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I have said no To everything, in order to get at myself. I have wiped away moonlight like mud.

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
Rejection
Away
Order
Everything
Like
Wiped
Mud
Moonlight

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How red the rose that is the soldier
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It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
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The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
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Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
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The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
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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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Unless we believe in the hero, what is there To believe? Incisive what, the fellow Of what good. Devise. Make him of mud.
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How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
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Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
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Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
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It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
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The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
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I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
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They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'
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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.
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Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.
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Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
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