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behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.

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
Behold
Believes
Car
None
Approach
Believe
Pagan

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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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That tuft of jungle feathers, That animal eye, Is just what you say. That savage of fire, That seed, Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad.
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A change of style is a change of meaning.
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There may be always a time of innocence. There is never a place.
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Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
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Poetry has to be something more than a conception of the mind. It has to be a revelation of nature. Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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I can't make head or tail of Life. Love is a fine thing, Art is a fine thing, Nature is a fine thing but the average human mind and spirit are confusing beyond measure. Sometimes I think that all our learning is the little learning of the maxim. To laugh at a Roman awe-stricken in a sacred grove is to laugh at something today.
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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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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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All poetry is experimental poetry.
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The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
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Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
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Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
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The imperfect is our paradise.
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Spread outward. Crack the round dome. Break through. Have liberty not as the air within a grave Or down a well. Breathe freedom, oh, my native, In the space of horizons that neither love nor hate.
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The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
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Poetry is a means of redemption.
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One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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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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