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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .

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
People
Tribute
Mystical
Magical
Trees
Standing
Magic
Tree
Called
Cherokee

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The mind can never be satisfied.
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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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Words of the world are the life of the world.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
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Next to love is the desire for love.
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How red the rose that is the soldier
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Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
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That tuft of jungle feathers, That animal eye, Is just what you say. That savage of fire, That seed, Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad.
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As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
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What is there in life except one's ideas, Good air, good friend, what is there in life?
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The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.
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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?
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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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The word is the making of the world
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The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
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Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
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The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
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