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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
Thirty
Towns
Away
Anchored
Littles
Nebraska
Little
Windy
Book
January
Trying
Blown
Years
Town
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That is happiness to be dissolved into something complete and great.
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The history of every country begins in the heart of a man or a woman.
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The land belongs to the future.
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What was any art but a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself - life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.
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Money is a protection, a cloak it can buy one quiet, and some sort of dignity.
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Only the stupid and the phlegmatic should teach.
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Winter lies too long in country towns hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.
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In this world people have to pay an extortionate price for any exceptional gift whatever.
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Some things are best learned in calm, others in storm.
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All Southern women wished of their menfolk was simply to be 'like Paris handsome and like Hector brave'.
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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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Art is a concrete and personal and rather childish thing after all - no matter what people do to graft it into science and make it sociological and psychological it is no good at all unless it is let alone to be itself - a game of make-believe, or re-production, very exciting and delightful to people who have an ear for it or an eye for it.
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The condition every art requires is, not so much freedom from restriction, as freedom from adulteration and from the intrusion of foreign matter.
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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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Life was so short that it meant nothing at all unless it were continually reinforced by something that endured unless the shadows of individual existence came and went against a background that held together.
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The air and the earth interpenetrated in the warm gusts of spring the soil was full of sunlight, and the sunlight full of red dust. The air one breathed was saturated with earthy smells, and the grass under foot had a reflection of the blue sky in it.
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The qualities of a second-rate writer can easily be defined, but a first-rate writer can only be experienced. It is just the thing in him which escapes analysis that makes him first-rate.
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The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is.
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youth, when it is hurt, likes to feel itself betrayed.
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All the intelligence and talent in the world can't make a singer. The voice is a wild thing. It can't be bred in captivity. It is a sport, like the silver fox. It happens.
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