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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.
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
Mind
Abstraction
Extreme
Extremes
Achievement
Lies
Liberty
Imagination
Lying
Eager
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.
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The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
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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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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 final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.
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The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.
Wallace Stevens
Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.
Wallace Stevens
The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
Wallace Stevens
A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
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It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
Wallace Stevens
If ever the search for a tranquil belief should end, The future might stop emerging out of the past, Out of what is full of us yet the search And the future emerging out of us seem to be one.
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...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
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How cold the vacancy When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist First sees reality. The mortal no Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.
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Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.
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The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
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It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.
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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
Wallace Stevens
Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
Wallace Stevens