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Winter lies too long in country towns hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.

Willa Cather

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Willa Cather
Age: 73 †
Born: 1873
Born: December 7
Died: 1947
Died: April 24
Author
Biographer
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Willa Sibert Cather
Towns
Winter
Lies
Lying
Country
Shabby
Long
Sullen
Hangs
Stale

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Ah! the terror and the delight of that moment when first we fear ourselves! Until then we have not lived.
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People live through such pain only once. Pain comes again—but it finds a tougher surface.
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The sincerity of feeling that is possible between a writer and a reader is one of the finest things I know.
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No one can build his security upon the nobleness of another person. Two people, when they love each other, grow alike in their tastes and habits and pride, but their moral natures (whatever we may mean by that canting expression) are never welded. The base one goes on being base, and the noble one noble, to the end.
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Some people's lives are affected by what happens to their person or their property but for others fate is what happens to their feelings and their thoughts -- that and nothing more.
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Oh, this is the joy of the rose That it blows, And goes.
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Even the wicked get worse than they deserve.
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Of course Nebraska is a storehouse of literary material. Everywhere is a storehouse of literary material. If a true artist were born in a pigpen and raised in a sty, he would still find plenty of inspiration for his work. The only need is the eye to see.
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No nation has ever produced great art that has not made a high art of cookery, because art appeals primarily to the senses.
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Today I stood taller from walking among the trees.
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Late one brilliant April afternoon Professor Lucius Wilson stood at the head of Chestnut Street, looking about him with the pleased air of a man of taste who does not very often get to Boston.
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Miracles surround us at every turn if we but sharpen our perceptions of them.
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There was only - spring itself, the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it everywhere in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in the warm high wind - rising suddenly, sinking suddenly, impulsive ... If I had been tossed down blindfold on that red prairie, I should have known that it was spring.
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Pittsburgh was even more vital, more creative, more hungry for culture than New York. Pittsburgh was the birthplace of my writing.
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Sometimes, I ventured, it doesn't occur to boys that their mother was ever young and pretty. . . I couldn't stand it if you boys were inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and I know there's nobody like her.
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Too much detail is apt, like any other form of extravagance, to become slightly vulgar.
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I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered –about her teeth for instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things she had lost, *but whose inner glow has faded*. Whatever else was gone, Antonia had not lost the fire of life.
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On the farm the weather was the great fact, and men's affairs went on underneath it, as the streams creep under the ice.
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Merely having seen the season change in a country gave one the sense of having been there for a long time.
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Only solitary men know the full joys of frienship. Others have their family but to a solitary and an exile, his friends are everything.
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