Quote

You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.

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
Without
Wind
Cripple
Like
Dead
Cripples
Tree
Autumn
Half
Repeats
Words
Moves
Moving
Trees
Fall
Leaves
Everything
Among

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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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I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am the necessary Angel of earth, since, in my sight, you see the earth again.
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Money is a kind of poetry.
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the windy sky Cries out a literate despair.
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They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'
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Man is an eternal sophomore.
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The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
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Make the visible a little hard to see.
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It is the mind that is woven, the mind that was jerked And tufted in straggling thunder and shattered sun.
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Disillusion is the last illusion.
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Union of the weakest develops strength not wisdom. Can all men, together, avenge one of the leaves that have fallen in autumn? But the wise man avenges by building his city in snow.
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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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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
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A violent order is disorder and a great disorder is an order. These two things are one.
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in the presence of extraordinary actuality, consciousness takes the place of imagination.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is the maximum effect that it will ever have.
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I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
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This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.
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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.
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