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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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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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William Tavener never heeded ominous forecasts in the domestic horizon, and he never looked for a storm until it broke.
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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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I ain't got time to learn. I can work like mans now.
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Men travel faster now, but I do not know if they go to better things.
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Beautiful women, whose beauty meant more than it said... was their brilliancy always fed by something coarse and concealed? Was that their secret?
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The prayers of all good people are good.
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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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After all, the supreme virtue in all art is soul, perhaps it is the only thing which gives art a right to be.
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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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It does not matter much whom we live with in this world, but it matters a great deal whom we dream of.
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More than him has done that, said Antonia sadly, and the girls murmured assent.
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I first met Myra Henshawe when I was fifteen, but I had known her about ever since I could remember anything at all.
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Religion and art spring from the same root and are close kin.
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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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Thirty or forty years ago, in one those grey towns along the Burlington railroad which are so much greyer to-day than they were then, there was a house well know from Omaha to Denver for its hospitality and for a certain charm of atmosphere.
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The land belongs to the future.
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Art, it seems to me, should simplify.
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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.
Willa Cather
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Prayers said by good people are always good prayers
Willa Cather