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Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
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
Walks
Strolling
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Lake
Around
Hiking
Truth
Lakes
Walking
Depends
Walk
Perhaps
Trekking
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
How red the rose that is the soldier
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Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.
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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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I have said no To everything, in order to get at myself. I have wiped away moonlight like mud.
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How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
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Money is a kind of poetry.
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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?
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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
Wallace Stevens
The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
Wallace Stevens
The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
Wallace Stevens
What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
Wallace Stevens
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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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.
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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
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Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.
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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
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Man is an eternal sophomore.
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The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
Wallace Stevens
