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Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

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
Poetry
Bloodied
Abstraction

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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Tinsel in February, tinsel in August. There are things in a man besides his reason.
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If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.
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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 most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
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I can't make head or tail of Life. Love is a fine thing, Art is a fine thing, Nature is a fine thing but the average human mind and spirit are confusing beyond measure. Sometimes I think that all our learning is the little learning of the maxim. To laugh at a Roman awe-stricken in a sacred grove is to laugh at something today.
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The mind is smaller than the eye.
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behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
Wallace Stevens
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A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.
Wallace Stevens
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God and the imagination are one.
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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
Wallace Stevens
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Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
Wallace Stevens
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Imagination is the will of things. . . .
Wallace Stevens
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How cold the vacancy When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist First sees reality. The mortal no Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.
Wallace Stevens
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It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time.
Wallace Stevens
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At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
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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 figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
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The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.
Wallace Stevens
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Man is an eternal sophomore.
Wallace Stevens
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
Wallace Stevens