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Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.

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
Unfortunately
Artistic
Keys
West
Becoming
Rather
Literary

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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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Poetry is poetry, and one's objective as a poet is to achieve poetry precisely as one's objective in music is to achieve music.
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
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It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.
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The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
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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 windy sky Cries out a literate despair.
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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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A change of style is a change of meaning.
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A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.
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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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Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.
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You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.
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Spread outward. Crack the round dome. Break through. Have liberty not as the air within a grave Or down a well. Breathe freedom, oh, my native, In the space of horizons that neither love nor hate.
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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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It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.
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The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
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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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Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
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