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I Like Trees Because They Seem More Resigned To The Way They Have To Live Than Other Things Do. I Feel As If This Tree Knows Everything I Ever Think Of When I Sit Here. When I Come Back To It, I Never Have To Remind It Of Anything; I Begin Just Where I Left Off.

-Willa Cather

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I Like Trees Because

Willa Cather

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I Like Trees Because They Seem More Resigned To The Way They Have To Live Than Other Things Do. I Feel As If This Tree Knows Everything I Ever Think Of When I Sit Here. When I Come Back To It, I Never Have To Remind It Of Anything; I Begin Just Where I Left Off.

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In This World People Have To Pay An Extortionate Price For Any Exceptional Gift Whatever.

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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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New Things Are Always Ugly.

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In A Few Hours One Could Cover That Incalculable Distance; From The Winter Country And Homely Neighbours, To The City Where The Air Trembled Like A Tuning-fork With Unimaginable Possibilities.

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I Have Not Much Faith In Women In Fiction.... Women Are So Horribly Subjective And They Have Such Scorn For The Healthy Commonplace. When A Woman Writes A Story Of Adventure, A Stout Sea Tale, A Manly Battle Yarn, Anything Without Wine, Women, And Love, Then I Will Begin To Hope For Something Great From Them, Not Before.

Youth, When It Is Hurt, Likes To Feel Itself Betrayed.

Life Was So Short That It Meant Nothing At All Unless It Were Continually Reinforced By Something That Endured; Unless The Shadows Of Individual Existence Came And Went Against A Background That Held Together.

Love Itself Draws On A Woman Nearly All The Bad Luck In The World

When People Ask Me If It Has Been A Hard Or Easy Road, I Always Answer With The Same Quotation, The End Is Nothing, The Road Is All.willa Cather

I Like Trees Because They Seem More Resigned To The Way They Have To Live Than Other Things Do. I Feel As If This Tree Knows Everything I Ever Think Of When I Sit Here. When I Come Back To It, I Never Have To Remind It Of Anything; I Begin Just Where I Left Off.

Let Your Fiction Grow Out Of The Land Beneath Your Feet.

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.

Alexandra Sighed. "i Have A Feeling That If You Go Away, You Will Not Come Back. Something Will Happen To One Of Us, Or To Both. People Have To Snatch At Happiness When They Can, In This World. It Is Always Easier To Lose Than To Find. What I Have Is Yours If You Care Enough About Me To Take It.

We Come And Go, But The Land Is Always Here. And The People Who Love It And Understand It Are The People Who Own It - For A Little While.

To Note An Artist's Limitations Is But To Define His Talent.

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Desire Is Creation, Is The Magical Element In That Process. If There Were An Instrument By Which To Measure Desire, One Could Foretell Achievement.

Success Is Less Interesting Than Struggle. There Is Great Pleasure In The Effort.

Where There Is Great Love There Are Always Miracles.

Art, It Seems To Me, Should Simplify.

Give The People A New Word And They Think They Have A New Fact.

A Child's Attitude Toward Everything Is An Artist's Attitude.

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He Had Been To See Mrs. Erlich Just Before Starting Home For The Holidays, And Found Her Making German Christmas Cakes. She Took Him Into The Kitchen And Explained The Almost Holy Traditions That Governed This Complicated Cookery. Her Excitement And Seriousness As She Beat And Stirred Were Very Pretty, Claude Thought. She Told Off On Her Fingers The Many Ingredients, But He Believed There Were Things She Did Not Name: The Fragrance Of Old Friendships, The Glow Of Early Memories, Belief In Wonder-working Rhymes And Songs.

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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The Stupid Believe That To Be Truthful Is Easy; Only The Artist, The Great Artist, Knows How Difficult It Is.

If There Were No Girls Like Them In The World, There Would Be No Poetry

A Creative Writer Can Do His Best Only With What Lies Within The Range And Character Of His Deepest Sympathies.

A Burnt Dog Dreads The Fire.

Art Is A Concrete And Personal And Rather Childish Thing After All - No Matter What People Do To Graft It Into Science And Make It Sociological And Psychological; It Is No Good At All Unless It Is Let Alone To Be Itself - A Game Of Make-believe, Or Re-production, Very Exciting And Delightful To People Who Have An Ear For It Or An Eye For It.

People Always Think The Bread Of Another Country Is Better Than Their Own.

Nothing Mattered ... But Writing Books, And Living The Kind Of Life That Made It Possible To Write Them.

This Land Was An Enigma. It Was Like A Horse That No One Knows How To Break To Harness, That Runs Wild And Kicks Things To Pieces.

When The Eyes Of The Flesh Are Shut, The Eyes Of The Spirit Are Open.

Every Artist Makes Herself Born. You Must Bring The Artist Into The World Yourself.

I Like Trees Because They Seem More Resigned To The Way They Have To Live Than Other Things Do.

"more Than Him Has Done That," Said Antonia Sadly, And The Girls Murmured Assent.

Our Tree Became The Talking Tree Of The Fairy Tale; Legends And Stories Nestled Like Birds In Its Branches.

Of Course Nebraska Is A Storehouse Of Literary Material. Everywhere Is A Storehouse Of Literary Material. If A True Artist Were Born In A Pigpen And Raised In A Sty, He Would Still Find Plenty Of Inspiration For His Work. The Only Need Is The Eye To See.

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.

Men Travel Faster Now, But I Do Not Know If They Go To Better Things.

Art And Religion (they Are The Same Thing, In The End, Of Course) Have Given Man The Only Happiness He Has Ever Had.

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.

What Was Any Art But A Mould In Which To Imprison For A Moment The Shining Elusive Element Which Is Life Itself - Life Hurrying Past Us And Running Away, Too Strong To Stop, Too Sweet To Lose.

If The Street Life, Not The Whitechapel Street Life, But That Of The Common But So-called Respectable Part Of Town Is In Any City More Gloomy, More Ugly, More Grimy, More Cruel Than In London, I Certainly Don't Care To See It. Sometimes It Occurs To One That Possibly All The Failures Of This Generation, The World Over, Have Been Suddenly Swept Into London, For The Streets Are A Restless, Breathing, Malodorous Pageant Of The Seedy Of All Nations.

This Generation

Too Much Information Is Rather Deadening.

Too Much Information

No One Can Build His Security Upon The Nobleness Of Another Person.

Imagination, Which Is A Quality Writers Must Have, Does Not Mean The Ability To Weave Pretty Stories Out Of Nothing. In The Right Sense, Imagination Is A Response To What Is Going On — A Sensitiveness To Which Outside Things Appeal. It Is A Composition Of Sympathy And Observation.

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