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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.

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
Make
Materials
Faint
Fields
Fence
Tree
Hills
Land
Trees
Stars
Seemed
Nothing
Material
Creeks
Country
Countries
Starlight
Made
Road
Fences

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Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.
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From the time the Englishman's bones harden into bones at all, he makes his skeleton a flagstaff, and he early plants his feet like one who is to walk the world and the decks of all the seas.
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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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One cannot divine nor forecast the conditions that will make happiness one only stumbles upon them by chance, in a lucky hour, at the world's end somewhere, and hold fast to the days.
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Too much detail is apt, like any other form of extravagance, to become slightly vulgar.
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Let people go on talking as they like, and we will go on living as we think best.
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An artist's saddest secrets are those that have to do with his artistry.
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People always think the bread of another country is better than their own.
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Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness.
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A child's attitude toward everything is an artist's attitude.
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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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There is often a good deal of the child left in people who have had to grow up too soon.
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Now I understood that the same road was to bring us together again. Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past.
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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 trees and shrubbery seemed well-groomed and social, like pleasant people.
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A burnt dog dreads the fire.
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Art and religion (they are the same thing, in the end, of course) have given man the only happiness he has ever had.
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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.
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There was nothing but land not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.
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Nearly all the Escapists in the long past have managed their own budget and their social relations so unsuccessfully that I wouldn't want them for my landlords, or my bankers, or my neighbors. They were valuable, like powerful stimulants, only when they were left out of the social and industrial routine.
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