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

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.
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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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in the presence of extraordinary actuality, consciousness takes the place of imagination.
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Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
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Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
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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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It gives a man character as a poet to have a daily contact with a job. I doubt whether I've lost a thing by leading an exceedingly regular and disciplined life.
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Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.
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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
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Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
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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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Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.
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Two things of opposite natures seem to depend / One on another, as Logos depends / On Eros, day on night, the imagined On the real. / This is the origin of change.
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A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.
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The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
Wallace Stevens
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Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
Wallace Stevens
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Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.
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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
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On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains.
Wallace Stevens
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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.
Wallace Stevens