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The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.
Wallace Stevens
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Wallace Stevens
Age: 75 †
Born: 1879
Born: October 2
Died: 1955
Died: August 2
Journalist
Lawyer
Playwright
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Writer
World
Journey
Beyond
Difficult
Find
Way
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
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The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
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Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
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The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
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What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
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The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
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It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.
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It's not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out of the window.
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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.
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The greatest poverty is not to live In a physical world, to feel that one's desire Is too difficult to tell from despair.
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A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.
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Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
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Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
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At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
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The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
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