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One January day, thirty years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown away.
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
Years
Town
Thirty
Towns
Away
Anchored
Littles
Nebraska
Little
Windy
Book
January
Trying
Blown
More quotes by Willa Cather
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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I had killed a big snake. I was now a big fellow.
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After all, the supreme virtue in all art is soul, perhaps it is the only thing which gives art a right to be.
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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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In this world people have to pay an extortionate price for any exceptional gift whatever.
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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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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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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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An artist's saddest secrets are those that have to do with his artistry.
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The history of every country begins in the heart of a man or a woman.
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Beautiful women, whose beauty meant more than it said... was their brilliancy always fed by something coarse and concealed? Was that their secret?
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The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one's own.
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Your vivid, exciting companionship in the office must not be your audience, you must find your own quiet center of life, and write from that to the world.
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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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There was nothing but land not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.
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Art, it seems to me, should simplify.
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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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When we look back, the only things we cherish are those which in some way met our original want the desire which formed in us in early youth, undirected, and of its own accord.
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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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This is reality, whether you like it or not--all those frivolities of summer, the light and shadow, the living mask of green that trembled over everything, they were lies, and this is what was underneath. This is the truth.
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