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This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.

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
Semi
Dove
Dirt
Moon
Possible
Mangled
World
Blot
Winged
Hacked

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One must read poetry with one's nerves.
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Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
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It gives a man character as a poet to have a daily contact with a job. I doubt whether I've lost a thing by leading an exceedingly regular and disciplined life.
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The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.
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The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
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A change of style is a change of meaning.
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Union of the weakest develops strength not wisdom. Can all men, together, avenge one of the leaves that have fallen in autumn? But the wise man avenges by building his city in snow.
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The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
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The essential fault of surrealism is that it invents without discovering. To make a clam play an accordion is to invent not to discover. The observation of the unconscious, so far as it can be observed, should reveal things of which we have previously been unconscious, not the familiar things of which we have been conscious plus imagination.
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All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.
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The imagination is one of the forces of nature.
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After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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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.
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It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
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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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Thus the theory of description matters most. It is the theory of the word for those For whom the word is the making of the world, The buzzing world and lisping firmament.
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The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
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