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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

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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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The mind is the terriblest force in the world, father, Because, in chief, it, only, can defend Against itself. At its mercy, we depend Upon it.
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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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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
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Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
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Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.
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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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All poetry is experimental poetry.
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Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
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Man is an eternal sophomore.
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One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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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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Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
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Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.
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Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?
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Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.
Wallace Stevens
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Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.
Wallace Stevens
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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.
Wallace Stevens