Quote

We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy.

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
Objects
Inconstancy
Cause
Violet
Causes
Dove
Universe
Bees
Girl
Thus
Inconstant
Change
Changes
Hyacinths
Girls
Doves
Constant
Violets

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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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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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I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.
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The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.
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I am what is around me.
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The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
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The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
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There's no such thing as life or if there is, It is faster than the weather, faster than Any character. It is more than any scene: Of the guillotine or of any glamorous hanging.
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After a lustre of the moon, we say We have not the need of any paradise, We have not the need of any seducing hymn.
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It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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The fire burns as the novel taught it how.
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The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
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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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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
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The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
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