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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.
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
Come
Plain
Things
Fallen
Leaves
Return
Imagination
Savoir
Fall
Inert
Sense
Inanimate
Ends
Autumn
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.
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Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
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I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.
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The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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Poetry is the scholar's art.
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Imagination is the will of things. . . .
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One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guinea, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent.
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The mind can never be satisfied.
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I was the world in which I walked.
Wallace Stevens
It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
Wallace Stevens
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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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?
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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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One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.
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Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.
Wallace Stevens
The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
Wallace Stevens
Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
Wallace Stevens
To lose sensibility, to see what one sees, As if sight had not its own miraculous thrift, To hear only what one hears, one meaning alone, As if the paradise of meaning ceased To be paradise, it is this to be destitute.
Wallace Stevens
