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Tinsel in February, tinsel in August. There are things in a man besides his reason.
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
Men
Tinsel
February
August
Besides
Reason
Things
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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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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Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.
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A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
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It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
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What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
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Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
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Words of the world are the life of the world.
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Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.
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All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.
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Next to love is the desire for love.
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I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.
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The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
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Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
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It gives a man character as a poet to have a daily contact with a job. I doubt whether I've lost a thing by leading an exceedingly regular and disciplined life.
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After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
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The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
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Life consists Of propositions about life. The human Revery is a solitude in which We compose these propositions, torn by dreams, By the terrible incantations of defeats And by the fear that the defeats and the dreams are one. The whole race is a poet that writes down The eccentric propositions of its fate.
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There's no such thing as life or if there is, It is faster than the weather, faster than Any character. It is more than any scene: Of the guillotine or of any glamorous hanging.
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