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Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.

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
Looking
Else
Unreal
Crowd
Crowds
Foolish
Mirrors
Walking
Everybody

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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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You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.
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The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
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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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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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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
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God is gracious to some very peculiar people.
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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It is never the thing but the version of the thing: The fragrance of the woman not her self, Her self in her manner not the solid block, The day in its color not perpending time, Time in its weather, our most sovereign lord, The weather in words and words in sounds of sound.
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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
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I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
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An old argument with me is that the true religious force in the world is not the church, but the world itself: the mysterious callings of Nature and our responses.
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The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
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Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
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The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.
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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.
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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
Wallace Stevens
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All poetry is experimental poetry.
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The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
Wallace Stevens
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I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.
Wallace Stevens