Whosoever is delighted in solitude, is either a wild beast or a god.
Time was not wasted in your subtle temples.
, from “Dutch Graves in Bucks County,” The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens
(Vintage Books, 1990)
Like a stranger and an outcast, I move among them not one of their words or looks reaches me any longer. I am dumb for no one understands my speech ah, but they never did understand me! Or does the same fate bear the same burden on its soul? It is terrible to be condemned to silence when one has so much to say […] Was I made for solitude or for a life in which there was no one to whom I could speak? The inability to communicate one’s thoughts is in very truth the most terrible of all kinds of loneliness.
I overcame myself, the sufferer; I carried my own ashes to the mountains; I invented a brighter flame for myself.
I know myself insofar as I am inherent in time and in the world, that is, I know myself only in ambiguity.