Best 266 of Wallace Stevens quotes - MyQuotes

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Wallace Stevens
By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The heavy trees, The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust, The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Fat girl, terrestrial, my summer, my night, How is it I find you in difference, see you there In a moving contour, a change not quite completed? You are familiar yet an aberration.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

I was the world in which I walked.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

One ought not to hoard culture. It should be adapted and infused into society as a leaven. Liberality of culture does not mean illiberality of its benefits.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

You know that the nucleus of a time is not The poet but the poem, the growth of the mind Of the world, the heroic effort to live expressed As victory. The poet does not speak in ruins Nor stand there making orotund consolations. He shares the confusions of intelligence.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The imagination is the liberty of the mind It is intrpeid and eager and the extreme of its achievement lies in abstraction.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Imagination is the power of the mind over the possibilities of things.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

the windy sky Cries out a literate despair.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

What is one man among so many men? What are so many men in such a world? Can one man think one thing and think it long? Can one man be one thing and be it long?

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

A change of style is a change of meaning.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The people in the world, and the objects in it, and the world as a whole, are not absolute things, but on the contrary, are the phenomena of perception... If we were all alike: if we were millions of people saying do, re, mi, in unison, One poet would be enough... But we are not alone, and everything needs expounding all the time because, as people live and die, each one perceiving life and death for himself, and mostly by and in himself, there develops a curiosity about the perceptions of others. This is what makes it possible to go on saying new things about old things.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Life is an affair of people not of places. But for me, life is an affair of places and that is the trouble.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

in the presence of extraordinary actuality, consciousness takes the place of imagination.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

To regard the imagination as metaphysics is to think of it as part of life, and to think of it as part of life is to realize the extent of artifice. We live in the mind.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Man is an eternal sophomore.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

To a large extent, the problems of poets are the problems of painters, and poets must often turn to the literature of painting for a discussion of their own problems.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

All poetry is experimental poetry.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in the falling snow; Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms; gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; All pleasures and all pains, remembering The boughs of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.

By Anonym 19 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The way through the world Is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Cold is our element and winter's air Brings voices as of lions coming down.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.

By Anonym 19 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain There it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a mountain. He breathed its oxygen, Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table. It reminded him how he had needed A place to go to in his own direction How he had recomposed the pines, Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds For the outlook that would be right, Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion: The exact rock where his inexactness Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged Where he could lie and gazing down at the sea, Recognize his unique and solitary home.