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

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Too much information is rather deadening.
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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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There was nothing but land not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.
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No one can build his security upon the nobleness of another person.
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The land belongs to the future.
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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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The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is.
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The higher processes are all processes of simplification. The novelist must learn to write, and then he must unlearn it just as the modern painter learns to draw, and then learns when utterly to disregard his accomplishment, when to subordinate it to a higher and truer effect.
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Today I stood taller from walking among the trees.
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When people ask me if it has been a hard or easy road, I always answer with the same quotation, the end is nothing, the road is all.Willa Cather
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Men travel faster now, but I do not know if they go to better things.
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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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If there were no girls like them in the world, there would be no poetry
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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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The air and the earth interpenetrated in the warm gusts of spring the soil was full of sunlight, and the sunlight full of red dust. The air one breathed was saturated with earthy smells, and the grass under foot had a reflection of the blue sky in it.
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If youth did not matter so much to itself, it would never have the heart to go on.
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[Mark Twain] is still the rough, awkward, good-natured boy who swore at the deck hands when he was three years old. Thoroughly likeable as a good fellow, but impossible as a man of letters.
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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 trees and shrubbery seemed well-groomed and social, like pleasant people.
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Old people, who have felt blows and toil and known the world's hard hand, need, even more than children do, a woman's tenderness.
Willa Cather