Quote

Two things of opposite natures seem to depend / One on another, as Logos depends / On Eros, day on night, the imagined On the real. / This is the origin of change.

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
Two
Imagined
Seems
Depend
Change
Opposite
Real
Opposites
Things
Depends
Eros
Seem
Logos
Night
Natures
Another
Origin

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It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
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We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
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Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
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To regard the imagination as metaphysics is to think of it as part of life, and to think of it as part of life is to realize the extent of artifice. We live in the mind.
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The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
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It's not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out of the window.
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People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.
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I can't make head or tail of Life. Love is a fine thing, Art is a fine thing, Nature is a fine thing but the average human mind and spirit are confusing beyond measure. Sometimes I think that all our learning is the little learning of the maxim. To laugh at a Roman awe-stricken in a sacred grove is to laugh at something today.
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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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All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.
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I am what is around me.
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The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
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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.
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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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The word is the making of the world
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in the presence of extraordinary actuality, consciousness takes the place of imagination.
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Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
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Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
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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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Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.
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