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Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
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
Beautiful
Unmoved
Perishable
Artificial
Flowers
Flower
Beauty
Death
Mother
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.
Wallace Stevens
The subject matter... is not that collection of solid, static objects extended in space but the life that is lived in the scene that it composes.
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It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
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Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.
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An old argument with me is that the true religious force in the world is not the church, but the world itself: the mysterious callings of Nature and our responses.
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The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
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The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
Wallace Stevens
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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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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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.
Wallace Stevens
Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
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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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The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
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Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.
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One must read poetry with one's nerves.
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
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How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
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Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
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