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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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
Every
Squeak
Make
Dolls
Like
Trembling
Wished
Sex
Hand
Words
Hands
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Life is not free from its forms.
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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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On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains.
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The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
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Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
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Man is an eternal sophomore.
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Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
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God is gracious to some very peculiar people.
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The imagination is the power that enables us to perceive the normal in the abnormal, the opposite of chaos in chaos.
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The mind is smaller than the eye.
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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 poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
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The night Makes everything grotesque. Is it because Night is the nature of man's interior world?
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The subject matter... is not that collection of solid, static objects extended in space but the life that is lived in the scene that it composes.
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Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.
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Disillusion is the last illusion.
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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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It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.
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The heavy trees, The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust, The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.
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Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
Wallace Stevens
