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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
Intolerance
Comparison
Religion
Art
People
Toleration
Respecting

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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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Imagination is the will of things. . . .
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After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
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the windy sky Cries out a literate despair.
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Poetry is poetry, and one's objective as a poet is to achieve poetry precisely as one's objective in music is to achieve music.
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The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
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Life is the elimination of what is dead.
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The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
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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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We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.
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The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
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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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The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
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The wind had seized the tree and ha, and ha, It held the shivering, the shaken limbs, Then bathed its body in the leaping lake.
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I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss.
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Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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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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The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
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