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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
Conscious
Reader
Night
Book
Like
Summer
Became
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost.
Wallace Stevens
The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.
Wallace Stevens
Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
Wallace Stevens
The greatest poverty is not to live In a physical world, to feel that one's desire Is too difficult to tell from despair.
Wallace Stevens
Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
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.
Wallace Stevens
I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.
Wallace Stevens
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
Wallace Stevens
Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.
Wallace Stevens
The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
Wallace Stevens
After a lustre of the moon, we say We have not the need of any paradise, We have not the need of any seducing hymn.
Wallace Stevens
Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
Wallace Stevens
I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
Wallace Stevens
The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
Wallace Stevens
The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.
Wallace Stevens
Thought tends to collect in pools.
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Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.
Wallace Stevens
The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
Wallace Stevens
The imperfect is our paradise.
Wallace Stevens
Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
Wallace Stevens
