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The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.

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
Summer
Became
Conscious
Reader
Night
Book
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All poetry is experimental poetry.
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We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
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You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.
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We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy.
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.
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The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
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The imagination is one of the forces of nature.
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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
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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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That tuft of jungle feathers, That animal eye, Is just what you say. That savage of fire, That seed, Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad.
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The mind is the terriblest force in the world, father, Because, in chief, it, only, can defend Against itself. At its mercy, we depend Upon it.
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Thought tends to collect in pools.
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Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
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The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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It is never the thing but the version of the thing: The fragrance of the woman not her self, Her self in her manner not the solid block, The day in its color not perpending time, Time in its weather, our most sovereign lord, The weather in words and words in sounds of sound.
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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.
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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.
Wallace Stevens