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Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.

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
Philosopher
Value
Along
Perhaps
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Science
Infuriate
Philosophers

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
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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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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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A languid janitor bears His lantern through colonnades And the architecture swoons.
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The fire burns as the novel taught it how.
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The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.
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If the hero is not a person, the emblem Of him, even if Xenophon, seems To stand taller than a person stands, has A wider brow, large and less human Eyes and bruted ears: the man-like body Of a primitive.
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A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.
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The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
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Intolerance respecting other people's religion is toleration itself in comparison with intolerance respecting other people's art.
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The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.
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Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.
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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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Words of the world are the life of the world.
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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.
Wallace Stevens
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Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
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Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
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God is gracious to some very peculiar people.
Wallace Stevens
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Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.
Wallace Stevens