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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.

Wallace Stevens

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Wallace Stevens
Age: 75 †
Born: 1879
Born: October 2
Died: 1955
Died: August 2
Journalist
Lawyer
Playwright
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Writer
Thereof
Bloom
Fruit
Gone

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The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.
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If the hero is not a person, the emblem Of him, even if Xenophon, seems To stand taller than a person stands, has A wider brow, large and less human Eyes and bruted ears: the man-like body Of a primitive.
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
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The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.
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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
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Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
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Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.
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Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
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What is there in life except one's ideas, Good air, good friend, what is there in life?
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To name an object is to deprive a poem of three-fourths of its pleasure, which consists in a little-by-little guessing game the ideal is to suggest.
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That tuft of jungle feathers, That animal eye, Is just what you say. That savage of fire, That seed, Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad.
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After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
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Thus the theory of description matters most. It is the theory of the word for those For whom the word is the making of the world, The buzzing world and lisping firmament.
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I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains.
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The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
Wallace Stevens
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The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
Wallace Stevens