Quote

Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.

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
Like
Sharp
Suicide
Whose
Butcher
Blood
Butchers
Grows
Incessant
Freedom
Knife
Night
Kills
Men
Knives

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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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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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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If the hero is not a person, the emblem Of him, even if Xenophon, seems To stand taller than a person stands, has A wider brow, large and less human Eyes and bruted ears: the man-like body Of a primitive.
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The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
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Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
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The imagination is the liberty of the mind It is intrpeid and eager and the extreme of its achievement lies in abstraction.
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...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
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All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.
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Fat girl, terrestrial, my summer, my night, How is it I find you in difference, see you there In a moving contour, a change not quite completed? You are familiar yet an aberration.
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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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For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
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Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
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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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Intolerance respecting other people's religion is toleration itself in comparison with intolerance respecting other people's art.
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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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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.
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Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
Wallace Stevens