Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
Wallace StevensRead
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.
Interpretation
What this quote means
Style is inherent to the essence of something rather than an external addition.
In this quote, Wallace Stevens emphasizes that style is an intrinsic quality that defines the essence of a work or a person, rather than merely a superficial element like clothing. He suggests that true style emerges from the core of an entity—whether it's a poem, a deity, or an individual—and is a natural expression of their being.
Themes
StyleArtEssenceExpressionNature
In practice
Example use cases
In a speech about creativity, one could use this quote to illustrate the depth of artistic expression.
More from Wallace Stevens
All quotes →Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
Wallace StevensRead
After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
Wallace StevensRead
Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Wallace StevensRead
LIGHT FROM WITHIN my friend, cancer got you damn it: you had it beat for seven years at least. how did it come back? Why all that pain. again. and you, such a fighter you fought me over and over with tears and words and promises. you fought for me with honesty and a light so bright it hurts my heart. sweet lorna. at peace now finally no more battles, just light from within a flickering candle in the dark burns with you.
Wallace StevensRead
Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
Wallace StevensRead
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Loneliness is necessary for pure poetry. When someone intrudes into the poet's life (and any sudden personal contact, whether in the bed or in the heart, is an intrusion) the poet loses his or her balance for a moment, slips into being what he or she is, uses his or her poetry as one would use money or sympathy. The person who writes the poetry emerges, tentatively, like a hermit crab from a conch shell. The poet, for that instant, ceases to be a dead person.
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The work that lasts over time is the work which still speaks to us when all contemporary interest in that work is extinct.
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Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.
Pablo PicassoRead
I kept thinking there's bound to be something else? I could hear it sometimes, but I couldn't play it.
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The beauty that addresses itself to the eyes is only the spell of the moment; the eye of the body is not always that of the soul.
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