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

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Pity is sworn servant unto love: And this be sure, wherever it begin To make the way, it lets your master in.
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There is often a good deal of the child left in people who have had to grow up too soon.
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All Southern women wished of their menfolk was simply to be 'like Paris handsome and like Hector brave'.
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Success is never so interesting as struggle
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It is easy to pity when once one's vanity has been tickled.
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Freedom so often means that one isn't needed anywhere. Here you are an individual, you have a background of your own, you would be missed. But off there in the cities there are thousands of rolling stones like me. We are all alike we have no ties, we know nobody, we own nothing.
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Of all the bewildering things about a new country, the absence of human landmarks is one of the most depressing and disheartening.
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We come and go, but the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the people who own it - for a little while.
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An artist's saddest secrets are those that have to do with his artistry.
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Money is a protection, a cloak it can buy one quiet, and some sort of dignity.
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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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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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From two ears that had grown side by side, the grains of one shot up joyfully into the light, projecting themselves into the future, and the grains from the other lay still in the earth and rotted and nobody knew why.
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Oh, this is the joy of the rose That it blows, And goes.
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In this world people have to pay an extortionate price for any exceptional gift whatever.
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youth, when it is hurt, likes to feel itself betrayed.
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Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness.
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The more observing ones may have seen, but discerning people are usually discreet and often kind, for we usually bleed a little before we begin to discern.
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To fulfil the dreams of one's youth that is the best that can happen to a man. No worldly success can take the place of that.
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Every individual taste, every natural appetite, was bridled by caution. The people asleep in those houses, I thought, tried to live like the mice in their own kitchens to make no noise, to leave no trace, to slip over the surface of things in the dark.
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