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There's no such thing as life or if there is, It is faster than the weather, faster than Any character. It is more than any scene: Of the guillotine or of any glamorous hanging.

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
Weather
Faster
Scene
Character
Thing
Life
Guillotine
Glamorous
Hanging

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
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In a world of universal poverty The philosophers alone will be fat Against the autumn winds In an autumn that will be perpetual.
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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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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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I have said no To everything, in order to get at myself. I have wiped away moonlight like mud.
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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.
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The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
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Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.
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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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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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Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
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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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We live in an old chaos of the sun.
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the windy sky Cries out a literate despair.
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Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
Wallace Stevens
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It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
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The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
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The imagination is the power that enables us to perceive the normal in the abnormal, the opposite of chaos in chaos.
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