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As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.

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
Terrible
Grows
Literature
Life

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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Words of the world are the life of the world.
Wallace Stevens
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Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
Wallace Stevens
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The imagination is man's power over nature.
Wallace Stevens
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The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
Wallace Stevens
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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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At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
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Make the visible a little hard to see.
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Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
Wallace Stevens
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One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.
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Ethics are no more a part of poetry than theyare of painting.
Wallace Stevens
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
Wallace Stevens
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The mind is smaller than the eye.
Wallace Stevens
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The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
Wallace Stevens
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The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
Wallace Stevens
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Life is not free from its forms.
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Poetry is the scholar's art.
Wallace Stevens
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One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guinea, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent.
Wallace Stevens
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The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
Wallace Stevens
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Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in the falling snow Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights All pleasures and all pains, remembering The boughs of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul.
Wallace Stevens
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What is one man among so many men? What are so many men in such a world? Can one man think one thing and think it long? Can one man be one thing and be it long?
Wallace Stevens