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The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.

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
Reader
House
Book
World
Calm
Became
Quiet

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Next to love is the desire for love.
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Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
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The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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The death of Satan was a tragedy For the imagination.
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The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.
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The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.
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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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Imagination is the power of the mind over the possibilities of things.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.
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Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
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One must read poetry with one's nerves.
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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.
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Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.
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To regard the imagination as metaphysics is to think of it as part of life, and to think of it as part of life is to realize the extent of artifice. We live in the mind.
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The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
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Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
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One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow
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All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.
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Life is an affair of people not of places. But for me, life is an affair of places and that is the trouble.
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