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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
Bloodied
Abstraction
Poetry

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The imagination is man's power over nature.
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God is in me or else is not at all.
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A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.
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Union of the weakest develops strength not wisdom. Can all men, together, avenge one of the leaves that have fallen in autumn? But the wise man avenges by building his city in snow.
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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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Life is not free from its forms.
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Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
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Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice
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It gives a man character as a poet to have a daily contact with a job. I doubt whether I've lost a thing by leading an exceedingly regular and disciplined life.
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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 yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.
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The mind can never be satisfied.
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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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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
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It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
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Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
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To live in the world but outside of existing conceptions of it.
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Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost.
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Everything is complicated if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
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