Quote

Spread outward. Crack the round dome. Break through. Have liberty not as the air within a grave Or down a well. Breathe freedom, oh, my native, In the space of horizons that neither love nor hate.

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
Freedom
Breathe
Outward
Hate
Spread
Cracks
Neither
Grave
Wells
Air
Horizon
Well
Liberty
Graves
Dome
Love
Break
Native
Domes
Within
Round
Horizons
Space
Rounds
Crack

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.
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An old argument with me is that the true religious force in the world is not the church, but the world itself: the mysterious callings of Nature and our responses.
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The poet is the priest of the invisible.
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Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
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I was the world in which I walked.
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The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
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To name an object is to deprive a poem of three-fourths of its pleasure, which consists in a little-by-little guessing game the ideal is to suggest.
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I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is the maximum effect that it will ever have.
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True villains are extremely photogenic.
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Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.
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Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
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The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
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Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice
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The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
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Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
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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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The mind is smaller than the eye.
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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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The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
Wallace Stevens