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

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
Toleration
Respecting
Intolerance
Comparison
Religion
Art
People

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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.
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There may be always a time of innocence. There is never a place.
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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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Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
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God is in me or else is not at all.
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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.
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The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
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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.'
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As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
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Poetry is the scholar's art.
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Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
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We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy.
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It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.
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Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
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On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains.
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We live in an old chaos of the sun.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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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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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
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I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
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