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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
Keys
West
Becoming
Rather
Literary
Unfortunately
Artistic

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We live in an old chaos of the sun.
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Sentimentality is a failure of feeling.
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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
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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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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
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One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow
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Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.
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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
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In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.
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What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
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At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
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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 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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Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
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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.
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Poetry is a means of redemption.
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It is the mind that is woven, the mind that was jerked And tufted in straggling thunder and shattered sun.
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