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I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.

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
Live
Resignation
Way
Forests
Things
Aging
Like
Trees
Seem
Tree
Nature
Resigning
Seems
Resigned

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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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Every artist makes herself born. You must bring the artist into the world yourself.
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Only the stupid and the phlegmatic should teach.
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The world is little, people are little, human life is little. There is only one big thing — desire.
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When kindness has left people, even for a few moments, we become afraid of them, as if their reason had left them.
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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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Life began for me, when I ceased to admire and began to remember.
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Success is never so interesting as struggle
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The heart, when it is too much alive, aches for that brown earth, and ecstasy has no fear of death.
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One summer evening in the year 1848, three Cardinals and a missionary were dining together in the gardens of a villa in the Sabine hills, overlooking Rome.
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A work-room should be like an old shoe no matter how shabby, it's better than a new one.
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When the eyes of the flesh are shut, the eyes of the spirit are open.
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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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One afternoon late in October of the year 1697, Euclide Auclair, the philosopher apothecary of Quebec, stood on the top of Cap Diamant gazing down the broad, empty river far beneath him.
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There seemed to be nothing to see no fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.
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How terrible it was to love people when you could not really share their lives!
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The sky was a midnight-blue, like warm, deep, blue water, and the moon seemed to lie on it like a water-lily, floating forward with an invisible current.
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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 revolt against individualism naturally calls artists severely to account, because the artist is of all men the most individual those who were not have been long forgotten.
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