Quote

The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.

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
Revenge
Heavy
Cry
Wind
Clarion
Terrible
Bassoon
Came
Tempestuous
Music
Thundering
Bluntly

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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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True villains are extremely photogenic.
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The mind is the terriblest force in the world, father, Because, in chief, it, only, can defend Against itself. At its mercy, we depend Upon it.
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The greatest poverty is not to live In a physical world, to feel that one's desire Is too difficult to tell from despair.
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The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
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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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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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One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guinea, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent.
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It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
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The subject matter... is not that collection of solid, static objects extended in space but the life that is lived in the scene that it composes.
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To a large extent, the problems of poets are the problems of painters, and poets must often turn to the literature of painting for a discussion of their own problems.
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You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.
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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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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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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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The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.
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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 way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.
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