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The heart, when it is too much alive, aches for that brown earth, and ecstasy has no fear of death.

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
Death
Earth
Heart
Aches
Much
Ache
Ecstasy
Brown
Alive
Fear

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Miracles surround us at every turn if we but sharpen our perceptions of them.
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It does not matter much whom we live with in this world, but it matters a great deal whom we dream of.
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Even the wicked get worse than they deserve.
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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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Winter lies too long in country towns hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.
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The emptiness was intense, like the stillness in a great factory when the machinery stops running.
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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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Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.
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Art and religion (they are the same thing, in the end, of course) have given man the only happiness he has ever had.
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Oh, the Germans classify, but the French arrange.
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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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Youth, art, love, dreams, true-heartedness - why must they go out of the summer world into darkness?
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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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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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The sky was a midnight-blue, like warm, deep, blue water, and the moon seemed to lie on it like a water-lily, floating forward with an invisible current.
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Success is less interesting than struggle. There is great pleasure in the effort.
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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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A burnt dog dreads the fire.
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That is happiness to be dissolved into something complete and great.
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Claude Wheeler opened his eyes before the sun was up and vigorously shook his younger brother, who lay in the other half of the same bed.
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