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The night Makes everything grotesque. Is it because Night is the nature of man's interior world?
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
Men
World
Grotesque
Interior
Interiors
Makes
Night
Nature
Everything
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
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The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.
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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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How cold the vacancy When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist First sees reality. The mortal no Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.
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Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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The point of vision and desire are the same.
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God and the imagination are one.
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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 deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
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I measure myself Against a tall tree I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun With my eye And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way the ants crawl In and out of my shadow.
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I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
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The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
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A violent order is disorder and a great disorder is an order. These two things are one.
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Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
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Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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