Quote

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.

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
Sea
Saws
Truly
Strange
Heard
Came
Felt
Compass
Found
Walked

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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Poetry is the scholar's art.
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Realism is a corruption of reality.
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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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People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.
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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
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You know that the nucleus of a time is not The poet but the poem, the growth of the mind Of the world, the heroic effort to live expressed As victory. The poet does not speak in ruins Nor stand there making orotund consolations. He shares the confusions of intelligence.
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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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The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
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One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.
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The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
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Unless we believe in the hero, what is there To believe? Incisive what, the fellow Of what good. Devise. Make him of mud.
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Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
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It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
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Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow
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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
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A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.
Wallace Stevens