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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
Becoming
Rather
Literary
Unfortunately
Artistic
Keys
West

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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
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God is in me or else is not at all.
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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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The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
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New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
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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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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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Words of the world are the life of the world.
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In the same way, you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon- The obscure moon lighting an obscure world Of thing that would never be quite expressed, Where you yourself were never quite yourself And did not want nor have to be.
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All poetry is experimental poetry.
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The wind had seized the tree and ha, and ha, It held the shivering, the shaken limbs, Then bathed its body in the leaping lake.
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It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.
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How cold the vacancy When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist First sees reality. The mortal no Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.
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The mind is the terriblest force in the world, father, Because, in chief, it, only, can defend Against itself. At its mercy, we depend Upon it.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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We say God and the imagination are one... How high that highest candle lights the dark.
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Thought tends to collect in pools.
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Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
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