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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
Little
Obsession
Insane
Truth
Littles

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What is one man among so many men? What are so many men in such a world? Can one man think one thing and think it long? Can one man be one thing and be it long?
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It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
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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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Life is an affair of people not of places. But for me, life is an affair of places and that is the trouble.
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Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.
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I have said no To everything, in order to get at myself. I have wiped away moonlight like mud.
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The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
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The chrysanthemums' astringent fragrance comes Each year to disguise the clanking mechanism Of machine within machine within machine.
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A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.
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In a world of universal poverty The philosophers alone will be fat Against the autumn winds In an autumn that will be perpetual.
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The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
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The imagination is one of the forces of nature.
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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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the windy sky Cries out a literate despair.
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The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
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The fire burns as the novel taught it how.
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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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The subject matter... is not that collection of solid, static objects extended in space but the life that is lived in the scene that it composes.
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It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.
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There may be always a time of innocence. There is never a place.
Wallace Stevens