Opus Posthumous Quotes
Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
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Wallace Stevens157 ratings, 4.31 average rating, 7 reviews
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Opus Posthumous Quotes
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“The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.”
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
“It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.”
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
“There is nothing in life except what one thinks of it.”
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
“Thought tends to collect in pools.”
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
“Blanche McCarthy"
Look in the terrible mirror of the sky
And not in this dead glass, which can reflect
Only the surfaces––the bending arm,
The leaning shoulder and the searching eye.
Look in the terrible mirror of the sky.
Oh, bend against the invisible; and lean
To symbols of descending night; and search
The glare of revelations going by!
Look in the terrible mirror of the sky.
See how the absent moon waits in a glade
Of your dark self, and how the wings of stars,
Upward, from imagined coverts, fly.”
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
Look in the terrible mirror of the sky
And not in this dead glass, which can reflect
Only the surfaces––the bending arm,
The leaning shoulder and the searching eye.
Look in the terrible mirror of the sky.
Oh, bend against the invisible; and lean
To symbols of descending night; and search
The glare of revelations going by!
Look in the terrible mirror of the sky.
See how the absent moon waits in a glade
Of your dark self, and how the wings of stars,
Upward, from imagined coverts, fly.”
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
“All history is modern history.”
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
“From Secret Man
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
The man of autumn,”
Behind its melancholy mask,
Will laugh in the brown grass,
Will shout from the tower’s rim.
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
“Secret Man"
The sounds of rain on the roof
Are like the sound of doves.
It is long since there have been doves
On any house of mine.
It is better for me
In the rushes of autumn wind
To embrace autumn, without turning
To remember summer.
Besides, the world is a tower.
Its winds are blue.
The rain falls at its base,
Summers sink from it.”
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
The sounds of rain on the roof
Are like the sound of doves.
It is long since there have been doves
On any house of mine.
It is better for me
In the rushes of autumn wind
To embrace autumn, without turning
To remember summer.
Besides, the world is a tower.
Its winds are blue.
The rain falls at its base,
Summers sink from it.”
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
“Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.”
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
“From the opening lines of the play Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
All you need,”
To find poetry,
Is to look for it with a lantern.
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
“From From the Journal of Crispin
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
There is a monotonous babbling in our dreams”
That makes them our dependent heirs, the heirs
Of dreamers buried in our sleep, and not
The oncoming fantasies of better birth.
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
“All Things Imagined Are of Earth Compact…
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
All things imagined are of earth compact,”
Strange beast and bird, strange creatures all;
Strange minds of men, unwilling slaves to fact:
Struggling with desperate clouds, they still proclaim
The rushing pearl, the whirling black,
Clearly, in well-remembered word and name.
Even the dead, when they return, return
Not as those dead, concealed away;
But their old persons move again, and burn.
― Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose
