences). I might try harder from now on to write delightfully juicy, well-written letters just in case I ever grow talent, write books and people decide to nosy through my personal effects. I need a pen pal whom I can write to detailing how deranged my thought processes are and how much I hate everybody and everything. For the benefit of future generations who are as voyeuristic and nosy as I am.
Read
December 15, 2020The life of woman in letters, a woman who knew full well that these letters would be documented, reflecting a life of ups and downs -- starting with a promising youth told in that sort of breathless WWII-era schoolgirl prose (think Sissy Spacek in Badlands), on through the ups and downs of raising children, becoming a poet (and seemingly not really caring that much about it) bouts of mental illness, close friendships, on to the down-down-down of her later years, when you feel like she's this comet rapidly approaching Earth. Finishing with a letter to her daughter that breaks your heart, written some years before her death. I won't call it essential reading, but like her poems, it's a portrait of a type of age-of-anxiety American mind that doesn't really get discussed anymore, except in the most glib of terms. If Richard Yates is the masculine representative of that world, Anne Sexton is the feminine representative. If you like her poems, you'll find something to love in her letters.
October 11, 2015
Anne Sexton – A Self-Portrait in Letters
… As you say, I do act aggressive. I think the trouble is that my mind, my thinking mind, is aggressive. I am a machine of ideas. I adore (in a funny way) to think. I mean in a class like that I am very stimulated . . . but in fact, I do not mean to really be there after I have spoken . . . I often think of your analysis. I would like speaking, but not being there. It would be like your “Red Studio.” And that turns us back to figuring YOU out. I like figuring you out. You are so human and puzzling and my splendid oaf.
(p. 49).
Frankly, De, I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
(p.75)
One last thing from old Wisdom Sexton here [ . . . ] I think that writers [ . . . ] must try not to avoid knowing what is happening. Everyone has somewhere the ability to mask the events of pain and sorrow, call it shock… when someone dies for instance you have this shock that carries you over it, makes it bearable. But the creative person must not use this mechanism anymore than they have to in order to keep breathing. Other people may. But not you, not us. Writing is “life” in capsule and the writer must feel every bump edge scratch ouch in order to know the real furniture of his capsule.
(p.105)
I do know this – I’m beginning to learn how to love without feeling it necessary to be all things to the person I love. In other words – how to love you without having to prove it by sleeping with you.
(p. 124)
Misspelling masculinity as ‘musculinity’…
Please, when I come home, don’t forget the “soul”. . . and I don’t mean “sweet sayings”. . . I mean the truth, the sharing of our inmost thoughts, good or bad . . . lost or comforting. That is the soul. I think it. The soul, is I think, a human being who speaks with the pressure of death at his head. That’s how I’d phrase it. The self in trouble . . . not just the self without love (as us) but the self as it will always be (with gun at its head finally) . . . To live and know it is only for a moment . . . that is to know “the soul” . . . and it increases closeness and despair and happiness . . . My life with you increases all these things because I value it so much.
(p.208)
You are my life and what I breathe you breathe and ever so. But not for romantic songs. For reality and the common daily life. All things of myself I want to share with you. I try to do. Sometimes it is hard to get through, but I always want to. Despite my sickness, I have grown. In my growth I learned some important things. One of them is that I pick you. Not just that I need you (for I do) but that even without the need I can make a choice and the choice is you.
(p.213)
And from something I read a few months ago and the source is forgotten . . . “the uncommitted life is not worth living.”
(p.231)
And I say to myself that the trouble with life is that people are strangers.
(p.239)
Language has nothing to do with rational thought. I think that’s why I get so horribly furious and disturbed with rational thought.
Language is the opposite of the way a machine works.
Language is poetry, maybe? But not all language is poetry. Nor is all poetry language.
That’s the trouble with me.
Language is (i.e.) when I said “I have room.” [ . . . ]
Who me? Sailing around like crazy in LANGUAGE whatever it is and then brought up short by reality (what is it, really?) . . .
[…]
Well, nevermind. I think language is beautiful. I even think insanity is beautiful (surely the root of language), except that it is painful.
Language is verbalizing the non-verbal. (That’s what makes it so complicated.) Holding hands is better than saying “I love you.”
When Kayo shoots squirrels it is better than saying “I hate you.”
When Sarah plays she is saying “I love myself again.”
. . . that’s part of language. Language in action is symbolic. Language in words is, too, but it is more difficult to follow.
(p.245)
I cannot promise that I am geared to your kind of self. I think maybe I am. But I cannot promise. I do not know you well enough yet. I can promise that I will not hurt or presume upon the self you offer to me. I can tell you this as a friend who trusts – I trust that you do not lie to me. I trust what I met of you.
(p.277)
Yes. You are very intense and so am I. However, I am married to a very intense, practical SQUARE. He is good for me for he has complete plans on how to run each day. He is with the world. I am not of it whatsoever. You? Perhaps only your wife is of the world. And maybe you and I are otherworldly – poets, to be exact. Poets can’t live for /die for / live with/ breathe in nothing but themselves – they need the sensible people, the roots, the down the house world of people. You need them. I need them. We cannot exist without them.
(p.293)
--Be your own woman. Belong to those you love. Talk to my poems, and talk to your heart […].
(p.424
… As you say, I do act aggressive. I think the trouble is that my mind, my thinking mind, is aggressive. I am a machine of ideas. I adore (in a funny way) to think. I mean in a class like that I am very stimulated . . . but in fact, I do not mean to really be there after I have spoken . . . I often think of your analysis. I would like speaking, but not being there. It would be like your “Red Studio.” And that turns us back to figuring YOU out. I like figuring you out. You are so human and puzzling and my splendid oaf.
(p. 49).
Frankly, De, I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
(p.75)
One last thing from old Wisdom Sexton here [ . . . ] I think that writers [ . . . ] must try not to avoid knowing what is happening. Everyone has somewhere the ability to mask the events of pain and sorrow, call it shock… when someone dies for instance you have this shock that carries you over it, makes it bearable. But the creative person must not use this mechanism anymore than they have to in order to keep breathing. Other people may. But not you, not us. Writing is “life” in capsule and the writer must feel every bump edge scratch ouch in order to know the real furniture of his capsule.
(p.105)
I do know this – I’m beginning to learn how to love without feeling it necessary to be all things to the person I love. In other words – how to love you without having to prove it by sleeping with you.
(p. 124)
Misspelling masculinity as ‘musculinity’…
Please, when I come home, don’t forget the “soul”. . . and I don’t mean “sweet sayings”. . . I mean the truth, the sharing of our inmost thoughts, good or bad . . . lost or comforting. That is the soul. I think it. The soul, is I think, a human being who speaks with the pressure of death at his head. That’s how I’d phrase it. The self in trouble . . . not just the self without love (as us) but the self as it will always be (with gun at its head finally) . . . To live and know it is only for a moment . . . that is to know “the soul” . . . and it increases closeness and despair and happiness . . . My life with you increases all these things because I value it so much.
(p.208)
You are my life and what I breathe you breathe and ever so. But not for romantic songs. For reality and the common daily life. All things of myself I want to share with you. I try to do. Sometimes it is hard to get through, but I always want to. Despite my sickness, I have grown. In my growth I learned some important things. One of them is that I pick you. Not just that I need you (for I do) but that even without the need I can make a choice and the choice is you.
(p.213)
And from something I read a few months ago and the source is forgotten . . . “the uncommitted life is not worth living.”
(p.231)
And I say to myself that the trouble with life is that people are strangers.
(p.239)
Language has nothing to do with rational thought. I think that’s why I get so horribly furious and disturbed with rational thought.
Language is the opposite of the way a machine works.
Language is poetry, maybe? But not all language is poetry. Nor is all poetry language.
That’s the trouble with me.
Language is (i.e.) when I said “I have room.” [ . . . ]
Who me? Sailing around like crazy in LANGUAGE whatever it is and then brought up short by reality (what is it, really?) . . .
[…]
Well, nevermind. I think language is beautiful. I even think insanity is beautiful (surely the root of language), except that it is painful.
Language is verbalizing the non-verbal. (That’s what makes it so complicated.) Holding hands is better than saying “I love you.”
When Kayo shoots squirrels it is better than saying “I hate you.”
When Sarah plays she is saying “I love myself again.”
. . . that’s part of language. Language in action is symbolic. Language in words is, too, but it is more difficult to follow.
(p.245)
I cannot promise that I am geared to your kind of self. I think maybe I am. But I cannot promise. I do not know you well enough yet. I can promise that I will not hurt or presume upon the self you offer to me. I can tell you this as a friend who trusts – I trust that you do not lie to me. I trust what I met of you.
(p.277)
Yes. You are very intense and so am I. However, I am married to a very intense, practical SQUARE. He is good for me for he has complete plans on how to run each day. He is with the world. I am not of it whatsoever. You? Perhaps only your wife is of the world. And maybe you and I are otherworldly – poets, to be exact. Poets can’t live for /die for / live with/ breathe in nothing but themselves – they need the sensible people, the roots, the down the house world of people. You need them. I need them. We cannot exist without them.
(p.293)
--Be your own woman. Belong to those you love. Talk to my poems, and talk to your heart […].
(p.424
March 10, 2024
4.5/5 As Lowell wrote of her second collection: "It is Sexton, therefore precious" --- musings on poetry, love, Sylvia Plath, this had it all, but the most touching letter was the final included letter, written to her daughter:
"...And I thought of you---someday flying somewhere all alone and me dead perhaps and you wishing to speak to me. And I want to speak back. (Linda, maybe it won't be flying, maybe it will be at your own kitchen table drinking tea some afternoon when you are 40. Anytime.) --- I want to say back.
1st I love you.
2. You never let me down.
3. I know. I was there once. I too, was 40 and with a dead mother who I needed still..."
So it goes.
"...And I thought of you---someday flying somewhere all alone and me dead perhaps and you wishing to speak to me. And I want to speak back. (Linda, maybe it won't be flying, maybe it will be at your own kitchen table drinking tea some afternoon when you are 40. Anytime.) --- I want to say back.
1st I love you.
2. You never let me down.
3. I know. I was there once. I too, was 40 and with a dead mother who I needed still..."
So it goes.
May 20, 2022
The letters can get boring at times. My goal was to search out ideas for a set of erasure poems based on the letters. That will be my next project.
Anne committed suicide on October 4, 1974. She had told friends and family members she wanted a palindrome she saw on the side of an Irish barn on her tombstone: RATS LIVE ON NO EVIL STAR. For some reason those words gave her a sense of hope.
Anne committed suicide on October 4, 1974. She had told friends and family members she wanted a palindrome she saw on the side of an Irish barn on her tombstone: RATS LIVE ON NO EVIL STAR. For some reason those words gave her a sense of hope.
June 5, 2007
I had a severe love/hate relationship with this book. I was determined to get through it, but prolonged attempts at reading it would usually result in my throwing the book across the room. Sexton is a tremendous poet, but this collection of her letters brought her lesser qualities into plain view. Normally that's one of the things I appreciate about letter/journal collections, but in this case it worked against my opinion of her.
December 16, 2022
Anne Sexton my new bff
April 20, 2024
«As for madness ... hell! Most poets are mad. It doesn't qualify us for anything. Madness is a waste of time. It creates nothing. Even though I'm often crazy, and I am and I know it, still I fight it because I know how sterile, how futile, how bleak... nothing grows from it and you, meanwhile, only grow into it like a snail.»
Anne Sexton bien sabía lo que decía en estas líneas, desromantizando la locura del poeta, o de cualquier persona que se dedique a la creación artística. Me encantó este libro. Especialmente sublime una de sus cartas a su hija mayor, con la que se cierra la publicación. Es tan bonita que no he querido compartirla por aquí. Lo mejor es llegar a ella habiendo leído todo lo anterior. Muy curiosas —rozando lo entrañable— sus faltas ortográficas así como sus continuas disculpas por lo caóticas que, en la mayoría de ocasiones, resultan sus cartas. Sin embargo, lejos de ser una molestia, ese caos más-o-menos controlado les imprime de cierta vida que no tendrían de otro modo.
Anne Sexton bien sabía lo que decía en estas líneas, desromantizando la locura del poeta, o de cualquier persona que se dedique a la creación artística. Me encantó este libro. Especialmente sublime una de sus cartas a su hija mayor, con la que se cierra la publicación. Es tan bonita que no he querido compartirla por aquí. Lo mejor es llegar a ella habiendo leído todo lo anterior. Muy curiosas —rozando lo entrañable— sus faltas ortográficas así como sus continuas disculpas por lo caóticas que, en la mayoría de ocasiones, resultan sus cartas. Sin embargo, lejos de ser una molestia, ese caos más-o-menos controlado les imprime de cierta vida que no tendrían de otro modo.
October 22, 2015
I give this book four stars because I honestly do not like Anne Sexton as a person - or as a poet really. I was very curious about her so I read Anne Sexton: A Biography and found that I didn't care for her as a person. I then read Searching for Mercy Street: My Journey Back to My Mother, Anne Sexton, Anne Sexton and found that I really disliked her (it could be I'm biased because my own mother was mentally ill ...). So ... having said this, why did I feel the need to read her letters?? I LOVE reading women's letters. I suppose I was hoping I might like her after all after having read her correspondence to people she cared about. I was wrong.
I found it annoying that she stumbled upon poetry and suddenly she knows what it's like to be a poet. In her earlier letters, she is constantly apologizing for the incoherentness of her manic letters - and finally ends the letter a page and a half later. It's interesting that she felt harassed by so many people sending her poems and asking for her input and critiques/criticisms and yet throughout her life, she was constantly sending her poems to others asking for their feedback.
What I really appreciated about these letters is that there really is no need to have read a biography on Anne Sexton in order to enjoy them; it would definitely help, but the editors did such a thorough job in the editing process that they were kind enough to fill in gaps between letters, even going so far as to explain who Anne was responding to and why.
While I didn't enjoy these as much as other letters, they are unique and obviously they are appreciated by many people. I wouldn't go so far as to recommend this book to many people, but I wouldn't exactly try to keep anyone from reading it either.
I found it annoying that she stumbled upon poetry and suddenly she knows what it's like to be a poet. In her earlier letters, she is constantly apologizing for the incoherentness of her manic letters - and finally ends the letter a page and a half later. It's interesting that she felt harassed by so many people sending her poems and asking for her input and critiques/criticisms and yet throughout her life, she was constantly sending her poems to others asking for their feedback.
What I really appreciated about these letters is that there really is no need to have read a biography on Anne Sexton in order to enjoy them; it would definitely help, but the editors did such a thorough job in the editing process that they were kind enough to fill in gaps between letters, even going so far as to explain who Anne was responding to and why.
While I didn't enjoy these as much as other letters, they are unique and obviously they are appreciated by many people. I wouldn't go so far as to recommend this book to many people, but I wouldn't exactly try to keep anyone from reading it either.
June 16, 2008
This is an interesting read, but if you are anything like me, you have to take a break from it every now and then or you will feel like you are going a little bit crazy yourself. It is a very intense trip throught the mind of a brilliant albeit very mental unstable woman.
September 13, 2023
I don’t know how anyone really “rates” another’s correspondence. I got the sense (and in part because her correspondence was voluminous) that this was heavily selected. Hence the 3 stars. Her writing itself was captivating.
January 7, 2023
“I don’t care, I love you anyhow. It is too late to turn you out of my heart. Part of you lives here.”
Read
September 17, 2025Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters resulted as a more protracted read for me than most, assuredly being quite the comprehensive collection of Anne’s own correspondence.
Anne Sexton’s success seemingly and widely comes across as sudden; In 1955, Anne’s therapist recommended her trying out writing poetry as a way to distract herself from her severe mental illness, and she became credit to acclaim quite promptly after that, being featured in literary magazines, teaching seminars, being hired to speak publicly. Her quick renown increased substantially the amount of physical correspondence she received, and therefore responded to, and those responses are what is collected in this book; This proffered self portrait contains countless letters to friends, family, fellows, and fans. The letters being strictly one-sided often left me straining for more of the opposing writer’s content in order to further garner mood, but the interspersed authorized columns providing the majority of any necessary contextual and biographical material were incredibly useful throughout the book, and further explained the outward culminations of all of the given letters’ information. I found at times, especially near the end, that this was potentially too comprehensive, there being about a personally estimated two handfuls of letters that felt simply inconsequential: filled with publishing semantics or somewhat plain communication with deeply tangential acquaintances. Despite this, I definitely respected the choice not to dismiss letters that felt unflattering towards Anne’s character, like the many flirty ones exchanged with married men, the condescending advice given to those with more experience than her, and the mental spirals and their slow escalation into multiple sinister culminations.
Conclusively, I think this accomplishes the basics of a self portrait: a collective piece reflective of a self but not comprised of the being in entirety, that being an obviously impossible undertaking. I would probably only recommend this to those with a considerable fascination with Anne, and maybe I wasn’t fully fascinated enough to feel dedicated truly. I admire her still.
Anne Sexton’s success seemingly and widely comes across as sudden; In 1955, Anne’s therapist recommended her trying out writing poetry as a way to distract herself from her severe mental illness, and she became credit to acclaim quite promptly after that, being featured in literary magazines, teaching seminars, being hired to speak publicly. Her quick renown increased substantially the amount of physical correspondence she received, and therefore responded to, and those responses are what is collected in this book; This proffered self portrait contains countless letters to friends, family, fellows, and fans. The letters being strictly one-sided often left me straining for more of the opposing writer’s content in order to further garner mood, but the interspersed authorized columns providing the majority of any necessary contextual and biographical material were incredibly useful throughout the book, and further explained the outward culminations of all of the given letters’ information. I found at times, especially near the end, that this was potentially too comprehensive, there being about a personally estimated two handfuls of letters that felt simply inconsequential: filled with publishing semantics or somewhat plain communication with deeply tangential acquaintances. Despite this, I definitely respected the choice not to dismiss letters that felt unflattering towards Anne’s character, like the many flirty ones exchanged with married men, the condescending advice given to those with more experience than her, and the mental spirals and their slow escalation into multiple sinister culminations.
Conclusively, I think this accomplishes the basics of a self portrait: a collective piece reflective of a self but not comprised of the being in entirety, that being an obviously impossible undertaking. I would probably only recommend this to those with a considerable fascination with Anne, and maybe I wasn’t fully fascinated enough to feel dedicated truly. I admire her still.
September 22, 2022
Hermosas cartas llenas de emoción y reflexiones. De alguna manera me recuerdan a las de Pizarnik en el mejor de los sentidos.
November 10, 2016
What an honor to be able to read these letters by Anne Sexton. They are filled with such life and love. Wonderful reflections on writing as well... Linda Gray Sexton, Anne Sexton's daughter, edited this collection along with Lois Ames, who also knew Anne, and they did so with great taste--they carefully discerned what to explain in brief, illuminating sections for certain letters, and what to let speak for itself. Because I picked up a used copy at a little bookstore in Provincetown (and it literally fell apart whilst I read), I felt comfortable liberally underlining and making it wholly my own... While it feels like a great infringement and enormously guilty pleasure to read a deceased writer's personal correspondence, I must say I'm now more a fan of the epistolary than ever before...
Anne writes about needing to find her "own self" and be at home with her findings, how poetry has saved her, the longing and joys of love, her desires to create something lasting. She touches on her place in a tradition of "confessional" writing, time spent with Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, and Robert Lowell (among others), marriage as a "suburban housewife," publicity, and multiple suicide attempts. It is such a loss and tragedy that Anne killed herself. Ultimately, though, these letters are so alive--I read them as an affirmation of our shared humanity--i.e. we need one another.
Here are some of my favorite quotes, though there are far more:
"I am a tender heart still, vulnerable, never wise, but tender hearted." (41)
"I am always so startled by goodness." (51)
"Letters are false really--they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are..." (122)
"Words bother me. I think it is why I am a poet. I keep trying to force myself to speak of the things that remain mute inside. My poems only come when I have almost lost the ability to utter a word. To speak, in a way, of the unspeakable. To make an object out of the chaos . . . To say what? a final cry into the void" (171)
"I think I am too busy to be myself except in dreams." (176)
"The soul, is I think, a human being who speaks with the pressure of death at his head." (208)
"I loved most to go to the library alone. To me it is one of the most important steps in growing up. JUST as special, I think, as getting breasts and all that kind of thing." (217)
"The sanest thing in this world is love." (293)
"I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it. To work is to live. To create is to live. To perform (for me) is essentially false. Only as I write do I realize myself. I don't know what that does to "life." (382)
"I do endeavor to look as pretty as possible as some sort of proof that poets aren't all that queer." (409)
"I am sorry not to be more of a commercial venture for you but what will be will be." (413)
p.s. I hope I am not infringing on copyright in this review. Happy to delete some of the quotes, there are just so many (and more) to include :-)
Anne writes about needing to find her "own self" and be at home with her findings, how poetry has saved her, the longing and joys of love, her desires to create something lasting. She touches on her place in a tradition of "confessional" writing, time spent with Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, and Robert Lowell (among others), marriage as a "suburban housewife," publicity, and multiple suicide attempts. It is such a loss and tragedy that Anne killed herself. Ultimately, though, these letters are so alive--I read them as an affirmation of our shared humanity--i.e. we need one another.
Here are some of my favorite quotes, though there are far more:
"I am a tender heart still, vulnerable, never wise, but tender hearted." (41)
"I am always so startled by goodness." (51)
"Letters are false really--they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are..." (122)
"Words bother me. I think it is why I am a poet. I keep trying to force myself to speak of the things that remain mute inside. My poems only come when I have almost lost the ability to utter a word. To speak, in a way, of the unspeakable. To make an object out of the chaos . . . To say what? a final cry into the void" (171)
"I think I am too busy to be myself except in dreams." (176)
"The soul, is I think, a human being who speaks with the pressure of death at his head." (208)
"I loved most to go to the library alone. To me it is one of the most important steps in growing up. JUST as special, I think, as getting breasts and all that kind of thing." (217)
"The sanest thing in this world is love." (293)
"I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it. To work is to live. To create is to live. To perform (for me) is essentially false. Only as I write do I realize myself. I don't know what that does to "life." (382)
"I do endeavor to look as pretty as possible as some sort of proof that poets aren't all that queer." (409)
"I am sorry not to be more of a commercial venture for you but what will be will be." (413)
p.s. I hope I am not infringing on copyright in this review. Happy to delete some of the quotes, there are just so many (and more) to include :-)
March 6, 2017
It's a hard read and a slow read, but also a good one.
First bunch of letters is youthful, very recognisable in a way of trying to "happen to the world", as Anne later writes in one of her last letters to her daughter Linda.
All of them are great in being totally unapologetic - not in the words, but in personality. There's much chaos, volcanoes without trying to lessen, tune down, or narrow anything
You also have to admire her negotiation skills, boy, she needed no "lean in". To get what she wanted.
It's good to read this book with her poems nearby for references and with some googling to research other sides of the story.
And yes, Anne's emotions drain energy, but that's how it should be, I guess. She's not a person if you look for easy entertainment or idol
First bunch of letters is youthful, very recognisable in a way of trying to "happen to the world", as Anne later writes in one of her last letters to her daughter Linda.
All of them are great in being totally unapologetic - not in the words, but in personality. There's much chaos, volcanoes without trying to lessen, tune down, or narrow anything
You also have to admire her negotiation skills, boy, she needed no "lean in". To get what she wanted.
It's good to read this book with her poems nearby for references and with some googling to research other sides of the story.
And yes, Anne's emotions drain energy, but that's how it should be, I guess. She's not a person if you look for easy entertainment or idol
March 21, 2017
I remember this being very good, but I need to read it again now that I'm older.
I'm sure the difference in reading this book at 33 with half grown children & half a postsecondary education & 45 with a career & an empty nest is a much greater span of life than just 12 years.
I'll likely be really reading it for the first time.
I'm sure the difference in reading this book at 33 with half grown children & half a postsecondary education & 45 with a career & an empty nest is a much greater span of life than just 12 years.
I'll likely be really reading it for the first time.
November 13, 2025
kind of getting fucking tired of poetry written by white women who are so gay they want to kill themselves (sylvia plath mentioned) and decor the closet to look like a display prison. a famed yet quietly suicidal poet is like that one office worker whose work ethic skirts short of being karoshi but is performative enough to garner sympathy because it is artful. you arent alive enough or dead enough, and people treat you like some sentinel between worlds because they know you wont be here for long. anne sexton is okay. maybe i need to pick her up when i’m older, maybe now isnt the time - its giving dictionary stew. phonoaesthetics or phonotextures are another thing suicidal white female poets adore - its almost like decent brutality is too on the nose for them. this is another example of brilliant women who got lured into motherhood and paraded for their self inflicted embellishments (sad poetry) so much that the loop insists on itself to the point of death. we rarely see these poets engage with death front on. its always overdoses, poisonings, somebody or something else ‘technically’ doing the killing for them. your agency can become a prison in the wrong hands, even your own. death just so happens to be the most popular (and the shittiest) escape plan.
May 29, 2020
Esperaba encontrar sólo cartas de Sexton, pero hay mucho más: este libro es, como bien reza el título, un (autor)retrato.
Linda Gray Sexton se ha encargado de mostrarnos cómo era su madre poniéndonos siempre en un contexto y no lanzándonos, simplemente, las cartas a la cara. Éstas están ordenadas de manera cronológica, divididas por épocas o etapas, y no, como yo esperaba, divididas según su destinatario. De esta forma podemos ver la evolución de la autora, recorrer el mismo camino que ha recorrido ella, pasear cogidas de su mano; entablar intimidad con X o echar de menos a Y.
Le doy 5 estrellas porque no entiendo, dejando a lado lo de acuerdo o no que esté con sus decisiones o lo que yo habría hecho en su lugar, qué otra puntuación podría darle a una vida.
P. D.: Perdón por esta terrible reseña, es la primera que hago.
P. P. D.: ¿He llorado con la última carta? He llorado con la última carta.
Linda Gray Sexton se ha encargado de mostrarnos cómo era su madre poniéndonos siempre en un contexto y no lanzándonos, simplemente, las cartas a la cara. Éstas están ordenadas de manera cronológica, divididas por épocas o etapas, y no, como yo esperaba, divididas según su destinatario. De esta forma podemos ver la evolución de la autora, recorrer el mismo camino que ha recorrido ella, pasear cogidas de su mano; entablar intimidad con X o echar de menos a Y.
Le doy 5 estrellas porque no entiendo, dejando a lado lo de acuerdo o no que esté con sus decisiones o lo que yo habría hecho en su lugar, qué otra puntuación podría darle a una vida.
P. D.: Perdón por esta terrible reseña, es la primera que hago.
P. P. D.: ¿He llorado con la última carta? He llorado con la última carta.
April 12, 2024
I was given this as a wedding present at 22, by a friend who perhaps thought I’d find a lot to identify with in Anne’s struggle to reconcile her responsibilities as a wife/mother with her desire to create art. 20 years later, I return to this book occasionally because he was right. I’m not sure what that reveals about me, but what I love about her letters is they lay bare the ugly truth that it’s impossible to be everything you want to be, and the trying will drive one to ruin. It’s ok, Anne, I wasn’t able to make a choice either.
August 7, 2024
This was a mountain of information that I never knew I needed. I love Sexton's poetry which in turn led me to her letters, I can only be thankful to Anne for exposing me to new poets, authors, stories, etc. I will say this is not a read for everyone, but it is truly a read for those who either have a deep love for poetry or literature, or a devoted fan of Sexton. My only complaint is that because of these letters my TBR has grown even more in size!
December 29, 2023
I am drawn to letter writing both as a literary style and also the practice. Alhtough letters can be so much deeper in some areas and ask so many questions there is so much that is left out. This collection of letters gives a side to Anne that other memoirs and biographies lack. I left wanting to know more of this author.
June 26, 2025
What a life to have witnessed even from these selected and edited letters. She feels totally unapologetic in her self expression. Such chaos and she never tried to tame herself or her thoughts. And for that we get dazzling confessional poems.
It was weird to read these knowing that she ends up committing suicide. like a gloomy reminder from the start that she succumbs. Wonder what she thought at the end? Also carbon monoxide poisoning. What a way to go...
I have not often read artists writing about their art but Sexton did it with such obvious passion and respect.
A brilliant and unique mind.
RATS LIVE ON NO EVIL STAR
It was weird to read these knowing that she ends up committing suicide. like a gloomy reminder from the start that she succumbs. Wonder what she thought at the end? Also carbon monoxide poisoning. What a way to go...
I have not often read artists writing about their art but Sexton did it with such obvious passion and respect.
A brilliant and unique mind.
RATS LIVE ON NO EVIL STAR
November 19, 2025
While these letters offered insight into Sexton’s frame of mind, it felt incomplete, yet redundant. Maybe because one side of a correspondence will always feel complete, maybe because letters usually offer the most mundane of our thoughts, maybe because her poetry has such a voice. I am not sure why, but I skimmed a lot though I was interested.
August 5, 2021
"The trouble with everyone just up and dying like that is that there are not faces left to throw your emotions at: love or hate. What do you do with the emotion? Is still there, though they are gone?!?!?!"
April 26, 2020
These poems really shook me. What an original, solid piece of writing! I wish Anne didn't take her life and continued writing. The world lost a big poet when she departed.
Read
September 18, 2021Was enjoying this so much until I did some reading on Anne Sexton and found out some terrible stuff. Don’t think I can keep reading and enjoying very personal stuff after what I learned.
July 11, 2023
A beautiful mind and person. Her words are haunting
Displaying 1 - 30 of 61 reviews