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For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Wallace Stevens
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Wallace Stevens
Age: 75 †
Born: 1879
Born: October 2
Died: 1955
Died: August 2
Journalist
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Poet
Poet Lawyer
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Snow
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More quotes by Wallace Stevens
God is gracious to some very peculiar people.
Wallace Stevens
The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.
Wallace Stevens
It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
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At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
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The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
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It is the belief and not the god that counts.
Wallace Stevens
The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
Wallace Stevens
I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
Wallace Stevens
Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
Wallace Stevens
Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
Wallace Stevens
Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
Wallace Stevens
Life consists Of propositions about life. The human Revery is a solitude in which We compose these propositions, torn by dreams, By the terrible incantations of defeats And by the fear that the defeats and the dreams are one. The whole race is a poet that writes down The eccentric propositions of its fate.
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Spread outward. Crack the round dome. Break through. Have liberty not as the air within a grave Or down a well. Breathe freedom, oh, my native, In the space of horizons that neither love nor hate.
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Realism is a corruption of reality.
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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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How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
Wallace Stevens
You know that the nucleus of a time is not The poet but the poem, the growth of the mind Of the world, the heroic effort to live expressed As victory. The poet does not speak in ruins Nor stand there making orotund consolations. He shares the confusions of intelligence.
Wallace Stevens