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The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
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
Delight
Stubborn
Notes
Flawed
Perfection
Bitterness
Lies
Note
Since
Imperfect
Lying
Paradise
Sound
Hot
Words
Sounds
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
If ever the search for a tranquil belief should end, The future might stop emerging out of the past, Out of what is full of us yet the search And the future emerging out of us seem to be one.
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Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.
Wallace Stevens
The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written.
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Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
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All poetry is experimental poetry.
Wallace Stevens
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.
Wallace Stevens
We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.
Wallace Stevens
The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
Wallace Stevens
It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.
Wallace Stevens
To lose sensibility, to see what one sees, As if sight had not its own miraculous thrift, To hear only what one hears, one meaning alone, As if the paradise of meaning ceased To be paradise, it is this to be destitute.
Wallace Stevens
Imagination is the will of things. . . .
Wallace Stevens
Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in the falling snow Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights All pleasures and all pains, remembering The boughs of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul.
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I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
Wallace Stevens
Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.
Wallace Stevens
The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
Wallace Stevens
Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
Wallace Stevens
The heavy trees, The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust, The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.
Wallace Stevens
Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
Wallace Stevens
The imagination is one of the forces of nature.
Wallace Stevens
Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
Wallace Stevens
