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There is something frank and joyous and young in the open face of the country. It gives itself ungrudgingly to the moods of the season, holding nothing back.

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
Earth
Season
Young
Holding
Back
Mood
Nothing
Seasons
Country
Gives
Giving
Open
Moods
Something
Face
Joyous
Faces
Frank

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People have to snatch at happiness when they can, in this world. It is always easier to lose than to find.
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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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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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Winter lies too long in country towns hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.
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There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm.
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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.
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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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The sincerity of feeling that is possible between a writer and a reader is one of the finest things I know.
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The trees and shrubbery seemed well-groomed and social, like pleasant people.
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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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I've seen it before. There are women who spread ruin through no fault of theirs, just by being too beautiful, too ful of life and love. They can't help it. Poeple come to them as people go to a warm fire in winter.
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The world is always full of brilliant youth which fades into grey and embittered middle age: the first flowering takes everything. The great men are those who have developed slowly, or who have been able to survive the glamour of their early florescence and to go on learning from life.
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Love itself draws on a woman nearly all the bad luck in the world
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youth, when it is hurt, likes to feel itself betrayed.
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Miracles surround us at every turn if we but sharpen our perceptions of them.
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Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale legends and stories nestled like birds in its branches.
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The prayers of all good people are good.
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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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life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.
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I tell you there is such a thing as creative hate.
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