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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.

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
Space
Emptiness
Consolations
Things
Clouds
Statue
Winter
Nameless
Sky
Blew
Summer
Neurosis
Among
Statues
Refill
Took
July
Refills
Genius
Consolation
Jove

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If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.
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An old argument with me is that the true religious force in the world is not the church, but the world itself: the mysterious callings of Nature and our responses.
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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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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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To a large extent, the problems of poets are the problems of painters, and poets must often turn to the literature of painting for a discussion of their own problems.
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The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
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The imperfect is our paradise.
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It may be that the ignorant man, alone, Has any chance to mate his life with life That is the sensual, pearly spouse, the life That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.
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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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Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?
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Everything is complicated if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
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God is gracious to some very peculiar people.
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To name an object is to deprive a poem of three-fourths of its pleasure, which consists in a little-by-little guessing game the ideal is to suggest.
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It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
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Poetry is a means of redemption.
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The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
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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.
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The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
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