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I have sometimes thought that his bursts of imaginative talk were fatal to his poetic gift. He squandered too much in the heat of personal communication.

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
Thought
Fatal
Sometimes
Imaginative
Much
Poetic
Heat
Communication
Gift
Personal
Squandered
Talk
Bursts

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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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An artist's saddest secrets are those that have to do with his artistry.
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Hunger is a powerful incentive to introspection.
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The voice is a wild thing. It can't be bred in captivity.
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The summer moon hung full in the sky. For the time being it was the great fact of the world.
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Let your fiction grow out of the land beneath your feet.
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Most publishers, like most writers, are ruined by their successes.
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In this world people have to pay an extortionate price for any exceptional gift whatever.
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How terrible it was to love people when you could not really share their lives!
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The irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand.
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What was any art but a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself - life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.
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Only a Woman, divine, could know all that a woman can suffer.
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A soup like this is not the work of one man. It is the result of a constantly refined tradition. There are nearly a thousand years of history in this soup.
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The pale, cold light of the winter sunset did not beautify - it was like the light of truth itself.
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Art, it seems to me, should simplify.
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The two friends stood for a few moments on the windy street corner, not speaking a word, as two travelers, who have lost their way, sometimes stand and admit their perplexity in silence. (O Pioneers!)
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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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Sometimes I wonder why God ever trusts talent in the hands of women, they usually make such an infernal mess of it. I think He must do it as a sort of ghastly joke.
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I ain't got time to learn. I can work like mans now.
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People can be lovers and enemies at the same time, you know.
Willa Cather