Quote

Thus the theory of description matters most. It is the theory of the word for those For whom the word is the making of the world, The buzzing world and lisping firmament.

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
Word
Making
Lisping
Matter
Buzzing
World
Firmament
Description
Thus
Matters
Theory

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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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Ethics are no more a part of poetry than theyare of painting.
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The chrysanthemums' astringent fragrance comes Each year to disguise the clanking mechanism Of machine within machine within machine.
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The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.
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Civilization must be destroyed. The hairy saints of the North have earned this crumb by their complaints.
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It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
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Life is the elimination of what is dead.
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Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
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The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
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God and the imagination are one.
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Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
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I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.
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The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
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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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And what's above is in the past As sure as all the angels are.
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Poetry is a means of redemption.
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It may be that the ignorant man, alone, Has any chance to mate his life with life That is the sensual, pearly spouse, the life That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.
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I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss.
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I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
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