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Wallace Stevens

2 October 1879-2 August 1955

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Beauty's mother is death... hence from death, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

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The Dark is vital to our understanding — One would do well to throw away the light, the definitions, and say what one sees in the dark.

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Death is the mother of beauty... hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

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Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.

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The Moon is a derivative satellite, an inconstant, weak illuminator, and a false representation of the imaginative apprehension of reality.

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New York City 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.