Quote

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

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Every fine story must leave in the mind of the sensitive reader an intangible residuum of pleasure, a cadence, a quality of voice that is exclusively the writer's own, individual, unique.
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Alcohol is perfectly consistent in its effects upon man. Drunkenness is merely an exaggeration. A foolish man drunk becomes maudlin a bloody man, vicious a coarse man, vulgar.
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Sometimes a neighbor whom we have disliked a lifetime for his arrogance and conceit lets fall a single commonplace remark that shows us another side, another man, really a man uncertain, and puzzled, and in the dark like ourselves.
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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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Ah! the terror and the delight of that moment when first we fear ourselves! Until then we have not lived.
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Too much detail is apt, like any other form of extravagance, to become slightly vulgar.
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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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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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Religion and art spring from the same root and are close kin.
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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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Where there is great love there are always miracles.
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The air was cool enough to make the warm sun pleasant on one's back and shoulders, and so clear that the eye could follow a hawk up and up, into the blazing blue depths of the sky.
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life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.
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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.
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It is a tragic hour, that hour when we are finally driven to reckon with ourselves, when every avenue of mental distraction has been cut off and our own life and all its ineffaceable failures closes about us like the walls of that old torture chamber of the Inquisition.
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