No less am I myself. Forget philosophy but thing common. I need to as I am common, but I am myself. Regardless of what may be. But does my sentience allow me to? No. Does Stevens who knows. He struggles, the missing link is Sunday Morning. Harold Bloom triads, “snow man”, “the man whose pharnyx was bad” and this poem. Is that too simple. Are we missing the man who really does not know.
This is Wallace’s struggle with God, she the mask of the third person I, it is he who I believe is uncertain, uncomfortable, on edge. The orgy is surreal compared to verses I – VI. A true epicurean wouldn’t deal with these issues, would they?
A super conscious poet, is any super conscious man secure with no doubt? Or in other words with certainty? We don’t know how the pyramids were built yet we know the nature of existence. Illogical, well being a scientist it’s illogical. Oh mystery of life you inspire me.
I am trying to track down Holly Stevens, “Souvenirs and Prophecies: The Young Wallace Stevens”. I really what to learn more about the man bad or good, but either way I see passion in all his works.
To me there is little interest in any king of agreement about Stevens reasons, he was a high romantic, in every way. The question continued to the end and is the basis Of “An Ordinary Evening”. Reading solely epistemologically would place the piece as an attempt at philosophy, Emersonian, but it runs the risk of losing fashion or being trumped. But would it turn me to tears? Read closely it does.
This is a sad poem, a poem of loss due to uncertainty. If we were certain certainly our behavior and art would reflect such.