Quote

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
Lawyer
Playwright
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Writer
Beholds
Listens
Listener
Listeners
Snow
Nothing

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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Man is an eternal sophomore.
Wallace Stevens
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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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The imagination is one of the forces of nature.
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Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
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Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
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A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.
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I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am the necessary Angel of earth, since, in my sight, you see the earth again.
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We say God and the imagination are one... How high that highest candle lights the dark.
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In the same way, you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon- The obscure moon lighting an obscure world Of thing that would never be quite expressed, Where you yourself were never quite yourself And did not want nor have to be.
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The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
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Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
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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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How cold the vacancy When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist First sees reality. The mortal no Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.
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It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
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The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.
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The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
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Imagination is the will of things. . . .
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It's not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out of the window.
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Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
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The poet is the priest of the invisible.
Wallace Stevens