I’ve been reading quite a bit of Anne Sexton lately, and I noticed that on the back of all my tattered, spine-taped copies of her books there is a photograph of the lovely woman smoking. Always smoking. She was a woman who enjoyed a cigarette, apparently.
(And she wasn’t the only one. There is a book called The Writer’s Desk. If I’m not mistaken, I think it’s fairly difficult to get a copy. I think Kurt Vonnegut’s wife took the photographs? Anyway, in that book, which would make a great holiday gift if you can track one down, there are photographs of a ton of writers at their desks. So many of them have ash trays and cigarettes within reach. One of the writers has multiple open packs on his desk. So here are my questions: What’s the relationship between writing and smoking? Are you a smoker? When do you smoke? When do you write? Does one lead to the other? Is there a direct relationship?)
God, she was beautiful, wasn’t she?
Here are some words:
We are not lovers.
We do not even know each other.
We look alike
but we have nothing to say.
We are like pigeons . . .
Good bye, Anne Sexton. I’m sorry I never knew you. I would have liked to have had a smoke with you.