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I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.
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
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Truth
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Real
Neither
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More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
Wallace Stevens
The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
Wallace Stevens
Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.
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The word is the making of the world
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I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
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The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
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Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun, Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends.
Wallace Stevens
Thought tends to collect in pools.
Wallace Stevens
Imagination is the will of things. . . .
Wallace Stevens
behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
Wallace Stevens
The greatest poverty is not to live In a physical world, to feel that one's desire Is too difficult to tell from despair.
Wallace Stevens
The imagination is man's power over nature.
Wallace Stevens
Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
Wallace Stevens
It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
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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.
Wallace Stevens
The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
Wallace Stevens
Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.
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We live in an old chaos of the sun.
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Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.
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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
Wallace Stevens