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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.

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
Pierces
Pierce
Nonsense
Relation
Strange
Life

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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is the maximum effect that it will ever have.
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The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
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Man is an eternal sophomore.
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The heavy trees, The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust, The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.
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The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
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The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
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The imagination is one of the forces of nature.
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It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
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The night Makes everything grotesque. Is it because Night is the nature of man's interior world?
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The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
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We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy.
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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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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
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The poet is the priest of the invisible.
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Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
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The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
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Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.
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Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
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The imperfect is our paradise.
Wallace Stevens