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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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Disillusion is the last illusion.
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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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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Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.
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Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
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It gives a man character as a poet to have a daily contact with a job. I doubt whether I've lost a thing by leading an exceedingly regular and disciplined life.
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How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
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As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
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Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
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Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
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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.
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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
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The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
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Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
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Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
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Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost.
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Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun, Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends.
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The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
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Life is not free from its forms.
Wallace Stevens