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In little towns, lives roll along so close to one another loves and hates beat about, their wings almost touching.

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
Another
Wings
Littles
Beats
Little
Loves
Close
Hates
Along
Touching
Almost
Roll
Lives
Beat
Hate
Towns

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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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Let people go on talking as they like, and we will go on living as we think best.
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We come and go, but the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the people who own it - for a little while.
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Whatever is felt upon the page without being specifically named there — that, one might say, is created.
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I have sometimes thought that his bursts of imaginative talk were fatal to his poetic gift. He squandered too much in the heat of personal communication.
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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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Old men are like that, you know. It makes them feel important to think they are in love with somebody.
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I suppose there were moonless nights and dark ones with but a silver shaving and pale stars in the sky, but I remember them all as flooded with the rich indolence of a full moon.
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Personal life becomes paler as the imaginative life becomes richer.
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[Dawn] is always such a forgiving time. When that first cold, bright streak comes over the water, it's as if all our sins were pardoned as if the sky leaned over the earth and kissed it and gave it absolution.
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Freedom so often means that one isn't needed anywhere. Here you are an individual, you have a background of your own, you would be missed. But off there in the cities there are thousands of rolling stones like me. We are all alike we have no ties, we know nobody, we own nothing.
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Today I stood taller from walking among the trees.
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Most publishers, like most writers, are ruined by their successes.
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There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm.
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How terrible it was to love people when you could not really share their lives!
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The irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand.
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There was a new kind of strength in the gravity of her face, and her colors still gave her that look of deep-seated health and ardor.
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No one can build his security upon the nobleness of another person.
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Love itself draws on a woman nearly all the bad luck in the world
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We all like people who do things, even if we only see their faces on cigar-box lids.
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