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What is there in life except one's ideas, Good air, good friend, what is there in life?

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
Ideas
Good
Life
Air
Except
Friend

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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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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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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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What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.
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Unless we believe in the hero, what is there To believe? Incisive what, the fellow Of what good. Devise. Make him of mud.
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It may be that the ignorant man, alone, Has any chance to mate his life with life That is the sensual, pearly spouse, the life That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.
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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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The death of Satan was a tragedy For the imagination.
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Poetry is the scholar's art.
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The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
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A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.
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Man is an eternal sophomore.
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After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
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Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
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Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.
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Tinsel in February, tinsel in August. There are things in a man besides his reason.
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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.
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At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
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