15 November (1958): Anne Sexton to W.D. Snodgrass

Anne Sexton was a major admirer of W.D. Snodgrass’s work (she kept several pictures of him on her desk) and longed for him to become her mentor. She fulfilled this dream at the Antioch Writer’s Conference, where she befriended the influential poet. Their friendship blossomed through correspondence, with Sexton reaching out to Snodgrass in times of difficulty and seeking his thoughts on her own work. Sexton reached out to Snodgrass so frequently that he began to resist her pleas for reassurance and criticism. This letter, however, comes from an early stage of their friendship, and with it all the signs of scholarly intimacy the writers shared.

[40 Clearwater Road]
Sat. 7:00 A.M.
[circa November 15, 1958]

Dear My Dear Mr. Snodgrass.

When I was a little girl I had a funny little club called “THE TENDER HEART CLUB”…I was president. My mother was treasurer and my Nana was Nice President (I meant Vice Pres. But ‘nice’ is better)…The point being, that I am a tender heart still, vulnerable, never wise, but tender hearted. And although the club disintegrates slowly, although time makes madmen and corpses of some, I am still the President of my own club in my own way. My Nana went crazy when I was thirteen. Then she was only a crazy tender heart. At the time I blamed myself for her going because she lived with our family and was my only friend. Then at thirteen I kissed a boy (not very well – but happily) and I was so pleased with my womanhood that I told Nana I was kissed and then she went mad…I tell you this not to confess, but to illuminate. At thirteen, I was blameful and struck – at thirty I am not blameful (because I am always saved by men who understand me better than myself). I am not immoral. I am not wise. But still, I am not cruel. I have no place loving you and because I let you be my god for a while, I was in need of loving, of giving love, and not wise, nor cagey, nor – just walking around wearing my womanhood and trying to keep us all sane. Failing this entirely, I give you back to yourself, with all the tenderness I have ever known for you and yours (my good night clerk in your emotional hotel).

I wrote Will Stone [a coastguardsman she had met at Antioch] a reply that is so fine that I think I shall correspond with him forever. I think he loves me – tenderly and encouragingly. It has nothing to do with my life or living, and is just there, to taste when I need it. Today I need it, as I lean toward madness (such an escape, such a simple childlike full believing state)…But if I live long enough, if time keeps me whole enough and a living reading writer of my day, perhaps I will go to some conference…The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is; the waves fold over each other; they are in love with themselves; sleeping in their own skin; and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow. I am a mixer of obscure metaphor by ill habit like many minor and unmentioned poets.

Kayo left for two weeks trip this morning. I need him—“women marry what they need—I marry him” (beg pardon to Ciardi)…

I have been a tender heart with Will Stone and he does not feel guilty any longer (I mean, I tried and I think I helped)…

My two girls play with itinerant mices and their small furry fingers hop over my eyes in the morning when I am not admitting that I am awake. After you left I washed “snodgrass tattoos” off four arms. One a picture of you. You came off with soap! The house misses you – Snodgrass is part of our family, it seems.

If you misread this, I will be very angry!! I am not saying anything!! Except that Will Stone wrote me a crazy nice letter and I am writing you the like because you are a night clerk, because you are home with Jan and Buzzy and because I hope you are recovering and because I never meant to confuse you, least of all!

Also when you read my poem I want a critical opinion NOT a friendly one. Poetry is special, is something else. As a poet I admire (not as my night clerk love), I want your real idea, unclothed from you feeling for the writer...Poetry has saved my life and I respect it beyond both or any of us. I love Maxine but when her poems stink I tell her so – because I love poetry and because I love her.

I am going to a mental institution today. I am hearing voices. I am never sane, you know – I pretended to be for your visit and THAT was kind. Although you didn’t know it. I really do want a “nice” letter from you – but a critical opinion of “The Double Image” [TB] (if I knew what was wrong with it I might be sane again and get back to writing it).

At haste

In chaos – df453679;!.l’#!!!!

Anne

P.S. Please allow me the luxury of writing you this kind of confused letter without you misinterpreting it.

From Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters. Edited by Lois Ames and Linda Gray Sexton. New York: Mariner Books, 2004. Pg. 40-42.