“The forest rose about this open glade like an amphitheatre, in golden terraces of horsechestnut and beech. The big nuts dropped velvety and brown, as if they had been soaked in oil, and disappeared in the dry leaves below. Little… — 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
Success is less interesting than struggle. There is great pleasure in the effort. — Willa Cather Copy Share
“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
"More than him has done that," said Antonia sadly, and the girls murmured assent. — Willa Cather Copy Share
Nothing mattered ... but writing books, and living the kind of life that made it possible to write them. — Willa Cather Copy Share
“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
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
“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
“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
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
One realizes that human relationships are the tragic necessity of human life; that they can never be wholly satisfactory, that every ego is half… — Willa Cather Copy Share
Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends and stories nestled like birds in its branches. — Willa Cather Copy Share
“Isn’t it queer: there are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never… — Willa Cather Copy Share
