The World Imagined

I finally finished reading Stevens' collected poems, all 477 pages of them, and, though they weren't easy to finish, I'm glad I did. Unfortunately, there's another 500 pages in the book, and I'm simply not up to finishing it right now. Although I'd like to read "The Necessary Angel: Essays on Reality and the Imagination," I'm going to set the book aside and come back to it later. For me at least, reading Stevens is hard work, rather than an act of love.

Considering that I came to his work with a prejudice against it, I'm actually surprised that I liked it nearly as much as I did. Though I don't think I really accept his view of the importance of imagination, I did find his ideas stimulating, and fear I may have more sympathy for his ideas than I'd like to admit. Of course, if I wasn't sympathetic to the importance of imagination, I seriously doubt that I'd be spending so much time on poetry.

Somehow, the following poems from the section entitled "The Rock" provide a better summary of Stevens' philosophy than I ever could:

NOT IDEAS ABOUT THE THING BUT THE THING ITSELF

At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.

He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry, at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.

The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow...
It would have been outside.

It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep's faded papier-mache...
The sun was coming from the outside.

That scrawny cry--It was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,

Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.



Perhaps I like this poem because it reminds me of one of my favorite poems, Thomas Hardy's "The Darkling Thrush," a poem I've mentioned earlier. If that's true, it is indeed ironic, because it would be hard to imagine a poet more different from Hardy than Stevens. Hardy admired and elevated the common man, while Stevens seemed to disdain him. In answering the question "As a poet what distinguishes you, do you think, from an ordinary man?" Stevens replied, "Inability to see much point to the life of an ordinary man. The chances are the ordinary man himself sees very little point to it." As I read Stevens, I realized just how biased I am toward a particular kind of modern poetry, the kind of poetry that made Hardy the first "modern poet." Although Hardy's poetry was soon to be eclipsed by the formal poetry of Eliot and others, it is still that strain of poetry that I find most moving.

"Final Soliloquy Of The Interior Paramour" almost sounds as Stevens wrote it to make his final statement on imagination:

FINAL SOLILOQUY OF THE INTERIOR PARAMOUR

Light the first light of evening, as in a room
In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.

This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:

Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.

Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous,

Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one "
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.



The line, "The world imagined is the ultimate good." could almost serve as the thesis for Stevens' Collected Poems and Prose , as could "We say God and the imagination are one"" This seems to me to roughly equivalent to Descartes' famous line, "I think, therefore I am." I'm not sure I'm any more impressed by Stevens' position than I was by Descartes' argument when I read it in college.

Still, I find it difficult to deny "How high that highest candle lights the dark." I cannot even imagine how sad it would be to live without the inspiration of imagination. My world has been shaped by the imagination of great writers, and thankfully so. Still, I am no "Miniver Cheevy," trying to escape the reality of my everyday existence by living in an imaginary past that never truly existed but in the mind of great writers.

5 thoughts on “The World Imagined

  1. I am reading the Collected poems and prose of Wallace Stevens just for fun, and I found your thoughts on Stevens helpful. Thanks for sharing them.

  2. I too was never a fan of Stevens, but I just found a letterpress copy of “Paramour” in a box and read it carefully and was blown away by it. As with Four Quartets (my life-long love), I may be reading into it something not intended by the author, but it seems really Jungian to me. Isn’t the Internal Paramour the anima? I felt transported by this poem–all my loneliness gone–because I experienced my relationship with God/imagination/the soul as enough.

  3. Hi there,

    I just discovered Wallace Stevens yesterday and found your blog site (via this entry) when looking for some analysis of Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour. Thanks for this.

    I am part of a book club and for our January session we read (and/or recite) poetry in honour of Robert Burns (his birthday is this month and we are in Scotland). Anyway, I was reading around a bit, deciding which poem I would commit to memory to recite, and came across The Emperor of Ice Cream yesterday morning. I guess in the process of attending more closely to this poem, I had what Jeanette Winterson has described as a poetic ‘shot of espresso – the fastest way to get a hit of mental and spiritual energy’ (see http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/jan/17/jeanette-winterson-on-carol-ann-duffys-the-worlds-wife for a great piece on ‘why should I read a poem?’).

    The Emperor of Ice Cream led me to Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour, and from there, here. I guess I didn’t have negative experiences or views of Stevens to overcome, and my introduction to him must have been at the right time to plug into whatever synergy that seems to be happening between what is in his poetry and what I bring to it. The importance of imagination seems to be a regular and repeated message across my radar, and like Lisa (above), the poem seemed Jungian (though I don’t know Jung’s work well). It also seems Buddhist to me — a sense of our oneness and the desire to illuminate this reality — but this is possibly what I’m bringing to it.

    Anyway, thanks for your blog (I really like your writing on ‘why blog?’), and for this entry in particular.

    • I’m glad you found something here you liked, Laura.

      Several of my favorite people think Stevens is the greatest modern American poet, and I’ll agree that some of his poems are great, but I find it impossible to agree with his underlying philosophy and that makes it hard for me to agree with that assessment.

What do you think?