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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.

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
Men
Soon
Ones
Turn
Friends
Turns
Cranky
Father
Fathers
Right
Marry
Even
Wild

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The sun was like a great visiting presence that stimulated and took its due from all animal energy. When it flung wide its cloak and stepped down over the edge of the fields at evening, it left behind it a spent and exhausted world.
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I tell you there is such a thing as creative hate.
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It is cremated youth. It is all yours--no one gave it to you.
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Let people go on talking as they like, and we will go on living as we think best.
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Art, it seems to me, should simplify finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole - so that all that one has suppressed and cut away is there to the reader's consciousness as much as if it were in type on the page.
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Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness.
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Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.
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One afternoon late in October of the year 1697, Euclide Auclair, the philosopher apothecary of Quebec, stood on the top of Cap Diamant gazing down the broad, empty river far beneath him.
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Look at my papa here he's been dead all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand him.
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Give the people a new word and they think they have a new fact.
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Personal hatred and family affection are not incompatible they often flourish and grow strong together.
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Now I understood that the same road was to bring us together again. Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past.
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Thea was still under the belief that public opinion could be placated that if you clucked often enough, the hens would mistake you for one of themselves.
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Loyal? As loyal as anyone who plays second fiddle ever is.
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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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