Best 266 of Wallace Stevens quotes - MyQuotes

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Wallace Stevens
By Anonym 19 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" I Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird. II I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. III The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime. IV A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a blackbird Are one. V I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after. VI Icicles filled the long window With barbaric glass. The shadow of the blackbird Crossed it, to and fro. The mood Traced in the shadow An indecipherable cause. VII O thin men of Haddam, Why do you imagine golden birds? Do you not see how the blackbird Walks around the feet Of the women about you? VIII I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know. IX When the blackbird flew out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles. X At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply. XI He rode over Connecticut In a glass coach. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his equipage For blackbirds. XII The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying. XIII It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

So, too, if, to our surprise, we should meet one of these morons whose remarks are so conspicuous a part of the folklore of the world of the radio--remarks made without using either the tongue or the brain, spouted much like the spoutings of small whales--we should recognize him as below the level of nature but not as below the level of the imagination.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Make the visible a little hard to see.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

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

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Wallace Stevens

…the imagination gives to everything that it touches a peculiarity, and it seems to me that the peculiarity of the imagination is nobility, of which there are many degrees. This inherent nobility is the natural source of another, which our extremely headstrong generation regards as false and decadent. I mean that nobility which is our spiritual height and depth; and while I know how difficult it is to express it, nevertheless I am bound to give a sense of it. Nothing could be more evasive and inaccessible. Nothing distorts itself and seeks disguise more quickly. There is a shame of disclosing it and in its definite presentations a horror of it. But there it is.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

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

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 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

I can't make head or tail of Life. Love is a fine thing, Art is a fine thing, Nature is a fine thing; but the average human mind and spirit are confusing beyond measure. Sometimes I think that all our learning is the little learning of the maxim. To laugh at a Roman awe-stricken in a sacred grove is to laugh at something today.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Intolerance respecting other people's religion is toleration itself in comparison with intolerance respecting other people's art.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The imagination is one of the forces of nature.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The death of one god is the death of all.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Consider the odd morphology of regret.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is the maximum effect that it will ever have.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

There is not any haunt of prophecy, Nor any old chimera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured As April's green endures; or will endure Like her remembrance of awakened birds, Or her desire for June and evening, tipped By the consummation of the swallow's wings.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Poetry is a means of redemption.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

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

By Anonym 19 Sep

Wallace Stevens

There will never be an end To this droning of the surf.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

There's no such thing as life; or if there is, It is faster than the weather, faster than Any character. It is more than any scene: Of the guillotine or of any glamorous hanging.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.

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 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The poet is the priest of the invisible.

By Anonym 19 Sep

Wallace Stevens

There is a perfect rout of characters in every man—and every man is like an actor’s trunk, full of strange creatures, new & old. But an actor and his trunk are two different things

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The night Makes everything grotesque. Is it because Night is the nature of man's interior world?

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 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

Thus the theory of description matters most. It is the theory of the word for those For whom the word is the making of the world, The buzzing world and lisping firmament.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

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

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The wind had seized the tree and ha, and ha, It held the shivering, the shaken limbs, Then bathed its body in the leaping lake.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

LIGHT FROM WITHIN my friend, cancer got you damn it: you had it beat for seven years at least. how did it come back? Why all that pain. again. and you, such a fighter you fought me over and over with tears and words and promises. you fought for me with honesty and a light so bright it hurts my heart. sweet lorna. at peace now finally no more battles, just light from within a flickering candle in the dark burns with you.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

We say God and the imagination are one... How high that highest candle lights the dark.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

To lose sensibility, to see what one sees, As if sight had not its own miraculous thrift, To hear only what one hears, one meaning alone, As if the paradise of meaning ceased To be paradise, it is this to be destitute.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Wallace Stevens

All poetry is experimental poetry.

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 15 Sep

Wallace Stevens

The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation; and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Wallace Stevens

It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Wallace Stevens

It was soldier's went marching over the rocks, and still they came in watery flocks, because it was spring and the birds had to come, No doubt that soldier's had to be marching, and that the drums had to be rolling, rolling, rolling