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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.

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
Eye
Feathers
Way
Savages
World
Jungle
People
Seed
Seeds
Ugly
Fire
Animal
Savage

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As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
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I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.
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I have said no To everything, in order to get at myself. I have wiped away moonlight like mud.
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Everything is complicated if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
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Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?
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Make the visible a little hard to see.
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The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
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A languid janitor bears His lantern through colonnades And the architecture swoons.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is the maximum effect that it will ever have.
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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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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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The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
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The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
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I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
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