Share
×
Inspirational Quotes
Authors
Professions
Topics
Tags
Quote
I was the world in which I walked.
Wallace Stevens
Share
Change background
T
T
T
Change font
Original
TAGS & TOPICS
Wallace Stevens
Age: 75 †
Born: 1879
Born: October 2
Died: 1955
Died: August 2
Journalist
Lawyer
Playwright
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Writer
Hiking
Walked
Wander
Walking
Journey
Walks
Sauntering
World
Trekking
Strolling
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
Wallace Stevens
The poet is the priest of the invisible.
Wallace Stevens
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
Wallace Stevens
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.
Wallace Stevens
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.
Wallace Stevens
Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Wallace Stevens
The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.
Wallace Stevens
If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.
Wallace Stevens
Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.
Wallace Stevens
Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
Wallace Stevens
Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
Wallace Stevens
God is in me or else is not at all.
Wallace Stevens
They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'
Wallace Stevens
The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
Wallace Stevens
Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
Wallace Stevens
The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
Wallace Stevens
After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
Wallace Stevens
Poetry is the scholar's art.
Wallace Stevens
I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
Wallace Stevens
The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
Wallace Stevens