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It is the mind that is woven, the mind that was jerked And tufted in straggling thunder and shattered sun.

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
Jerked
Shattered
Woven
Thunder
Sun
Mind

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The imagination is the liberty of the mind It is intrpeid and eager and the extreme of its achievement lies in abstraction.
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That tuft of jungle feathers, That animal eye, Is just what you say. That savage of fire, That seed, Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad.
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A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.
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The wind had seized the tree and ha, and ha, It held the shivering, the shaken limbs, Then bathed its body in the leaping lake.
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One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guinea, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent.
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Poetry is a means of redemption.
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I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
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You know that the nucleus of a time is not The poet but the poem, the growth of the mind Of the world, the heroic effort to live expressed As victory. The poet does not speak in ruins Nor stand there making orotund consolations. He shares the confusions of intelligence.
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Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
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Intolerance respecting other people's religion is toleration itself in comparison with intolerance respecting other people's art.
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The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
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The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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There may be always a time of innocence. There is never a place.
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Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
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They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'
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The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.
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How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
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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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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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If the hero is not a person, the emblem Of him, even if Xenophon, seems To stand taller than a person stands, has A wider brow, large and less human Eyes and bruted ears: the man-like body Of a primitive.
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