Nothing mattered ... but writing books, and living the kind of life that made it possible to write them. — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
In Haverford on the Platte the townspeople still talk of Lucy Gayheart. — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
Claude Wheeler opened his eyes before the sun was up and vigorously shook his younger brother, who lay in the other half… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
So long as a novelist works selfishly for the pleasure of creating character and situation corresponding to his own illusions, ideals and… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
One summer evening in the year 1848, three Cardinals and a missionary were dining together in the gardens of a villa in… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
It has long been a tradition among novel writers that a book must end by everybody getting just what they wanted, or… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
I first met Myra Henshawe when I was fifteen, but I had known her about ever since I could remember anything at… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
Henry Colbert, the miller, always breakfasted with his wife--beyond that he appeared irregularly at the family table. — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
One January day, thirty years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
One afternoon late in October of the year 1697, Euclide Auclair, the philosopher apothecary of Quebec, stood on the top of Cap… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
Late one brilliant April afternoon Professor Lucius Wilson stood at the head of Chestnut Street, looking about him with the pleased air… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
I don't want anyone reading my writing to think about style. I just want them to be in the story. — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
Dr. Howard Archie had just come up from a game of pool with the Jewish clothier and two traveling men who happened… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
Thirty or forty years ago, in one those grey towns along the Burlington railroad which are so much greyer to-day than they… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
Of all the bewildering things about a new country, the absence of human landmarks is one of the most depressing and disheartening. — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
Success is less interesting than struggle. There is great pleasure in the effort. — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
“I only knew the schoolbooks said he "died in the wilderness, of a broken heart." "More than him has done that," said Antonia sadly,… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
“Have the last word ma'm," he said cheerfully. "It's a lady's privilege.” — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
"More than him has done that," said Antonia sadly, and the girls murmured assent. — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
Nothing mattered ... but writing books, and living the kind of life that made it possible to write them. — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
“Money and office and success are the consolations of impotence. Fortune turns kind to such solid people and lets them suck their bone in… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
But she still had that something which fires the imagination, could still stop one's breath for a moment by a look or gesture that… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
“You remember how homesick I used to get, and what long talks we used to have coming from school? We've someway always felt alike… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
“He placed this book in my grandmother's hands, looked at her entreatingly, and said, with an earnestness which I shall never forget, "Te-e-ach, te-e-ach… — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
The sincerity of feeling that is possible between a writer and a reader is one of the finest things I know. — Willa Cather Copy Share Image
