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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
Lies
Lying
Country
Shabby
Long
Sullen
Hangs
Stale
Towns
Winter

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Every fine story must leave in the mind of the sensitive reader an intangible residuum of pleasure, a cadence, a quality of voice that is exclusively the writer's own, individual, unique.
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You must not begin to fret about the successes of cheap people. After all, what have they to do with you?
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New things are always ugly.
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Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.
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Loyal? As loyal as anyone who plays second fiddle ever is.
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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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The land belongs to the future.
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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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It is cremated youth. It is all yours--no one gave it to you.
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The sky was a midnight-blue, like warm, deep, blue water, and the moon seemed to lie on it like a water-lily, floating forward with an invisible current.
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life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.
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It's all very well to tell us to forgive our enemies our enemies can never hurt us very much. But oh, what about forgiving our friends?
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A creative writer can do his best only with what lies within the range and character of his deepest sympathies.
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Nearly all the Escapists in the long past have managed their own budget and their social relations so unsuccessfully that I wouldn't want them for my landlords, or my bankers, or my neighbors. They were valuable, like powerful stimulants, only when they were left out of the social and industrial routine.
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Freedom so often means that one isn't needed anywhere.
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In a few hours one could cover that incalculable distance from the winter country and homely neighbours, to the city where the air trembled like a tuning-fork with unimaginable possibilities.
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