by Anne Sexton
I am typing here in bed. I have a nurse to take care of me and mind the children. Which helps and will, I hope, help put me back and into New York in two weeks. Somehow I will stagger down there—if I have to lie down on the floor and read prone! The Dr. isn’t enthusiastic about the idea of N.Y. but I shall be there nevertheless.
The minute this happened I started a new poem. I had to go to bed for a week previous to the operation as I had pneumonia at the time. In fact I rushed the whole thing because I wanted to have the op. in time to recover and get to N.Y. So here I am. Better and worse for the whole thing and not knowing if I have cancer or not.
I have written a short story that I want to work on and I have this poem started that looks like it will be a long one. If only I felt well enough, my creative spirit is boiling to get going. I will enclose the start of the new poem for your interest, though it will see new changes in even the beginning I am sure. I always work and rework to get things just so … Oh, dear, here I am with a soul full of energy that raps against my skin, my old paper bag skin that holds me together—just barely.
George [Starbuck] and I have reservations to fly over on Thursday morning, the 29th. I am staying at the Gotham if you want to contact me ahead of reading time. I shall be very nervous. Oh suds, I would like to read well. I will try to. Lee Anderson (he records poets all over the place for Yale or something) recorded me and liked my reading so maybe it won’t be too sad after all. George is really a professional reader and will go over well I know. Thank you for asking him to the party.
I don’t think Kayo will come over to N.Y. as his business is so demanding at this time of year. But he might, if I were still quite sick.
Enclose the start of new poem. All best to Rose and You.
p.s. Have just read Louis Simpson’s new book and think it has some of the best poems of our generation in it. He is great. How I envy his way with about ten of those poems which will live forever. Maxine says I am getting didactic (sp?*) but I can only reply that I just know when I know. And one thing I know is that he is good. Though, I admit sadly, I did not like “The Runner”—felt it a failure, but then it was nice he tried to do a long one. On the other hand I thought (and did before) that “The Bird” is one of the best pieces, in fact the best war poem ever written. (Didactic? I suppose. But you have got to have opinions, don’t you? I do. At any rate I wrote him a fan letter in care of Hudson. Was that awfully gauche? I am not in practice on fan letters but thought it rather homely and straightforward to write one.) […]
love and kisses,
Anne
p.p.s. Should I read “The Double Image” [TB] do you think?
Anne published her short story “Dancing the Jig” in the 1960 issue of New World Writing. Sterling Lord, a New York literary agent, read the story and wrote to her, conveying his interest in representing her. The idea of an agent was new; Anne was flattered. So began an association which would last throughout her life.
[To Frederick Morgan]
[40 Clearwater Road]
Sunday, November 15th, 1959
Dear Fred,
Here (enclosed) are my proofs. I so glad I didn’t suggest what order I wanted them in—because I didn’t the last time nor this and both times they look better than I thought they would. I’m glad though, that you did include “The Expatriates” [TB] because I like what it does for the group.
Now! Here I am weeks later, and I haven’t thanked you for all your kindness, your introduction (that I didn’t hear one word of—but I know it was good), your fine party, your always assuring presence etc. etc. But don’t think I’m not appreciative, Fred, because I am, I did, I do. You are the most!
Not much news here, except that (as I think I mentioned to you) I wrote this short story in Sept. and the first place I sent it to, took it! New World Writing, that is. As I said, I didn’t dare send it anywhere that I was known as I was afraid it was so amateur that I would axe myself there. But maybe not—maybe not? I can judge the poems pretty well, but I’m quite unsure with fiction.
Because of all this I have had a letter from an agent who would like to represent me. His name is Sterling Lord. Do you know of him and do you think I ought to have an agent??? Any advice you might have would be a real favor as I really walk through this literary world with innocence.
I am reading at Harvard, a Morris Gray Reading, on Dec. 10th. This time it will be by myself and I haven’t thought how I will fill 50 minutes with my own stuff. I wish that I had some light verse to read in the middle; just to relieve the tension of my fisted poems. Have you any suggestions for improvement of my reading? I know you said I did a good job; but now that it’s over I wish I knew what I did wrong. Was I too dramatic? I think I tend to project the poem too much.
I haven’t finished that “operation” poem [“The Operation,” PO] that I showed you. Maybe I never will; maybe I’ve said it all. Time will tell. I have been working on a new short story, but it lacks the force that the first one had.
The new Hudson looks good. I love the easy way that George Elliot writes. And the ending of that thing—that egg part—was perfect! I was very interested in Joe Bennett’s review, but I think this is more his problem than Lowell’s. But it may be that I felt the thing fell down when he started liking Betjeman’s book. I think that Tennyson would have cringed at his style. And furthermore, he is a snob (Betjeman) in his own way. Though I thought Lowell’s book [Life Studies] was a kind of failure (and did not like the prose) … Oh well, how can I be impartial? Lowell gave me a very nice quote for my book which Houghton Mifflin is sticking right on the front flap (they don’t ask me about these things—they just do them).
In the usual rush. All my best to you and Rose.
Yours,
Anne
[To W. D. Snodgrass]
[40 Clearwater Road]
Nov. 18th cold out [1959]
Dearest dear De,
I think I owe you a letter. But perhaps it is you owing me? Whoever—it is too long since I have poured out Some Anne and offered it up to you. It is too long since I’ve let myself love as you (as is my natural habit).
So here I am. Do you know that I’ve been very sick? I just can’t remember when or what I’ve written. Well, I was—awful sick for about a month. I had pneumonia and a major operation (removal of one ovary, one tube, an appendix)—both of these at the same time which made my recovery from surgery more precarious (the pneumonia I mean) … But still, just three weeks after the op. I made it to New York to read at the YMHA (tho it nearly was too much for me) … I read pretty well, I think, despite my appearance which was pretty skinny (lost about 15 lbs. but they’re padding back on now).
Kayo is on a hunting trip (bear and deer) this week. He loves to kill. Oh dear, I wish he didn’t. I wish him more tender but then, people are always wishing other people things. Be different! Pause as I give thanks that he isn’t destructive toward me, my female core, my important ego, etc. etc.
Linda is learning to read. I wish I were in the first grade again, resting my head on the desk while teacher reads the story and drinking milk out of straws, that funny middle morning milk taste. I have written one children’s story which was rejected 2 places and has sat at Lippincott for 3 months so far. It isn’t a good story anyhow—but I could use the money. The poetry comes much harder. I am working on a new thing that may not work (an operation, death, cancer, mother, me) thing. Damn thing. I could really write it if I could just die at the end. Full cycle. Mother dies her ugly death and now Anne follows, trailing her guilty gowns down the last aisle … One good writing thing! I wrote a short story and I sold it to the first place I sent it to. Namely, New World Writing. It will be in their first issue (they stopped and are starting up again, brought out by Lippincott this time); it will be #16 actually. It is a rather rather sick story—but who am I to complain when it sold?? Perhaps I ought to have sent it to better places first, but I was afraid to show it where I was known (Harper’s, New Yorker, Hudson) as I thought it
might lower their high regard for me … And still it might have.
You are applying for a Guggenheim and you ought to get it. I hope, tho, that you won’t move to New York. I think the rat race will kill you. I think you are a special person and ought to live on an island and let the world visit you. Don’t you go visiting the world (you can’t have those lines. I just made them up and I like them. I will use them in my elegy for you if you move to New York and then commence to kill yourself.) Mary Emma [Elliot, managing editor of The Hudson Review at that time] and I had a long talk about you at Fred’s party after the reading and we agreed (so that’s how friends are—always telling you what’s what and interfered their thoughts into yours) … If I were you (that means take my advice) I’d write in some pretty place and spend any extra money on a slight bit of analysis somehow) … But I could be wrong. That’s visiting yourself and that is difficult (I know. I do it all the time), but poemwise it has been very productive. It might be for you. Maybe?
Poemwise I should be working and not writing you. But this is a missing you, where are you, hello and necessary for my soul. I also applied for a Guggy but won’t get it. I just did it in case. I really do need time—there are too many people in my island. I need to have one or two days a week when I can hole up somewhere and work. Here the phone jangles, the kids exist from my plate, my husband pats my fanny, and poemwise I haven’t enough left. A matter of energy. Dear Mr Guggy—I need money because I must pay someone to be a loving substitute while I write, an apron with arms would do.… I fear Guggy won’t care. After you get yours I’ll list you as a sponsor. If I live long enough, if you live long enough. […]
On the back cover [of my book] they have a terrible soulful huge head picture of me, under which they have in big fat black letters: ANNE SEXTON. I gave them a choice of pictures (fool fool!) and the cover, besides having that long title, & Lowell’s quote, has a drawing of a mother and child holding hands … And the inside print is too small. And … oh, I wish it were over with, done, done, and the terrible reviews out, out, out, so that I might carry them in my knapsack like heavy stones.
But you got only praise. But I know, praise can be heavy too. Yes. I understand.
A little while ago I read H. Gold’s story “Love or Like” and thought it the best thing ever. I talked with him later at Fred’s party and he mentioned that you had liked it so much. I can see why. Though why I should is not as plain. It’s the destructive element between people that I recognize. Maybe it’s my mother and me—some such I guess.
I am rambling, on and over and about. Must get back to something at this desk. My best to Jan and all of you and yours. Write me quickly and kiss me back. I miss you.
XO
Yours, Anne
[To Frederick Morgan]
[40 Clearwater Road]
Friday [November 19, 1959]
Dear Fred,
Was it only yesterday or maybe the day before that I wrote you to say I wouldn’t send you anything more until I SURE. Well whenever it was and time means nothing to me; I have no idea when I write things (letter things anyhow). Sure! I know all about time when I’ve sent you a poem that you’ve got to like. And you are so gracious as to realize this and answer promptly. You’re a good man. I send nothing to anyone else, except a few little ones to The New Yorker or Harper’s.
Well. I’ve been working this over for months since you saw it and asked for it in August. But just this week I changed it right. Right enough to send along. I hope you still like it. I’m pretty sure it’s a “pretty one” and I’m not in a terror of fear as I was with the operation poem. So, herewith, I submit “All My Pretty Ones” [PO] and hope you want it as much as you did this summer.
Aside from that I’ve been trying a new tone (if you can call it that) on some little poems. I don’t want my next book to be as boomy as the Bedlam one. A little more restraint and never a false shriek. I wish my poems were gay sometimes. I am tired of my gloom and death. I have been reading Katherine Mansfield’s letters this afternoon and wishing I were Katherine Mansfield. And this morning I read all of Elizabeth Bishop’s poetry. Therefore I could reason to be discontent, as I am.
Here is the kind of thing I am playing around with. [She included a draft of “I Remember,” PO.] You might give me your opinion in an offhand way. I’m not submitting it. I haven’t written it, really. But it’s on my desk and walking in and out of my pencil box … […]
forgive this messy wordy letter.
Yours,
Anne
[To W. D. Snodgrass]
[40 Clearwater Road]
Nov. 24th, 1959
Dearly De, IN HASTE!
Your letter cheered me this morning and I am writing right back. It is good to hear from you. In all this world, at this moment, you seem nearest and rightest of anyone talking to me. And also because I am so pleased that you are starting with an analyst. Good! I knew you ought to, but it is hard to tell someone else (aside from telling yourself) that’s what they need. […]
I wish I might try classical analysis as my psychiatrist is not doing me the good he ought to, or I ought to. I’ve wasted a complete year blocking out everything and trying not to talk about my parents being dead. Mostly I fight with him in an underhanded way. One day though I broke out and picked up all the things on his desk and threw them at him (including a lamp and an ink bottle). I’m better some, though. I don’t go around trying to kill myself all the time as I once did. (Just him. Ha!)
But my writing is in its beginning of trouble because I just have the most difficult time forcing myself to write about what I won’t work on in therapy. My psychiatrist wants me to write short stories as you have to use more ego in order to write them.
I don’t think I’ll get the Guggenheim but it would be good for me because I need the status in my family life. I need to hold up the money and say, “See. This has got to be for writing and I’ve got to have the time.” Then I can call in a babysitter and pay her with Gugg dollars and turn in peace to my desk. It’s that simple. Writing isn’t that simple (we know), but I have other problems that hinder it in this way.
Louis Simpson’s book A Dream of Governors, Wesleyan Press … Anne Sexton’s (out March 1st, ’60) To Bedlam and Part Way Back, Houghton Mifflin.
I will try to get better—I’m some better but depressed today. Thank God for your letter. It made me human again.
I adore you and snuggle the
page I send obsessively …
Anne
p.s. Joe Bennett’s review of Cal was very damning, called Lowell a snob and a sloppy writer. You ought to read it. I think Joe’s poetry is terrible, the worst, the possible worst—a cultured “Howl” about the world ending. I like him tho—but it makes me wonder at Fred’s judgment. I’m not so sure Fred has so much judgment anyhow. Are you? Maybe I think that because he likes my work.??? (It’s a typical reason. Jesus, I hate myself) …
Not much of a postscript, that. But see, your letter asks about Joe [and] I couldn’t resist airing my opinion (for you, no one else please).
dearly,
Anne
[To W. D. Snodgrass]
[40 Clearwater Road]
Feb the 1st [1960]
Forgive this jerky letter! Maybe I even wrote you a while ago—I have NO memory left.—Dearest De,
I was just sitting here, trying to write a poem that I’m not in the mood to write and looked around my desk for something in god’s name to think of or to pick or to love or to watch (at least I might watch if the brain would not obey the need to write) and I picked out, by chance, after glancing at magazines which had printed my first poems (Ha!) (and that didn’t help) pictures of everyone at Antioch. I looked at Hollis, for a while, considered that, after all, it seemed he had buck teeth (which I do not recall from a couple of kissing him) and then I saw you (naturally I’d have three pictures of YOU) and I looked you over, remembering your vulnerable smile and your dear moustachio and I looked at Jan (also in my pictures) and at you
and decided (how’s that for spelling) that I MUST WRITE YOU DEAR SNODSY WHO I HAVE NOT WRITTEN FOR HOW LONG ANYHOW?
How are you, my dear, dear? Are you okay? How was N.Y.? Do I owe you a letter? Maybe I haven’t written for months? I never remember who I write and when and if [I] owe or don’t???? But all I know is that I’ve looked your picture over, read some of my old poems, sat here and as usual not been able to write, been lonely, been sadder than sad toads would be if they are as sad as their blinking eyes seem to be, and I thought direly of you and wished I had a letter here at my desk from you, my dear, to read and to console me. (I’m writing long sentences tonight and fast ones too. Hope you can keep up with me. I think I drink too much. Have had, as usual, 3 martinis tonite). And so it goes.
My (fucking) book comes out March 1st in case you’ve forgotten. I haven’t seen a copy yet. But that won’t help I know. Nothing seems to. I’ve written just a little since this fall. Some. But not much. (I won’t send you what I’ve done as you’ve enough problems without mine.) But I have thought of you, De. In fact I wrote a not so good poem to you. It was two weeks ago that I wrote it and I have almost forgotten it was to YOU (of all people). I guess I was thinking about your problem (the one that has to do with being a success. Thinking that it was important to have touched the sun. That what you’ve done is all that matters, no matter what happens next.) But the poem doesn’t sound just right, doesn’t sound like much. This is it (even tho I just promised not to show you any. I won’t mind, if you prefer to skip it. I’m typing so fast I won’t know if you read it or not …)
(now if I can find it in this messy desk here …*) [“To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Triumph,” PO …]
Well. I know you haven’t written me since N.Y. as you haven’t told me how it was. In fact I don’t recall anything about you since Cal told me you had taken back your Guggy application which you should have still applied for no matter where you want to live. Oh my dear neurotic friend. The things you do!