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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.

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
Resemblance
Poetry
Desire
Art

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
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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 is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
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Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
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Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost.
Wallace Stevens
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Poetry has to be something more than a conception of the mind. It has to be a revelation of nature. Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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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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To name an object is to deprive a poem of three-fourths of its pleasure, which consists in a little-by-little guessing game the ideal is to suggest.
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The mind is smaller than the eye.
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The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written.
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The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
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Next to love is the desire for love.
Wallace Stevens
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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.
Wallace Stevens
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The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
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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 muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.
Wallace Stevens
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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
Wallace Stevens
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What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
Wallace Stevens