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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
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Willa Sibert Cather
Thirty
Towns
Away
Anchored
Littles
Nebraska
Little
Windy
Book
January
Trying
Blown
Years
Town
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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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When kindness has left people, even for a few moments, we become afraid of them, as if their reason had left them.
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The only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska.
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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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There is often a good deal of the child left in people who have had to grow up too soon.
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Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.
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Desire is creation, is the magical element in that process. If there were an instrument by which to measure desire, one could foretell achievement.
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It's all very well to tell us to forgive our enemies our enemies can never hurt us very much. But oh, what about forgiving our friends?
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Oh, this is the joy of the rose That it blows, And goes.
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Every artist makes herself born. You must bring the artist into the world yourself.
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A burnt dog dreads the fire.
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Happy people do a great deal for their friends.
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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 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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Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale legends and stories nestled like birds in its branches.
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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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I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered –about her teeth for instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things she had lost, *but whose inner glow has faded*. Whatever else was gone, Antonia had not lost the fire of life.
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Of all the bewildering things about a new country, the absence of human landmarks is one of the most depressing and disheartening.
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Love itself draws on a woman nearly all the bad luck in the world
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In Haverford on the Platte the townspeople still talk of Lucy Gayheart.
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