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It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
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
Known
Shrivel
Would
Ardor
Excites
Scholars
Scholar
Boredom
Unknown
Alone
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
Wallace Stevens
Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
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The point of vision and desire are the same.
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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
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A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.
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The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.
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The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.
Wallace Stevens
Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?
Wallace Stevens
Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
Wallace Stevens
The poet is the priest of the invisible.
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All poetry is experimental poetry.
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Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.
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Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
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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 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.
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The heavy trees, The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust, The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.
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Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.
Wallace Stevens
On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains.
Wallace Stevens