Wallace Stevens Quotes

The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world ...
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Another Weeping Woman."
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It is better that, as scholars, They should think hard in the dark cuffs Of voluminous cloaks, And shave their heads and bodies.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Homunculus et la Belle étoile."
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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).
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Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Creations of Sound."
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In his time, this one had little to speak of, The softest word went gurrituck in his skull. For him the moon was always in Scandinavia And his daughter was a foreign thing.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Two at Norfolk."
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Under the eglantine The fretful concubine Said, "Phooey! Phoo!" She whispered, "Pfui!"
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Anything Is Beautiful if You Say It Is."
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There was neither voice nor crested image, No chorister, nor priest. There was Only the great height of the rock And the two of them standing still to rest.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "How to Live. What to Do."
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The little owl flew through the night, As if the people in the air Were frightened and he frightened them, By being there....
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "On the Adequacy of Landscape."
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It comes about that the drifting of these curtains Is full of long motions; as the ponderous Deflations of distance; or as clouds Inseparable from their afternoons....
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Curtains in the House of the Metaphysician."
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Speak, even, as if I did not hear you speaking, But spoke for you perfectly in my thoughts, Conceiving words, As the night conceives the sea-sounds in silence, And out of their droning sibilants makes A serenade.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Two Figures in Dense Violet Night."
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