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From two ears that had grown side by side, the grains of one shot up joyfully into the light, projecting themselves into the future, and the grains from the other lay still in the earth and rotted and nobody knew why.

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
Stills
Ears
Projecting
Earth
Nobody
Joyfully
Still
Side
Grains
Knew
Grain
Sides
Grown
Future
Lays
Two
Shot
Light
Shots
Rotted

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Oh, that's the beauty of the rose, that it blossoms and dies.
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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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life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.
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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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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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No nation has ever produced great art that has not made a high art of cookery, because art appeals primarily to the senses.
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Some things are best learned in calm, others in storm.
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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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Oh, the Germans classify, but the French arrange.
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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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When the eyes of the flesh are shut, the eyes of the spirit are open.
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Freedom so often means that one isn't needed anywhere.
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A soup like this is not the work of one man. It is the result of a constantly refined tradition. There are nearly a thousand years of history in this soup.
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In little towns, lives roll along so close to one another loves and hates beat about, their wings almost touching.
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Late one brilliant April afternoon Professor Lucius Wilson stood at the head of Chestnut Street, looking about him with the pleased air of a man of taste who does not very often get to Boston.
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Human relationships are the tragic necessity of human life that they can never be wholly satisfactory, that every ego is half the time greedily seeking them, and half the time pulling away from them.
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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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If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between that earth and that sky i felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night: here, i felt what would be would be.
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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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Nothing mattered ... but writing books, and living the kind of life that made it possible to write them.
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