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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.
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
Made
Wilderness
Hills
Round
Slovenly
Rounds
Tennessee
Upon
Jars
Artist
Hill
Art
Placed
Nature
Surround
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Tinsel in February, tinsel in August. There are things in a man besides his reason.
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We live in an old chaos of the sun.
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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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I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.
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Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun, Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends.
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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 word is the making of the world
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Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
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The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
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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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It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
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The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
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The death of Satan was a tragedy For the imagination.
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Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
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It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.
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At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
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How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
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The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.
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Sentimentality is a failure of feeling.
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