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If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between that earth and that sky i felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night: here, i felt what would be would be.

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
Felt
Night
Blotted
Earth
Erased
Matter
Arrived
Never
Prayers
Would
Anywhere
Sky
Prayer

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Only solitary men know the full joys of frienship. Others have their family but to a solitary and an exile, his friends are everything.
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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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No nation has ever produced great art that has not made a high art of cookery, because art appeals primarily to the senses.
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Your vivid, exciting companionship in the office must not be your audience, you must find your own quiet center of life, and write from that to the world.
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Only a Woman, divine, could know all that a woman can suffer.
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Where there is great love there are always miracles.
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Whatever is felt upon the page without being specifically named there — that, one might say, is created.
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Dr. Howard Archie had just come up from a game of pool with the Jewish clothier and two traveling men who happened to be staying overnight in Moonstone.
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Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness.
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I tell you there is such a thing as creative hate.
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To note an artist's limitations is but to define his talent. A reporter can write equally well about everything that is presented to his view, but a creative writer can do his best only with what lies within the range and character of his deepest sympathies.
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This is reality, whether you like it or not--all those frivolities of summer, the light and shadow, the living mask of green that trembled over everything, they were lies, and this is what was underneath. This is the truth.
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Most publishers, like most writers, are ruined by their successes.
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Money is a protection, a cloak it can buy one quiet, and some sort of dignity.
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It is scarcely exaggeration to say that if one is not a little mad about Balzac at twenty, one will never live and if at forty one can still take Rastignac and Lucien de Rubempre at Balzac's own estimate, one has lived in vain.
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Human relationships are the tragic necessity of human life that they can never be wholly satisfactory, that every ego is half the time greedily seeking them, and half the time pulling away from them.
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Imagination, which is a quality writers must have, does not mean the ability to weave pretty stories out of nothing. In the right sense, imagination is a response to what is going on — a sensitiveness to which outside things appeal. It is a composition of sympathy and observation.
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I had killed a big snake. I was now a big fellow.
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An artist's saddest secrets are those that have to do with his artistry.
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I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered –about her teeth for instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things she had lost, *but whose inner glow has faded*. Whatever else was gone, Antonia had not lost the fire of life.
Willa Cather