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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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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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The imagination is man's power over nature.
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The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
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The poet is the priest of the invisible.
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The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
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I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.
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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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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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Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
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One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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Ethics are no more a part of poetry than theyare of painting.
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As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
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Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
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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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Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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The word is the making of the world
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