October 2, 1879 – August 2, 1955
The Emperor Of Ice-Cream
Disillusionment Of Ten O'Clock
Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird
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.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Three Academic Pieces," no. 1, The Necessary Angel (first published 1947, repr. 1951).
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.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "On Poetic Truth," Opus Posthumous (1959).
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.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Imagination as Value," The Necessary Angel (1949, repr. 1951).
Ann Driscoll, firstname.lastname@example.org
23 Jan 01:48
I want to buy a book of poems, poems written by Wallace Stevens I want to buy an entire book of poems by Wallace Stevens
14 Feb 2016 03:49
As I haven't found any translation of Wallace Stevens' “Montrachet-Le-Jardin”, even if it is so difficult to understand.. (a ''passage of whimsy and whimsical words''!) .. I'll try my own interpretation and give here a translation of the following 6 lines into Italian.. What is there to love than I have loved? And if there be nothing more, O bright, O bright, The chick, the chidder-barn and grassy chives And great moon, cricket-impresario, And, hoy, the impopulous purple-plated past, Hoy, hoy, the blue bulls kneeling down to rest. - ITALIAN: Cosa v'è da amare che non abbia amato? E se nient'altro vi fosse, o radioso, o radioso, Il pulcino, il fienile irreperibile e l’erba cipollina E la grande luna, impresario dei grilli, E, ohi, lo spopolato passato violaceo, Ohi, ohi, i tori azzurri che s'inginocchiano per riposare.
06 Jan 2016 11:31
Wallace Stevens' answer to the questions ''What is a poet? Why does one write poetry? '': ''A poet writes poetry because he is a poet; and he is not a poet because he is a poet but because of his personal sensibility. What gives a man his personal sensibility I don't know and it doesn't matter because no one knows. Poets continue to be born not made and cannot, I'm afraid, be predetermined.''