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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.

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
Vitality
Cease
Loses
Imagination
Real
Adhere
Ceases

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Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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The night Makes everything grotesque. Is it because Night is the nature of man's interior world?
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At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
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I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.
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Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.
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It gives a man character as a poet to have a daily contact with a job. I doubt whether I've lost a thing by leading an exceedingly regular and disciplined life.
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Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost.
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The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
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We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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God is in me or else is not at all.
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Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
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As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
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Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
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One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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It is poverty's speech that seeks us out the most. It is older than the oldest speech of Rome. This is the tragic accent of the scene.
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There's no such thing as life or if there is, It is faster than the weather, faster than Any character. It is more than any scene: Of the guillotine or of any glamorous hanging.
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The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.
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