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The chrysanthemums' astringent fragrance comes Each year to disguise the clanking mechanism Of machine within machine within machine.
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
Machine
Machines
Year
Within
Comes
Chrysanthemums
Nature
Fragrance
Years
Disguise
Mechanism
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
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We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy.
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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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Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
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One must read poetry with one's nerves.
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In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.
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I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
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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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What is one man among so many men? What are so many men in such a world? Can one man think one thing and think it long? Can one man be one thing and be it long?
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Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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Poetry has to be something more than a conception of the mind. It has to be a revelation of nature. Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
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The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
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The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
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