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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

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
Summertime
Perfection
Summer
Night
Thought
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The imperfect is our paradise.
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The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.
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Cold is our element and winter's air Brings voices as of lions coming down.
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I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
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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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How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
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The mind can never be satisfied.
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The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
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Life is the elimination of what is dead.
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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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The point of vision and desire are the same.
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...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
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Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
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If ever the search for a tranquil belief should end, The future might stop emerging out of the past, Out of what is full of us yet the search And the future emerging out of us seem to be one.
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behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
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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.
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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.
Wallace Stevens