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The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.

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
Desolate
Except
Within
Would
World

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Realism is a corruption of reality.
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Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
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Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
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The imagination is the liberty of the mind It is intrpeid and eager and the extreme of its achievement lies in abstraction.
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Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
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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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The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
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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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Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
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Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
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The essential fault of surrealism is that it invents without discovering. To make a clam play an accordion is to invent not to discover. The observation of the unconscious, so far as it can be observed, should reveal things of which we have previously been unconscious, not the familiar things of which we have been conscious plus imagination.
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
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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.
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The poet is the priest of the invisible.
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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God is in me or else is not at all.
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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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Everything is complicated if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
Wallace Stevens