Quote

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

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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
Single
Emptiness
Syllable
Sound
Rooted
Syllables
Hard
Leaves
Stalking
Solitude
January
Winter
Firmly
Sky
Hollow
Gawky
Ground
Hops
Stalks
Deep
Ice
Scraping

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At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
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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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I have said no To everything, in order to get at myself. I have wiped away moonlight like mud.
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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
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Thought tends to collect in pools.
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A violent order is disorder and a great disorder is an order. These two things are one.
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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.
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Life is the elimination of what is dead.
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The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
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One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.
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I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am the necessary Angel of earth, since, in my sight, you see the earth again.
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A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.
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Frogs eat Butterflies, Snakes eat Frogs, Hogs eat Snakes, Men eat Hogs.
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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.
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The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is the maximum effect that it will ever have.
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