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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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The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
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How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
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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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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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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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Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
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One must read poetry with one's nerves.
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Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
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If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.
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For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
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The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
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The imagination is man's power over nature.
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All poetry is experimental poetry.
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It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.
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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
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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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We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun, Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends.
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