99+ Wallace Stevens Quotes on Poetry, People and Poetry - Quotes.pub

Here you will find all the famous Wallace Stevens quotes. There are more than 99+ quotes in our Wallace Stevens quotes collection. We have collected all of them and made stunning Wallace Stevens wallpapers & posters out of those quotes. You can use this wallpapers & posters on mobile, desktop, print and frame them or share them on the various social media platforms. You can download the quotes images in various different sizes for free. In the below list you can find quotes in various categories like Poetry, People and Poetry

Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.

How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?

Youngish artists have a way of being melancholy. It may be that this is merely a symptom of the distress they feel at the absence of definition. They have no very distinct outline either of themselves or of the abstractions that bedevil them. They are, in short, likely to be a bit baffled.

Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood. The armies kill themselves, And in their blood an ancient evil dies – The action of incorrigible tragedy.

If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.

The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.

One ought not to hoard culture. It should be adapted and infused into society as a leaven. Liberality of culture does not mean illiberality of its benefits.

The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.

Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.

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.

The imagination is the liberty of the mind It is intrpeid and eager and the extreme of its achievement lies in abstraction.

Intolerance respecting other people’s religion is toleration itself in comparison with intolerance respecting other people’s art.

An old argument with me is that the true religious force in the world is not the church, but the world itself: the mysterious callings of Nature and our responses.

The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.

Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.

The imagination is man’s power over nature.

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.

How full of trifles everything is! It is only one’s thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.

After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.

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

The point of vision and desire are the same.

One cannot spend one’s time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.

Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.

Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.

Life is not free from its forms.

The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.

Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.

As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.

The imagination is one of the forces of nature.

Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.

Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.

The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.

It is the belief and not the god that counts.

Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world.

New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.

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.

What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one’s meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.

A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.

Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.

The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.

Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.

The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.

Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.

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.

In the world of words, the imagination is one of the forces of nature.

Poetry is poetry, and one’s objective as a poet is to achieve poetry precisely as one’s objective in music is to achieve music.

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.

Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.

Frogs eat Butterflies, Snakes eat Frogs, Hogs eat Snakes, Men eat Hogs.

It gives a man character as a poet to have a daily contact with a job. I doubt whether I’ve lost a thing by leading an exceedingly regular and disciplined life.

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