Through her two-volume of Wallace Stevens’ works, Joan Richardson has pursued three aims: to provide a psychobiography of the author, to write a history of the United States between 1879 and 1955 as reflected in Stevens’ life and writings, and to analyze Stevens’ often difficult poetry. Because Stevens came late to poetry--he did not publish anything until he was thirty-five, and his first book did not appear for almost another decade--the first volume of Richardson’s biography (published in 1986) concentrates on the first two purposes. While this second volume continues to treat Stevens’ family difficulties and his relationship to his era, the poet’s work fittingly receives far more attention.

Richardson’s dissertation dealt with the sources of Stevens’ poetry, and on this topic the study is most useful. Stevens read widely in modern and classical literature; Richardson has examined his letters and library records to detect influences. She notes, too, how biography affects the poems. For example, “Red Loves Kit” responds to Elsie Stevens’ hostile, arbitrary behavior during her pregnancy. The book further considers how the poetry reflects intellectual trends such as abstract art. Richardson also makes a strong case for the centrality of Stevens in the twentieth century, arguing that his work confronts the fundamental dilemma of the age: How can one find order in a world that no longer believes in the divine?

Richardson’s research has been exhaustive. Unhappily, the burden of detail she presents can be exhausting; the biography of a man whose life was essentially uneventful runs to more than a thousand pages for the two volumes. Nor does her prose ease the task of reading; a carefully edited distillation of this study would provide the definitive work on Stevens that Richardson set out to produce and that she is clearly equipped to write.

Wallace Stevens: The Later Years, 1923-1955 Summary

(Literary Masterpieces, Volume 7)

In a draft of “The Figure of the Youth,” a lecture Stevens gave at Mount Holyoke College in 1943, the poet wrote, “We take a man like Picasso, for instance, and assume that here is Picasso and there is his work. This is nonsense, where one is, the other is.” Both the passage and its omission from the final version are revealing. The fact that Stevens decided to delete the observation indicates that he was, as Joan Richardson repeatedly emphasizes, something of a comedian, an actor unwilling to unmask himself completely before his audiences. Had he left the statement in the speech, he might have made too plain how much of himself went into his poetry.

Richardson, whose dissertation dealt with the sources upon which Stevens drew to create his work, provides many fascinating glimpses into Stevens’ writing. Biography played an important role; Stevens was not separate from his work. His wife was often distressed by what she regarded as his poetic betrayals of their intimacies, and Richardson shows that she had reason to object. “Sea Surface Full of Clouds,” for example, recounts a trip Stevens and his wife took, during which, “in that November off Tehuantepec,” their daughter, Holly, was conceived. Elsie was always a difficult woman in many ways, though Richardson points out that Stevens remained a devoted husband who assisted with housework—Elsie’s personality drove hired help away—and praised her “perfections,” even if he did not specify what these were. During her pregnancy she became even more unreasonable, prompting Stevens to write “Red Loves Kit” (Red was one of Stevens’ nicknames):

Your yes her no, your no her yes. The wordsMake little difference, for being wrongAnd wronging her, if only as she thinks,You never can be right.

“The Woman Who Blamed Life on a Spaniard” and “Good Man, Bad Woman” also deal with his unhappy relationship with Elsie.

Elsie’s attitude toward Holly is not clear from this biography. Even Stevens’ own dealings with his daughter are described only occasionally, and these especially during Holly’s difficult adolescence, are strained at times. Richardson speculates that “Sonatina to Hans Christian” reflects Stevens’ perception of Holly as a swan being treated by Elsie as an ugly duckling, for he speaks of a duck—his pet name for his child—who “seemed the helpless daughter/ Of a mother/ Regretful that she bore her.”

Other events in his life also found their way into the poetry. “Lions in Sweden” dates from the period in which Stevens was corresponding with a Swede, ordering a rug for his new house and learning about the country. From France he received a still life by the Breton artist Pierre Tal Coat, depicting a Venetian glass bowl surrounded by bottles, glasses, and terrines. This painting prompted “Angel Surrounded by Paysans,” for Stevens saw the bowl as a celestial creature in a group of peasants. Stevens’ frequent trips to Florida in the 1920’s and 1930’s also provided stimuli for verse.

A nice feature of the book is its correlating photographs and poetry. Thus, above an excerpt from “Ballade of the Pink Parasol” is a picture of Holly holding a pale Oriental umbrella. Scenes from the Stevenses’ garden illustrate a passage from “The Comedian as the Letter C.”

The relationship between life and poetry is more complex, though. In 1948, dining with Dudley Fitts, Stevens asked the younger poet why he—Fitts—was devoting so much effort to teaching at Phillips Academy instead of giving himself completely to literature. This was a strange question for Stevens to pose, since he had not totally dedicated himself to poetry. Just as his friend William Carlos Williams earned his living as a doctor and wrote when he could snatch the necessary time, so Stevens worked as a lawyer for the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company, scribbling phrases and lines as he walked to his office each morning. His secretary would type these up, and in the evening Stevens would review, revise, and rewrite in his attic study.

Richardson attempts to explain Stevens’ reasons for choosing such a life rather than the one he was urging on Fitts, and she offers a number of possibilities. Stevens’ father, himself a versifier with a local reputation around Reading, Pennsylvania, had wanted his sons to follow in his footsteps as a lawyer. The Calvinist emphasis on hard work and discipline with which Stevens grew up also played a part in this decision. Even when he was seventy-five years old, dying and in great pain, Stevens would go to the office and remain dutifully until half past one, though as a vice president he could have retired.

The desire for money, too, influenced Stevens. Richardson quotes a revealing letter from the poet to Ronald Lane Latimer:A good many years ago, when I was really a poet in the sense that I was all imagination, and so on, I deliberately gave up writing poetry because, much as I loved it, there were too many other things I wanted not to make an effort to have them. . . . I didn’t like the idea of being bedeviled all the time about money and I didn’t for a moment like the idea of poverty, so I went to work like anybody else and kept at it for a good many years.

The period he refers to is that immediately following the birth of Holly, when for six years he...

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Wallace Stevens: The Later Years, 1923-1955 Summary

(Literary Masterpieces, Volume 9)

Drawing on a variety of materials—reminiscences of Wallace Stevens’ family, friends, and business and literary associates as well as on his poems, plays, and essays—Joan Richardson presents in Wallace Stevens: The Early Years, 1879-1923 a double-faced portrait of this major American poet that divulges his divided self: the daytime public face of the prankish boy, college student, newspaper reporter, lawyer, husband, father, and superbourgeois insurance executive as contrasted with the nocturnal face of the secret bohemian, antibourgeois dreamer, aesthete, art collector, and creative artist who was one of the most sophisticated poets of the twentieth century.

This volume covers the early years of Stevens’ life from 1879, the year of his birth in Reading, Pennsylvania, to 1923, the date of the appearance of his first volume of poems, Harmonium. Although Stevens had been publishing mature poems since 1914 in magazines and anthologies, Harmonium made critics fully aware for the first time that a major poet had arrived on the American scene. In 1923, Stevens was living in Hartford, Connecticut, referred to by many as “Insurance City.” As a practicing attorney, he had joined the legal staff of the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company in 1916. In 1934, he was to become vice president of the company, and he remained with Hartford until his death in 1955. His business associates never knew that he was a poet until relatively late in his career. When at this time a colleague in the insurance company learned that Stevens was a poet—a considerable poet—he exclaimed in astonishment, “What, Wally a poet!”

Richardson intends “to mirror the consciousness” of her subject, to provide “a portrait of Stevens without. . . going into details that have been well drawn before.” At the same time, she asserts, she will “respect the sense of the man Stevens shaped himself to be. . . without the idealizing reverence given a hero.” Her account of “the development of Stevens’ consciousness,” when complete, will constitute a “biography of America from 1879 to 1955” as well as a life of this poet “who was so integrally bound to his time and place.”

Richardson recognizes that the key to an understanding of Stevens lies in considering the operation of his public, or outward, self, as opposed to his private, or inward, self. He himself was very conscious of this division, judging by his observation made in a letter to his future wife, Elsie Moll: “It seems insincere, like playing a part, to be one person on paper and another in reality. But I know that it is only because I command myself there.” Indeed, this “playacting,” Richardson suggests, was vital to his art: “Putting on his various masks, fulfilling the role of the money-making lawyer and knowing all the time that he was acting, playing, kept his eye responsive to the trembling present.”

At the time Stevens decided upon a legal career connected with commercial enterprise, he apparently understood the necessity of concealing his tendency toward hedonism and aestheticism. Outwardly he pursued the insurance business under the aspect of authenticity while inwardly living his secret, unrespectable life of a bohemian poet and social pariah, always keeping these two roles at a safe distance from each other. If by day, stuck behind a desk, he chatted of suits, claims, policies, premiums, rates, contracts, losses, risks, coverage, liabilities, interinsurers, regulations, and subtle legal mumbo jumbo, by night he dreamed of red lips on white faces shaded by purple parasols in Paris. He roamed the boulevards and climbed the streets of Montmartre to white-stoned Sacré Coeur. When he wrote “Of Hartford in a Purple Light,” it is Master Soleil, just arrived from Le Havre, who throws the purple stage light of the Paris Opera over “Insurance City.”

Stevens gave form and body to the more ethereal dreams and sentiments of the French Symbolists such as Paul Verlaine, Stephane Mallarmé, Jules Laforgue, and Paul-Jean Toulet. Other echoes or traces of texts appear in Stevens, literary and otherwise: such voices as Heraclitus, Plato, Edmund Spenser, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Arthur Schopenhauer, Friedrich Nietzsche, Heinrich Heine, George Santayana, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Edgar Allan Poe, Walt Whitman, Henri Bergson—even Zen Buddhist koans such as are found in the Mumonkan and the Hekiganroku. Richardson reports that Stevens suffered from “artist’s guilt,” or what critic Harold Bloom has called “the anxiety of influence,” indeed that Stevens was always “consistently reticent to admit” to influence of any kind. “Artist’s guilt” frequently afflicts the strongly ethical writer who is striving to produce “original” work but who is all too conscious of the fact that his texts inevitably grow out of other texts. As C. S. Peirce contended in respect to the human mind: There is no knowledge that is not mediated by prior knowledge.

Stevens got some of his most important ideas from the German pragmatist Hans Vaihinger, expressing these ideas in his own unique manner. Learning from Vaihinger the pragmatic value of “fictions” which could not be proven “realities,” he wrote: “The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.” Indeed, Stevens often spoke—perhaps too often—of the “Supreme Fiction.” In his “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction” (from Transport to Summer, 1947), he discloses its achievement as his poetic goal.

Believing that the opposition between the imagination and reality in a person is commonly out of balance, Stevens sought the precise edge where they joined together. By such a discovery he sought to accomplish their harmonious resolution. Such a poetic solution, he suggests, must include conceptualism (which he terms “abstractionism”), mutability (the recognition of change or flux), and pleasure (the ultimate object of poetry).

Vaihinger was among the first modern thinkers to point out the pragmatic value of fictions. While insisting that the concepts of science, ethics, and religion do not represent reality, he noted that in practical affairs we find it preferable, and sometimes necessary, to conform to the expectations of society and to defer to the exigencies of life. For practical purposes, then, we can treat the apparent objects of these concepts “as if” (“als ob”) they are real, but we should understand that we cannot prove their reality. It was precisely this sort of strategy that Stevens adopted in art and in life.

Bergson’s analysis of time and freedom, mind and body, memory and matter, and creation and evolution also strongly affected Stevens’ thinking in respect to his own relationship to the world. As a trained lawyer, he knew the value of reason in practical matters. Nevertheless, he questioned the primacy of the intellect in understanding reality and championed intuition. According to Bergson, there are two fundamental and opposing forces in the universe: the life-force (l’élan vital) and its resistance by matter (la résistance). We know matter by reason, but we perceive the life-force and the reality of time by intuition. Real time (la durée) differs from clock time (le temps), the kind of time we habitually use. Duration is internal, an awareness of the inner self. Intuition senses existence as change and flow.

Although the brain is an organ of the body, mind or spirit (l’esprit) is not. Man has a memory and an imagination, and thus he is free. He is not at the mercy of the present impulse, nor is he a creature of the past, for he is constantly changing and may be something different in the future. Indeed, by virtue of his imagination, he can project his mind into the future and can make something new as well as better. Just as the mind is free to create novelty, so life itself is creative. Its impulse is not merely repetitious and a response to existing forms, but it also is capable of initiating novel forms. Human beings, individually and collectively, can transcend mere adaptation to environment and can create forms expressive of their individuality as well as their collectivity. If existence requires matter, matter is imbued with a life-force whose impulse is truly creative. Reality is “becoming.” Intuition, a function of the internal self, apprehends that aspect of time called duration. Man is freed by memory and imagination. Indeed, the very process of evolution implies that something could come from nothing.

Such ideas were grist to Stevens’ mental mill: Richardson sees him as exemplifying in all of his writings Bergson’s ideas regarding the dual nature of time and our perception of it. She comments, “One of the most striking features to emerge from following the threads of Stevens’ experience was the rhythmic repetition of motifs both in his work . . . and, extraordinarily, in his life.” Bergson’s ideas made Stevens conscious of the nature of his own experience; his poems reveal a constant, a systematic perception of a changing reality.

If Stevens’ sense of duration, his...

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