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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
Question
Belief
Must
Time
Prologue
Final
Finals
Choose
Fiction

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It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
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Sentimentality is a failure of feeling.
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One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guinea, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent.
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Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.
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Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
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It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
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Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.
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The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
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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.
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The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.
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The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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A violent order is disorder and a great disorder is an order. These two things are one.
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The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
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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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It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
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The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
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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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