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the windy sky Cries out a literate despair.

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
Windy
Literate
Cries
Sky
Despair
Cry

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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
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On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains.
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True villains are extremely photogenic.
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Poetry is poetry, and one's objective as a poet is to achieve poetry precisely as one's objective in music is to achieve music.
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It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
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The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
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The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
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Poetry is a means of redemption.
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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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Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
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I am what is around me.
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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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Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
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In a world of universal poverty The philosophers alone will be fat Against the autumn winds In an autumn that will be perpetual.
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The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
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We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.
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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
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Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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