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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
Country
Shabby
Long
Sullen
Hangs
Stale
Towns
Winter
Lies
Lying

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Wherever humanity has made that hardest of all starts and lifted itself out of mere brutality is a sacred spot.
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The heart, when it is too much alive, aches for that brown earth, and ecstasy has no fear of death.
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I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.
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Religion and art spring from the same root and are close kin.
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Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.
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The world is little, people are little, human life is little. There is only one big thing — desire.
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The miracles of the church seem to me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.
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Thea was still under the belief that public opinion could be placated that if you clucked often enough, the hens would mistake you for one of themselves.
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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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The air was cool enough to make the warm sun pleasant on one's back and shoulders, and so clear that the eye could follow a hawk up and up, into the blazing blue depths of the sky.
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Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale legends and stories nestled like birds in its branches.
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People live through such pain only once. Pain comes again—but it finds a tougher surface.
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I tell you there is such a thing as creative hate.
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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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Desire is creation, is the magical element in that process. If there were an instrument by which to measure desire, one could foretell achievement.
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I suppose there were moonless nights and dark ones with but a silver shaving and pale stars in the sky, but I remember them all as flooded with the rich indolence of a full moon.
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I first met Myra Henshawe when I was fifteen, but I had known her about ever since I could remember anything at all.
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Every artist makes himself born. It is very much harder than the other time, and longer.
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Now I understood that the same road was to bring us together again. Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past.
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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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