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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.

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
Finals
Choose
Fiction
Question
Belief
Must
Time
Prologue
Final

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The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
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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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Fat girl, terrestrial, my summer, my night, How is it I find you in difference, see you there In a moving contour, a change not quite completed? You are familiar yet an aberration.
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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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Intolerance respecting other people's religion is toleration itself in comparison with intolerance respecting other people's art.
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One ought not to hoard culture. It should be adapted and infused into society as a leaven. Liberality of culture does not mean illiberality of its benefits.
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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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Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
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One must read poetry with one's nerves.
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The death of Satan was a tragedy For the imagination.
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Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
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The greatest poverty is not to live In a physical world, to feel that one's desire Is too difficult to tell from despair.
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Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
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Ethics are no more a part of poetry than theyare of painting.
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Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
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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 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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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.
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