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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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Realism is a corruption of reality.
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We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.
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One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guinea, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent.
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The subject matter... is not that collection of solid, static objects extended in space but the life that is lived in the scene that it composes.
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Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
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It may be that the ignorant man, alone, Has any chance to mate his life with life That is the sensual, pearly spouse, the life That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.
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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.
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It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
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Tinsel in February, tinsel in August. There are things in a man besides his reason.
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A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.
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True villains are extremely photogenic.
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Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
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I can't make head or tail of Life. Love is a fine thing, Art is a fine thing, Nature is a fine thing but the average human mind and spirit are confusing beyond measure. Sometimes I think that all our learning is the little learning of the maxim. To laugh at a Roman awe-stricken in a sacred grove is to laugh at something today.
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To lose sensibility, to see what one sees, As if sight had not its own miraculous thrift, To hear only what one hears, one meaning alone, As if the paradise of meaning ceased To be paradise, it is this to be destitute.
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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
Wallace Stevens
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At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
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Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
Wallace Stevens