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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.
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
Unless
Belief
Incisive
Devise
Believe
Heroines
Make
Mud
Good
Fellow
Fellows
Hero
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Disillusion is the last illusion.
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Poetry is poetry, and one's objective as a poet is to achieve poetry precisely as one's objective in music is to achieve music.
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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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At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
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The word is the making of the world
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The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.
Wallace Stevens
Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
Wallace Stevens
Thought tends to collect in pools.
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The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.
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It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.
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Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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The night Makes everything grotesque. Is it because Night is the nature of man's interior world?
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
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The mind is the terriblest force in the world, father, Because, in chief, it, only, can defend Against itself. At its mercy, we depend Upon it.
Wallace Stevens
Cold is our element and winter's air Brings voices as of lions coming down.
Wallace Stevens
Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.
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We live in an old chaos of the sun.
Wallace Stevens
