Quote

How cold the vacancy When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist First sees reality. The mortal no Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.

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
Reality
Realism
Firsts
Mortal
First
Emptiness
Mortals
Vacancy
Tragic
Shaken
Sees
Negation
Cold
Phantoms
Gone
Realist

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Imagination is the power of the mind over the possibilities of things.
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I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
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Thought tends to collect in pools.
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The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
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The subject matter... is not that collection of solid, static objects extended in space but the life that is lived in the scene that it composes.
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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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I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am the necessary Angel of earth, since, in my sight, you see the earth again.
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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.
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It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time.
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An old argument with me is that the true religious force in the world is not the church, but the world itself: the mysterious callings of Nature and our responses.
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I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
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The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
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God is gracious to some very peculiar people.
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You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.
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