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The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
Wallace Stevens
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Wallace Stevens
Age: 75 †
Born: 1879
Born: October 2
Died: 1955
Died: August 2
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More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
Wallace Stevens
The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
Wallace Stevens
I have said no To everything, in order to get at myself. I have wiped away moonlight like mud.
Wallace Stevens
I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss.
Wallace Stevens
The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
Wallace Stevens
Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
Wallace Stevens
At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
Wallace Stevens
The chrysanthemums' astringent fragrance comes Each year to disguise the clanking mechanism Of machine within machine within machine.
Wallace Stevens
The imperfect is our paradise.
Wallace Stevens
Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
Wallace Stevens
If the hero is not a person, the emblem Of him, even if Xenophon, seems To stand taller than a person stands, has A wider brow, large and less human Eyes and bruted ears: the man-like body Of a primitive.
Wallace Stevens
New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
Wallace Stevens
If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.
Wallace Stevens
Everything is complicated if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
Wallace Stevens
A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.
Wallace Stevens
It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.
Wallace Stevens
There may be always a time of innocence. There is never a place.
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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.
Wallace Stevens
The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
Wallace Stevens