Kids interview Anne Sexton
by Charactorium · Anne Sexton (1928 — 1974) · Literature · 4 min read
Two young visitors, twelve years old, step through the door of a suburban Massachusetts house. A lady waits for them, a cigarette in her hand, a notebook beside her typewriter. She smiles: it pleases her that children have come to listen.
—Is it true that your doctor told you to write poems?
Yes, my child, it's the whole truth. I was 28, had two little girls, and a big suburban house. But I was very unwell. After the birth of my second daughter, an enormous sadness crushed me, like a blanket too heavy to lift. They called it depression. My psychiatrist, Dr. Orne, said something simple: “Write.” So I wrote. I had never learned that in school, you know. And yet the words came. It was like finding a door in a wall I thought was solid.
Writing was a door in a wall I thought was solid.
—Were you afraid to show such sad things to people?
Of course I was afraid. In my time, you didn't say those things. A proper lady smiled, cooked, and kept her tears for the night. In my first book, To Bedlam and Part Way Back, I talked about the hospital, my madness, my sorrows. Imagine opening the door of your secret room wide to strangers. It trembles a bit in there. But you know what? Many people wrote to me saying, “I suffered too, I thought I was alone.” That's when I understood what my courage was for.
I opened the door of my secret room, and others stopped believing they were alone.
—Did you have poet friends? What was that like?
Oh yes! In 1958, I joined the class of a great poet, Robert Lowell, at Boston University. And there I met an extraordinary young woman: Sylvia Plath. After class, we didn't go straight home. We would dash off, the two of us, with our friend George, to a fancy hotel in the city, the Ritz-Carlton. We'd settle in, order a drink, and talk about our poems for hours. Sylvia and I loved the same dark subjects. It was rare, you know, in those days, to find someone who understood you so well.
Finding someone who loves the same shadows as you is a rare gift.
—Why did you talk about your poems together? Don't you write them alone?
Good question! Writing, yes, you do it alone, at night, with your typewriter. But a poem is like a dish: sometimes it lacks salt, and you can't taste it yourself anymore. So you read it to others. At Lowell's, we called it a poetry workshop: we read our texts aloud and the others frankly said what was wrong. It stings your pride a bit! But Sylvia and I came out stronger. A friend who tells you the truth about your work is worth a thousand friends who flatter you.
A friend who tells you the truth about your work is worth a thousand friends who flatter you.
—Is it true you rewrote fairy tales? The ones with princesses?
Yes, my child, and I had a good laugh doing it! In 1971, I took sixteen tales by the brothers Grimm — Snow White, Cinderella, all the ones you know — and told them my way in a book, Transformations. But watch out: not the sweet version. I looked behind the scenes. Why must the princess always wait patiently for a prince to save her? Why is beauty worth more than anything? I gently made fun, with a slightly sharp smile. It was my way of telling girls: think, these pretty stories sometimes tell you nonsense.
Pretty stories sometimes tell you nonsense — look behind the scenes.
—I heard you sang your poems with a real band?
That's true! I formed a small group, with musicians, and I recited my poems while they played. We called it Anne Sexton and Her Kind. You see, in my time, poetry often stayed locked up in universities, among serious people. I wanted to bring it into the light, make it live on stage, like a song. I wanted young people, like you maybe, to hear poems and think, “Hey, it's alive, it speaks to me.” Poetry is not an old dusty piece of furniture. It has a voice, a breath, almost a beating heart.
Poetry is not an old dusty piece of furniture: it has a beating heart.
—What did your home smell like? What time of day did you write?
My home smelled of morning coffee and the smoke of my cigarettes — I smoked far too many, never do that! In the morning, I had trouble getting up, the medicine made me heavy. But the afternoon, ah, that was my time. I would sit at my typewriter, in my house in Weston, and type. I would rework each line ten times, twenty times. Around me, a garden, quiet neighbors, a nice clean suburb. No one would have guessed that inside, I was writing about death and darkness. That was my strange secret.
Outside a quiet, pretty suburb; inside, I wrote about darkness.
—You won a big prize, didn't you? How did that feel?
Yes! In 1967, I received the Pulitzer Prize, one of the most beautiful awards in my country, for my book Live or Die. Imagine: ten years earlier, I was a suburban mom who had published nothing, who cried at night. And now the whole country said to me, “Your work matters.” I was proud, of course. But you know, a prize doesn't heal the sorrow you carry. That book was precisely about that struggle: staying alive or giving up. The title meant “Live or Die.” I chose to keep writing, again and again.
A prize doesn't heal the sorrow you carry, but it says: your work matters.
—Is it true that your doctor's appointments were recorded?
Yes, and it's an unusual story. My doctor, Dr. Orne, recorded our sessions on a tape recorder — a machine that keeps your voice, in my time, a little marvel. There were hundreds of hours of my confessions on it. After my death, a writer, Diane Middlebrook, was able to listen to them to tell my life in a book, in 1991. So tell me: is it right to let all my secrets be heard? I don't have the answer. Part of me wanted to say everything; another part would have liked to keep a small locked room.
Part of me wanted to say everything; another kept a room locked.
—If people think of you today, what would you want them to remember?
Remember this, my dears: I was an ordinary woman who dared to say difficult things. I had no great education, no brilliant degree. Just a typewriter, a notebook, and the courage to face my own shadows. Many thought a lady shouldn't speak of sadness or madness. I did it, for all those who were silenced. If one day you carry something heavy inside, remember: words can make it a little lighter. Write. It's your right, too.
Words don't remove what is heavy, but they make it a little lighter.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Anne Sexton's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.