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The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
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
Beyond
Wind
Gander
Soul
Discords
Swans
Discord
Flies
Parks
Flight
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
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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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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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.
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And what's above is in the past As sure as all the angels are.
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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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The greatest poverty is not to live In a physical world, to feel that one's desire Is too difficult to tell from despair.
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After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
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.
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Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
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Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.
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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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It is never the thing but the version of the thing: The fragrance of the woman not her self, Her self in her manner not the solid block, The day in its color not perpending time, Time in its weather, our most sovereign lord, The weather in words and words in sounds of sound.
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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.
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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.
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Civilization must be destroyed. The hairy saints of the North have earned this crumb by their complaints.
Wallace Stevens
Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.
Wallace Stevens
