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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.

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
Time
Batters
Breast
Breasts
Destroyed
Beats
Silent
Proud
Mind

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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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The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
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To lose sensibility, to see what one sees, As if sight had not its own miraculous thrift, To hear only what one hears, one meaning alone, As if the paradise of meaning ceased To be paradise, it is this to be destitute.
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One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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God and the imagination are one.
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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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All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.
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The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
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Thought tends to collect in pools.
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The essential fault of surrealism is that it invents without discovering. To make a clam play an accordion is to invent not to discover. The observation of the unconscious, so far as it can be observed, should reveal things of which we have previously been unconscious, not the familiar things of which we have been conscious plus imagination.
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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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How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
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It's not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out of the window.
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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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Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
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The wind had seized the tree and ha, and ha, It held the shivering, the shaken limbs, Then bathed its body in the leaping lake.
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Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
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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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We say God and the imagination are one... How high that highest candle lights the dark.
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