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Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?

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
Real
Kissed
Realism
Parent
Spirit
Else
Jingling
Reality
Cupped
Come
Bride
Self
Brides

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God is in me or else is not at all.
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The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
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I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.
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I measure myself Against a tall tree I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun With my eye And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way the ants crawl In and out of my shadow.
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A change of style is a change of meaning.
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True villains are extremely photogenic.
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One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow
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I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
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Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
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Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.
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The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
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The point of vision and desire are the same.
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This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
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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.
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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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The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
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If the hero is not a person, the emblem Of him, even if Xenophon, seems To stand taller than a person stands, has A wider brow, large and less human Eyes and bruted ears: the man-like body Of a primitive.
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