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The death of Satan was a tragedy For the imagination.

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
Satan
Tragedy
Imagination
Death

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At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
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The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
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Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.
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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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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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If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.
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Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
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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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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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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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Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
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The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
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The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
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Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.
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The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
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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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The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
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What is there in life except one's ideas, Good air, good friend, what is there in life?
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Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
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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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