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The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.

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
Physical
Reality
World
Realism
Meaningless
Tonight

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Everything is complicated if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
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Next to love is the desire for love.
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Life is the elimination of what is dead.
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One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.
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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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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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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.
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A change of style is a change of meaning.
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The mind can never be satisfied.
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The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
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One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.
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Life is not free from its forms.
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Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
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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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The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.
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.
Wallace Stevens
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To a large extent, the problems of poets are the problems of painters, and poets must often turn to the literature of painting for a discussion of their own problems.
Wallace Stevens