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We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.

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
Obsession
Insane
Truth
Littles
Little

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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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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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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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I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
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I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.
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It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time.
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Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.
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Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
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The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.
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A change of style is a change of meaning.
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Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
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Life is the elimination of what is dead.
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True villains are extremely photogenic.
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The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
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The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
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They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'
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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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