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The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.

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
Looks
Thoughtful
Thinking
Reader
Written
Within
Reading
Upon
Reads
Words
Wears
Look
Thinker

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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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 exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
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Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
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Poetry is a means of redemption.
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The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
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To lose sensibility, to see what one sees, As if sight had not its own miraculous thrift, To hear only what one hears, one meaning alone, As if the paradise of meaning ceased To be paradise, it is this to be destitute.
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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.
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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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Everything is complicated if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
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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 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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Spread outward. Crack the round dome. Break through. Have liberty not as the air within a grave Or down a well. Breathe freedom, oh, my native, In the space of horizons that neither love nor hate.
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In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.
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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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Words of the world are the life of the world.
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Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
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Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
Wallace Stevens