Anne Sexton

by Anne Sexton

  and so forth …

  Linda, I think Kenny is right. The right thing, the nice thing, the kindtoyourself thing is to wait until it will be something special, not just fumbling on the grass or on a couch or in a car. Wait for a bed. That won’t happen for years and I do really think it is something worth waiting for. I really think it’s better to wait until you’re older and readier to handle it. But no matter what you do I’ll stick by you, Linda. As Dr. Deitz points out, girls in other cultures have married and had babies by the time they are sixteen. But still, pie, you don’t live in another culture do you!

  Now I won’t give another lecture about drugs but will save that for later. They worry me too.

  As you can see you’ve been very much in my mind!!!!!! I keep having internal dialogues with you about all this. They are never arguments … We get along too well when we have serious talks. Usually we agree but I don’t want to be too “liberal” and hurt you in any way.

  I hope you like Judy’s poem … You can send it back to me after you’ve read it.

  The house is so empty. What will I ever do when you’re both in college? or both married or both in europe for a year’s study or something.

  Continue to be a good CIT [counselor-in-training] dearest. I know you will gain a lot of experience and growth from this summer. Is it fun to be in a cabin with all the older girls? You might try talking over some of these things with them. Just to get their approach. Judy says if you ever want to talk things over with her she’ll be glad to. Pedie is so sheltered, actually sheltered by her fat (I don’t mean to be mean … It just occurred to me) that she isn’t much help. Your friends this summer might be. I know I’m your good friend (if not your best) but I’d like you to have many and varied friends.

  I ADORE YOU

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  ))))00000000000XXXXXXXXX000000000XXXXXXX000000XXX

  0000XXXX000

  XO

  [To Linda Gray Sexton

  Warner, New Hampshire]

  [14 Black Oak Road]

  wed July 23rd, 1969

  Dearest Pie,

  It was wonderful to see you and be with you on your sixteenth b – day.

  I can’t wait until you get home and we can talk, really talk. I’m so worried about you … sex, drugs, boys, cigarettes. You took a pack of Daddy’s cigarettes he says. Why didn’t you ASK for it instead of sneaking? I hope you don’t decide to smoke but you are old enough to decide that. If you do decide to then you can buy your own cigarettes—not steal Daddy’s.!!!!

  I think I had trouble looking into your eyes because you seem to have grown far away. You seem to have lost the innocence I have always associated you with. Your attitude towards drugs “oh everyone is in drug trouble” for instance. Really, Linda!!! I feel very strongly and so does Daddy that you will not be allowed to go down to Ganny’s again. You are just not properly chaperoned down there … I’m sure that horrified you but it’s the way we feel.

  Now don’t be too angry. That’s all there is to that. I am worried. But I think part of it is needless. I needed to talk with you before I could go deep into your very beautiful blue eyes.

  Speaking of eyes, honey, you left the little lenses box I bought you in the car along with some attachment for the radio. I’ll try to remember to get daddy to bring it up on Sunday. I can’t come up with him as Chuck is coming for the weekend to work on the play.

  Do you like the radio? It was fun to give it to you because you wanted it so much. It will work much better at home. For god’s sake don’t step on it up there—or whatever. Take care.

  I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.

  You are doing a swell job up at camp and I am proud of you and happy for you. You are so busy and you do eat a lot. You look just great so the eating couldn’t be hurting you any.

  I’ve got to go and work on my play. Love you Miss Mumble Bug (new name) …

  xoxoxoxoxox

  Mom

  [To Brian Sweeney]

  [14 Black Oak Road]

  Monday, July 28, 1969

  Dear Sweeney, traveler and homebody,

  Your call yesterday from Hong Kong was wonderful. I couldn’t talk too openly as my director was sitting across the kitchen table from me. We worked like hell all weekend on Mercy Street and as I said made a trip to church … I wish you could come to New York when they put it on … aren’t you curious to see it? Or would you like to read it—perhaps that’s enough. Jean [Moulton, Anne’s secretary] is away on vacation and I type this myself (usually a disaster) … Years ago I could type a little but now I’m spoiled. But my desk is piled with mail I SHOULD be answering. Still, on this warm July afternoon you are the one my thoughts wander to.

  I have spent the last two hours reading Protestant hymns. What doggerel! What tripe! It’s a wonder that Christ can exist surrounded by so many foggy words. But then I’ve never felt he existed much for Protestants. My play ends with a hymn so I’ll HAVE to find one … The poem I wrote is almost doggerel too. I have just reread it. There are times when my genius fails, dear man, and I have no more talent than an eraser. Here it is … maybe I can improve it later. Right now I’m exhausted from playwriting. [… She quotes from “Going Gone,” BF.]

  … Enuf poetry. Today’s mail brings a letter from Mr. Anspach of the Algonquin Hotel saying he will give us a room for a month for five hundred dollars. It’s a little more than I can afford but to hell with it—I like that Algonquin. We will arrive there on September 2nd. I hope there will be yellow roses from YOU. If not it really won’t be the Algonquin at all. I’m sure without you it will appear very shabby. I plan one dinner at La Côte Basque for caviar no matter what. The play opens October 3rd.

  I wish you could be there. Hell, Sweeney, you’ve jinxed New York City. I can’t imagine the place without you!!

  I tore up one letter I wrote you. Wrote it when I was drunk, or semi-drunk. Decided it was too heady, even for you. I assure you I’m cold sober right now.

  That list of names. What do I do with them? Call them and ask them to take me to La Côte Basque? Can’t read your handwriting well enough, if that’s the case. I could use more friends in New York, even if it’s only for a spaghetti dinner. That I pay for. Hell, I’m not cheap—just lonely. Lois is great but I suspect we’ll need two faces.

  Well, dear Sweeney, welcome home. I’ll

  [letter left unfinished]

  [To Brian Sweeney]

  [The Algonquin Hotel

  September 3, 1969]

  Dear Sweeney, The rewrite finished. Today I’m a genius. I did something really fine. The room is air-conditioned (see above) thank God. The theater isn’t. It’s hell. 100 degrees in there. I have a fan but it isn’t the same as air conditioning naturally. We walk back to save $$ and then drink in our rooms. Last night our dinner was cocoa in the room, but slept well. We had a grand lunch with lots of drinks and I’m burping Escargots right now. Haven’t had time to go to ANY museum but perhaps. God, I wrote well today. God I’m happy. Sweeney, you are missed and often discussed.

  love

  Anne (you are mentioned like the

  saints—in passing (says Lois)

  [To Brian Sweeney]

  [The Algonquin Hotel]

  Sept 4th, 1969

  Dear Sweeney,

  Just a note to tell you we are doing well. We had a reading of yesterday’s rewrite and it went well. We also made a few cuts that were good. One of the actors, actresses actually, has it in for me and keeps saying “What can you expect of an author who can’t spell” ten minutes later “What can you expect of a writer who can’t punctuate.” And she sounds serious! Oh dear. Lois just said I knocked myself too much (the conversation having drifted to how lovely my mother’s handwriting was and how bad mine is.) Lois is a fine woman. Right now she is sewing a dress. Shortly she will do an interview with me f
or a newspaper.

  Love,

  Anne

  [To Brian Sweeney]

  [14 Black Oak Road]

  Saturday October 25, 1969

  Dear BRIAN SWEENEY,

  This is just a note from Weston. Lois and I are no longer in that big city. (I was there 2 days this week, one night for a reading, one night to see the play and on that afternoon I gave an interview to The New York Times … how stupid it was, the interviewer asking “How many times have you tried to kill yourself?” … what does that have to do with Mercy Street. Something perhaps because the heroine maybe kills herself in her imagination, maybe because neither Lois and I can decide which. It’s all nonverbal, the killing, as she does it without saying—if you happen to look she is taking pills—but you might be looking somewhere else as other people are talking … At one point The New York Times said they were only interested in doing an interview if the play was a hit. And now that the show has been opened for two weeks is it? or one? they decide to do one. At The American Place they stagger reviewers so that there is no opening-night farce. The reviewers have been coming all this week and the reviews come out this Tuesday, October 28th … Naturally I’m on tender hooks. I confess, Sweeney dear, to wanting a few good reviews …)

  I came home from New York quite tired but exhilarated by the experience. I love theater people. Did I tell you that I had lunch with your friend—the reviewer fellow? (Forget his name). I liked him very much. You have good taste.

  Lois did an interview for the book section of one of the Boston papers. I’ll send you a copy but I’d like it returned. I’ll mail it when Jean comes on Wednesday—also a program (which you can keep).

  God, I’ve forgotten how to type! I tried to write a poem, the other day, but it didn’t work.

  Sorry I asked you for that money and after you had lost so much at the races. I sold $1,000 worth of stocks to get out of the hole. It’s a bad show how broke I am. And I haven’t gotten my bill from the Algonquin so I’m a little nervous in the checkbook area.

  The theater was good for me. Perhaps next year I’ll teach. People are good for me! If I’m not busy making Mercy Street into a film. That is also a possibility as well as a London and a Berlin production. Strange, Sweeney, to be sitting here at my desk with my daughter setting the table for dinner and wonder[ing] about all these seemingly big things. Perhaps I should worry about God—he’s bigger than any of this. I’m glad you’re straight with Him. I have yet to settle the matter. Oh, I really believe in God—it’s Christ that boggles the mind. The play is about all that too.

  Write!

  Love, Anne

  [To Brian Sweeney]

  [14 Black Oak Road]

  November 5, 1969

  Dear, dear Sweeney,

  Here are the reviews and a program. You may keep the program if you wish and a copy of William Raidy’s article. As you will see, the reviews aren’t too good. Then again, they are respectful. Naturally, I am disappointed, but you asked to see them, so here they are. The audiences are very attentive, and it is running an extra week because of demand. I wish you could have seen it. I still don’t have a copy to send you.

  I dreamt about you last night. Dreamt that you got me a reading in Australia and that I didn’t even need a passport to get to you.

  Love,

  Anne

  In 1969, Alice Smith wrote Anne from Brooklyn, New York. She too had responded to the anguish of Anne’s poetry. For Anne, Alice became the quintessential fan, writing long detailed letters, sometimes daily. Anne appreciated the “gutsy woman” who bedeviled Houghton Mifflin for more Sexton books in more bookstores, and bigger and better advertisements.

  [To Alice Smith]

  [14 Black Oak Road]

  December 3, 1969

  Dear Alice,

  Just a short letter to tell you I think of you often and that I love your letters and sharing your life. You are so strong. You amaze me. Not because you were once sick and, therefore, supposedly weak, but that you are an outstanding person … stubborn, intelligent, intuitive, perceptive and one who sees beneath the facade of other people’s lives. You have a style to your life that I envy. You know how to take care of yourself. You know how to love yourself. I envy. You know how to reach out. I, too. A description of my birthday would make you wince. Of course that New York Times article did not help. I loved your letter to them. You told them off for me in a way I couldn’t. You know, Alice, you may feel that you are lucky to have Doctor Eleanor, but I’d say she was lucky to have you.

  I seem to be blocked and unable to write which is hell. I’ve written one poem this fall, and it stinks. I am tutoring, or rather teaching, a young Oberlin student who had a nervous breakdown this fall. He sees his psychiatrist twice a week and me once a week. His writing is improving as well as his health. I’m beginning to think more of myself as a teacher … at least of poetry.

  I hope you have solved the problem of the heat permanently. The cold weather is settling in. If only I were writing, I wouldn’t care what the weather was.

  I meant that “mercy” … oh, you know what I meant. Among other things I meant, may you always have mercy in your life unlike Daisy. The fact that you went to the play the last night touched me very much. If I couldn’t be there, at least you were. Alice, I had the feeling that Marian [Seldes, who played Daisy] was getting a little hysterial in the role toward the end. I love her dearly, but it’s something I always worried about. Do you know what I mean? Be well.

  Love,

  [To Anne Clarke]

  [14 Black Oak Road]

  Friday, Dec 26th, 1969

  Dear One,

  We gave Linda a record of opera arias and the voice is magnificent. A lovely woman singing always makes me think of you. It’s Puccini. The song of a beautiful woman—her soul exposed—her voice lifting like a kite—an eternal sound. It’s all you, Annie. All and more. […]

  It’s been a busy year for me. My play, Mercy Street, came out off Broadway this October. If you get The Times you may have read about it. I loved the theater people, very genuine and loving, intuitive and down to earth, open—not boxed in. A friend, Lois Ames (psychiatric social worker, writer) stayed with me in New York for the two months I was there. Lois is very funny and we had a lot of laughter and did a lot of hard work. We came home Saturday night to Tuesday morning—so to keep in touch with family as well as work in New York. I kept a monk’s schedule and got enough sleep—lived on caviar which I have really acquired a taste for (what a sentence!). Anyhow Guggenheim paid the bill and now I am stone cold broke. But it was fun. The play got so-so reviews—some really awful ones—the ones in The Times were polite and encouraging. Now that it is over I feel the play was a failure actually—but maybe I’m too close to it. The audiences were packed and attentive—but I felt the leading lady was hysterical. Anne, maybe I wrote it hysterically, I can’t be sure.

  I’m blocked now. Nothing comes. A drought. No poems … none, nothing. I’ve written one poem since June and that one was so bad that I’ve lost it. Well, heaven sent—a job teaching at Boston University starts in a week or so. I love teaching but it scares me too. However, it will be good for me, something useful. […]

  Joy has a barn and a pony, out back, out back of the swimming pool … in the midst of the black oaks.

  I don’t drink martinis anymore. Jack Daniels, Canadian Club or rot-gut bourbon. Time passes … I smoke more and I cough more. I am size 14–16 … big belly …

  Have you read Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut? And Mother Night by same? He is my this-year favorite. Very funny. His style is so simple.

  The novel I started to write before I broke my hip is still unfinished … I reread it after I got back from New York and thought “so what!” and put it away. Just a woman’s story, another woman’s story and so what.

  Kayo is well, overworked, underpaid and unfulfilled—but he is still funny. He is getting quite gray. I am too, only I get my hair tinted so you can’t tell.

&nbs
p; Well, that’s all for now—I mean that’s my news. So how about yours? And if not news, how about your soul? The lovely woman is singing and I think it’s you, magnificent you.

  My love to Sarah but most to you.

  Me

  With the new year came a new challenge: her appointment as Lecturer in English at Boston University. She ran a poetry workshop two hours each week, which was as special to her students as it was to her. As Suzanne Rioff wrote at the end of the first term: “… most of all, Mrs. Sexton has made me ultimately accept and rejoice in that irrevocable state of being—a poet. To me, this is the immeasurable achievement of a great teacher.”

  She continued teaching in the graduate creative writing program with George Starbuck, John Barth, and John Malcolm Brinnin until her death in 1974. She corresponded with her students outside the class, following them as they moved beyond her. Many went on to appear in magazines and to publish books. Anne had achieved her goal as a teacher: her students had learned to create without her.