Quote

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

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
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We live in an old chaos of the sun.
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Life is not free from its forms.
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The fire burns as the novel taught it how.
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The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
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Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice
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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
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After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
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Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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Most poets who have little or nothing to say are concerned primarily with the way in which they say it ... if it is true that the style of a poem and the poem itself are one, ... it may be ... that the poets who have little or nothing to say are, or will be, the poets that matter.
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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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behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
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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 reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
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Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
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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
Wallace Stevens
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Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
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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.
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People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.
Wallace Stevens