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Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails.

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
Life
Parakeet
Parakeets
Mort
Prevails
Amid
Tails
Forest
Forests

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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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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.
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A languid janitor bears His lantern through colonnades And the architecture swoons.
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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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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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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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All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.
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Most poets who have little or nothing to say are concerned primarily with the way in which they say it ... if it is true that the style of a poem and the poem itself are one, ... it may be ... that the poets who have little or nothing to say are, or will be, the poets that matter.
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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
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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 imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
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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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It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time.
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It is the belief and not the god that counts.
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The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
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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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A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.
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Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
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