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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.

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
Revolution
Lunatics
Logical
Affair

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Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
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The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.
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Ethics are no more a part of poetry than theyare of painting.
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The fire burns as the novel taught it how.
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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.
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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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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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They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'
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If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.
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Disillusion is the last illusion.
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After a lustre of the moon, we say We have not the need of any paradise, We have not the need of any seducing hymn.
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The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
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New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written.
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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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It is the mind that is woven, the mind that was jerked And tufted in straggling thunder and shattered sun.
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