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The emptiness was intense, like the stillness in a great factory when the machinery stops running.
Willa Cather
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Willa Cather
Age: 73 †
Born: 1873
Born: December 7
Died: 1947
Died: April 24
Author
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Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
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Willa Sibert Cather
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Factories
Stops
Stillness
Emptiness
Intense
Silence
Running
Factory
Great
Machinery
More quotes by Willa Cather
Give the people a new word and they think they have a new fact.
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How terrible it was to love people when you could not really share their lives!
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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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Men are all right for friends, but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky old fathers, even the wild ones.
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I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.
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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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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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Dr. Howard Archie had just come up from a game of pool with the Jewish clothier and two traveling men who happened to be staying overnight in Moonstone.
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Henry Colbert, the miller, always breakfasted with his wife--beyond that he appeared irregularly at the family table.
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The trouble is you almost have to marry a man before you can find out the sort of wife he needs and usually it's exactly the sort you are not.
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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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The summer moon hung full in the sky. For the time being it was the great fact of the world.
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If [the writer] achieves anything noble, anything enduring, it must be by giving himself absolutely to his material. And this gift of sympathy is his great gift is the fine thing in him that alone can make his work fine.
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The sun was like a great visiting presence that stimulated and took its due from all animal energy. When it flung wide its cloak and stepped down over the edge of the fields at evening, it left behind it a spent and exhausted world.
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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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Art, it seems to me, should simplify.
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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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Oh, the Germans classify, but the French arrange.
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Only the stupid and the phlegmatic should teach.
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Every artist makes himself born. It is very much harder than the other time, and longer.
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