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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.

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
Space
Emptiness
Consolations
Things
Clouds
Statue
Winter
Nameless
Sky
Blew
Summer
Neurosis
Among
Statues
Refill
Took
July
Refills
Genius
Consolation
Jove

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The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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in the presence of extraordinary actuality, consciousness takes the place of imagination.
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Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.
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Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
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I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am the necessary Angel of earth, since, in my sight, you see the earth again.
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A violent order is disorder and a great disorder is an order. These two things are one.
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It is never the thing but the version of the thing: The fragrance of the woman not her self, Her self in her manner not the solid block, The day in its color not perpending time, Time in its weather, our most sovereign lord, The weather in words and words in sounds of sound.
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It is the belief and not the god that counts.
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Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
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The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.
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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy.
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For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
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One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
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