Quote

Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.

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
World
Room
Beyond
Rooms
Cloud
Walks
Consists
Four
Hills
Understanding
Clouds
Three
Surface
Things
Walk

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Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
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The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
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We say God and the imagination are one... How high that highest candle lights the dark.
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The imagination is the liberty of the mind It is intrpeid and eager and the extreme of its achievement lies in abstraction.
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After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
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Fat girl, terrestrial, my summer, my night, How is it I find you in difference, see you there In a moving contour, a change not quite completed? You are familiar yet an aberration.
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A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
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A languid janitor bears His lantern through colonnades And the architecture swoons.
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Two things of opposite natures seem to depend / One on another, as Logos depends / On Eros, day on night, the imagined On the real. / This is the origin of change.
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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
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In a world of universal poverty The philosophers alone will be fat Against the autumn winds In an autumn that will be perpetual.
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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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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.
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The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
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the windy sky Cries out a literate despair.
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