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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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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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Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
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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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Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.
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Tinsel in February, tinsel in August. There are things in a man besides his reason.
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The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
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I am what is around me.
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The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains.
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It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
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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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If ever the search for a tranquil belief should end, The future might stop emerging out of the past, Out of what is full of us yet the search And the future emerging out of us seem to be one.
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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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After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
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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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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.
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I was the world in which I walked.
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Poetry is the scholar's art.
Wallace Stevens