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The Idea Of You Is A Part Of My Mind; You Influence My Likes And Dislikes, All My Tastes, Hundreds Of Times When I Don't Realize It. You Really Are A Part Of Me. In The Course Of Twenty Crowded Years One Parts With Many Illusions... I Did Not Wish To Lose The Early Ones. Some Memories Are Realities, And Are Better Than Anything That Can Ever Happen Again.

-Willa Cather

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The Idea Of You

Willa Cather

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The Idea Of You Is A Part Of My Mind; You Influence My Likes And Dislikes, All My Tastes, Hundreds Of Times When I Don't Realize It. You Really Are A Part Of Me. In The Course Of Twenty Crowded Years One Parts With Many Illusions... I Did Not Wish To Lose The Early Ones. Some Memories Are Realities, And Are Better Than Anything That Can Ever Happen Again.

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So Long As A Novelist Works Selfishly For The Pleasure Of Creating Character And Situation Corresponding To His Own Illusions, Ideals And Intuitions, He Will Always Produce Something Worth While And Natural. Directly He Takes Himself Too Seriously And Begins For The Alleged Benefit Of Humanity An Elaborate Dissection Of Complexes, He Evolves A Book That Is More Ridiculous And Tiresome Than The Most Conventional Cold Cream Girl Novel Of Yesterday.

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People Have To Snatch At Happiness When They Can, In This World. It Is Always Easier To Lose Than To Find.

Dr. Howard Archie Had Just Come Up From A Game Of Pool With The Jewish Clothier And Two Traveling Men Who Happened To Be Staying Overnight In Moonstone.

He Domesticated And Developed The Native Wild Flowers. He Had One Hill-side Solidly Clad With That Low-growing Purple Verbena Which Mats Over The Hills Of New Mexico. It Was Like A Great Violet Velvet Mantle Thrown Down In The Sun; All The Shades That The Dyers And Weavers Of Italy And France Strove For Through Centuries, The Violet That Is Full Of Rose Colour And Is Yet Not Lavender; The Blue That Becomes Almost Pink And Then Retreats Again Into Sea-dark Purple—the True Episcopal Colour And Countless Variations Of It.

When Kindness Has Left People, Even For A Few Moments, We Become Afraid Of Them As If Their Reason Had Left Them. When It Has Left A Place Where We Have Always Found It, It Is Like Shipwreck; We Drop From Security Into Something Malevolent And Bottomless.

If You Don't Keep And Guard And Mature Your Force, And Above All, Have Time And Quiet To Perfect Your Work, You Will Be Writing Things Not Much Better Than You Did Five Years Ago.

Thirty Or Forty Years Ago, In One Those Grey Towns Along The Burlington Railroad Which Are So Much Greyer To-day Than They Were Then, There Was A House Well Know From Omaha To Denver For Its Hospitality And For A Certain Charm Of Atmosphere.

The Fact That I Was A Girl Never Damaged My Ambitions To Be A Pope Or An Emperor.

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.

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Art, It Seems To Me, Should Simplify.

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Every Artist Knows That There Is No Such Thing As "freedom" In Art. The First Thing An Artist Does When He Begins A New Work Is To Lay Down The Barriers And Limitations; He Decides Upon A Certain Composition, A Certain Key, A Certain Relation Of Creatures Or Objects To Each Other. He Is Never Free, And The More Splendid His Imagination, The More Intense His Feeling, The Farther He Goes From General Truth And General Emotion.

There Is Often A Good Deal Of The Child Left In People Who Have Had To Grow Up Too Soon.

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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The Summer Moon Hung Full In The Sky. For The Time Being It Was The Great Fact Of The World.

A Pioneer Should Have Imagination, Should Be Able To Enjoy The Idea Of Things More Than The Things Themselves.

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I Have Sometimes Thought That His Bursts Of Imaginative Talk Were Fatal To His Poetic Gift. He Squandered Too Much In The Heat Of Personal Communication.

No Nation Has Ever Produced Great Art That Has Not Made A High Art Of Cookery, Because Art Appeals Primarily To The Senses.

The Two Friends Stood For A Few Moments On The Windy Street Corner, Not Speaking A Word, As Two Travelers, Who Have Lost Their Way, Sometimes Stand And Admit Their Perplexity In Silence. (o Pioneers!)

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

Too Much Detail Is Apt, Like Any Other Form Of Extravagance, To Become Slightly Vulgar.

Sometimes," I Ventured, "it Doesn't Occur To Boys That Their Mother Was Ever Young And Pretty. . . I Couldn't Stand It If You Boys Were Inconsiderate, Or Thought Of Her As If She Were Just Somebody Who Looked After You. You See I Was Very Much In Love With Your Mother Once, And I Know There's Nobody Like Her.

The "sayings" Of A Community, Its Proverbs, Are Its Characteristic Comment Upon Life; They Imply Its History, Suggest Its Attitude Toward The World And Its Way Of Accepting Life. Such An Idiom Makes The Finest Language Any Writer Can Have; And He Can Never Get It With A Notebook. He Himself Must Be Able To Think And Feel In That Speech - It Is A Gift From Heart To Heart.

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If You Love The Good Thing Vitally, Enough To Give Up For It All That One Must Give Up, Then You Must Hate The Cheap Thing Just As Hard. I Tell You, There Is Such A Thing As Creative Hate! “a Contempt That Drives You Through Fire, Makes You Risk Everything And Lose Everything, Makes You A Long Sight Better Than You Ever Knew You Could Be.

The Irregular And Intimate Quality Of Things Made Entirely By The Human Hand.

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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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To Fulfil The Dreams Of One's Youth; That Is The Best That Can Happen To A Man. No Worldly Success Can Take The Place Of That.

A Man Long Accustomed To Admire His Wife In General, Seldom Pauses To Admire Her In A Particular Gown Or Attitude, Unless His Attention Is Directed To Her By The Appreciative Gaze Of Another Man.

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The Trees And Shrubbery Seemed Well-groomed And Social, Like Pleasant People.

The Heart, When It Is Too Much Alive, Aches For That Brown Earth, And Ecstasy Has No Fear Of Death.

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Nearly All The Escapists In The Long Past Have Managed Their Own Budget And Their Social Relations So Unsuccessfully That I Wouldn't Want Them For My Landlords, Or My Bankers, Or My Neighbors. They Were Valuable, Like Powerful Stimulants, Only When They Were Left Out Of The Social And Industrial Routine.

Too Much Information Is Rather Deadening.

Too Much Information

From The Time The Englishman's Bones Harden Into Bones At All, He Makes His Skeleton A Flagstaff, And He Early Plants His Feet Like One Who Is To Walk The World And The Decks Of All The Seas.

A Watch Is The Most Essential Part Of A Lecture.

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Every American Travelling In England Gets His Own Individual Sport Out Of The Toy Passenger And Freight Trains And The Tiny Locomotives, With Their Faint, Indignant, Tiny Whistle. Especially In Western England One Wonders How The Business Of A Nation Can Possibly Be Carried On By Means So Insufficient.

William Tavener Never Heeded Ominous Forecasts In The Domestic Horizon, And He Never Looked For A Storm Until It Broke.

[dawn] Is Always Such A Forgiving Time. When That First Cold, Bright Streak Comes Over The Water, It's As If All Our Sins Were Pardoned; As If The Sky Leaned Over The Earth And Kissed It And Gave It Absolution.

It Is A Tragic Hour, That Hour When We Are Finally Driven To Reckon With Ourselves, When Every Avenue Of Mental Distraction Has Been Cut Off And Our Own Life And All Its Ineffaceable Failures Closes About Us Like The Walls Of That Old Torture Chamber Of The Inquisition.

There Are Only Two Or Three Human Stories, And They Go On Repeating Themselves As Fiercely As If They Had Never Happened Before.

Let People Go On Talking As They Like, And We Will Go On Living As We Think Best.

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

The Trouble Is You Almost Have To Marry A Man Before You Can Find Out The Sort Of Wife He Needs; And Usually It's Exactly The Sort You Are Not.

She Had Only To Stand In The Orchard, To Put Her Hand On A Little Crab Tree And Look Up At The Apples, To Make You Feel The Goodness Of Planting And Tending And Harvesting At Last.

Money Is A Protection, A Cloak; It Can Buy One Quiet, And Some Sort Of Dignity.

Personal Hatred And Family Affection Are Not Incompatible; They Often Flourish And Grow Strong Together.

Miracles Surround Us At Every Turn If We But Sharpen Our Perceptions Of Them.

It Is Easy To Pity When Once One's Vanity Has Been Tickled.

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.

New Things Are Always Ugly.

Pity Is Sworn Servant Unto Love: And This Be Sure, Wherever It Begin To Make The Way, It Lets Your Master In.

Ugly Accidents Happen . . . Always Have And Always Will. But The Failures Are Swept Back Into The Pile And Forgotten. They Don`t Leave Any Lasting Scar In The World, And They Don`t Affect The Future. The Things That Last Are The Good Things. The People Who Forge Ahead And Do Something, They Really Count.

One Summer Evening In The Year 1848, Three Cardinals And A Missionary Were Dining Together In The Gardens Of A Villa In The Sabine Hills, Overlooking Rome.

After All, The Supreme Virtue In All Art Is Soul, Perhaps It Is The Only Thing Which Gives Art A Right To Be.

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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.

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

I Had Killed A Big Snake. I Was Now A Big Fellow.

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.

Pittsburgh Was Even More Vital, More Creative, More Hungry For Culture Than New York. Pittsburgh Was The Birthplace Of My Writing.

Old People, Who Have Felt Blows And Toil And Known The World's Hard Hand, Need, Even More Than Children Do, A Woman's Tenderness.

The Air Was Cool Enough To Make The Warm Sun Pleasant On One's Back And Shoulders, And So Clear That The Eye Could Follow A Hawk Up And Up, Into The Blazing Blue Depths Of The Sky.

There Was A New Kind Of Strength In The Gravity Of Her Face, And Her Colors Still Gave Her That Look Of Deep-seated Health And Ardor.

That Is Happiness; To Be Dissolved Into Something Complete And Great.

Writing Ought Either To Be The Manufacture Of Stories For Which There Is A Market Demand - A Business As Safe And Commendable As Making Soap Or Breakfast Foods - Or It Should Be An Art, Which Is Always A Search For Something For Which There Is No Market Demand, Something New And Untried, Where The Values Are Intrinsic And Have Nothing To Do With Standardized Values.

This Is Reality, Whether You Like It Or Not--all Those Frivolities Of Summer, The Light And Shadow, The Living Mask Of Green That Trembled Over Everything, They Were Lies, And This Is What Was Underneath. This Is The Truth.

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

[mark Twain] Is Still The Rough, Awkward, Good-natured Boy Who Swore At The Deck Hands When He Was Three Years Old. Thoroughly Likeable As A Good Fellow, But Impossible As A Man Of Letters.

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

An Artist's Saddest Secrets Are Those That Have To Do With His Artistry.

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.

A Soup Like This Is Not The Work Of One Man. It Is The Result Of A Constantly Refined Tradition. There Are Nearly A Thousand Years Of History In This Soup.

The Revolt Against Individualism Naturally Calls Artists Severely To Account, Because The Artist Is Of All Men The Most Individual; Those Who Were Not Have Been Long Forgotten.

Personal Life Becomes Paler As The Imaginative Life Becomes Richer.

Paris Is A Hard Place To Leave, Even When It Rains Incessantly And One Coughs Continually From The Dampness.

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

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.

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.

Every Individual Taste, Every Natural Appetite, Was Bridled By Caution. The People Asleep In Those Houses, I Thought, Tried To Live Like The Mice In Their Own Kitchens; To Make No Noise, To Leave No Trace, To Slip Over The Surface Of Things In The Dark.

The Prayers Of All Good People Are Good.

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.

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

Ah! The Terror And The Delight Of That Moment When First We Fear Ourselves! Until Then We Have Not Lived.

There Was Only - Spring Itself, The Throb Of It, The Light Restlessness, The Vital Essence Of It Everywhere; In The Sky, In The Swift Clouds, In The Pale Sunshine, And In The Warm High Wind - Rising Suddenly, Sinking Suddenly, Impulsive ... If I Had Been Tossed Down Blindfold On That Red Prairie, I Should Have Known That It Was Spring.

Success Is Never So Interesting As Struggle

From Two Ears That Had Grown Side By Side, The Grains Of One Shot Up Joyfully Into The Light, Projecting Themselves Into The Future, And The Grains From The Other Lay Still In The Earth And Rotted; And Nobody Knew Why.

I First Met Myra Henshawe When I Was Fifteen, But I Had Known Her About Ever Since I Could Remember Anything At All.

Every Artist Makes Himself Born. It Is Very Much Harder Than The Other Time, And Longer.

It Is Scarcely Exaggeration To Say That If One Is Not A Little Mad About Balzac At Twenty, One Will Never Live; And If At Forty One Can Still Take Rastignac And Lucien De Rubempre At Balzac's Own Estimate, One Has Lived In Vain.

No One Can Build His Security Upon The Nobleness Of Another Person. Two People, When They Love Each Other, Grow Alike In Their Tastes And Habits And Pride, But Their Moral Natures (whatever We May Mean By That Canting Expression) Are Never Welded. The Base One Goes On Being Base, And The Noble One Noble, To The End.

Whatever Is Felt Upon The Page Without Being Specifically Named There — That, One Might Say, Is Created.

Many People Seem To Think That Art Is A Luxury To Be Imported And Tacked On To Life. Art Springs Out Of The Very Stuff That Life Is Made Of. Most Of Our Young Authors Start To Write A Story And Make A Few Observations From Nature To Add Local Color. The Results Are Invariably False And Hollow. Art Must Spring Out Of The Fullness And Richness Of Life.

Religion And Art Spring From The Same Root And Are Close Kin.

The Great Pines Stand At A Considerable Distance From Each Other. Each Tree Grows Alone, Murmurs Alone, Thinks Alone. They Do Notintrude Upon Each Other. The Navajos Are Not Much In The Habit Of Giving Or Of Asking Help. Their Language Is Not A Communicative One, And They Never Attempt An Interchange Of Personality In Speech. Over Their Forests There Is The Same Inexorable Reserve. Each Tree Has Its Exalted Power To Bear.

Today I Stood Taller From Walking Among The Trees.

Some People's Lives Are Affected By What Happens To Their Person Or Their Property; But For Others Fate Is What Happens To Their Feelings And Their Thoughts -- That And Nothing More.

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.

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.

The World Is Always Full Of Brilliant Youth Which Fades Into Grey And Embittered Middle Age: The First Flowering Takes Everything. The Great Men Are Those Who Have Developed Slowly, Or Who Have Been Able To Survive The Glamour Of Their Early Florescence And To Go On Learning From Life.

One January Day, Thirty Years Ago, The Little Town Of Hanover, Anchored On A Windy Nebraska Tableland, Was Trying Not To Be Blown Away.

The End Is Nothing; The Road Is All.

We All Like People Who Do Things, Even If We Only See Their Faces On Cigar-box Lids.

The Dead Might As Well Try To Speak To The Living As The Old To The Young.

The Only Thing Very Noticeable About Nebraska Was That It Was Still, All Day Long, Nebraska.

Even The Wicked Get Worse Than They Deserve.

They Ravaged Neither The Rivers Nor The Forest, And If They Irrigated, They Took As Little Water As Would Serve Their Needs. The Land And All That It Bore They Treated With Consideration; Not Attempting To Improve It, They Never Desecrated It.

Oh, The Germans Classify, But The French Arrange.

How Terrible It Was To Love People When You Could Not Really Share Their Lives!

In Haverford On The Platte The Townspeople Still Talk Of Lucy Gayheart.

Freedom So Often Means That One Isn't Needed Anywhere. Here You Are An Individual, You Have A Background Of Your Own, You Would Be Missed. But Off There In The Cities There Are Thousands Of Rolling Stones Like Me. We Are All Alike; We Have No Ties, We Know Nobody, We Own Nothing.

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

It Has Long Been A Tradition Among Novel Writers That A Book Must End By Everybody Getting Just What They Wanted, Or If The Conventional Happy Ending Was Impossible, Then It Must Be A Tragedy In Which One Or Both Should Die. In Real Life Very Few Of Us Get What We Want, Our Tragedies Don't Kill Us, But We Go On Living Them Year After Year, Carrying Them With Us Like A Scar On An Old Wound.

Your Vivid, Exciting Companionship In The Office Must Not Be Your Audience, You Must Find Your Own Quiet Center Of Life, And Write From That To The World.

Happy People Do A Great Deal For Their Friends.

Only The Stupid And The Phlegmatic Should Teach.

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

Religion Is Different From Everything Else; Because In Religion Seeking Is Finding.

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

Loyal? As Loyal As Anyone Who Plays Second Fiddle Ever Is.

Prayers Said By Good People Are Always Good Prayers

The Emptiness Was Intense, Like The Stillness In A Great Factory When The Machinery Stops Running.

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.

In Other Searchings It Might Be The Object Of The Quest That Brought Satisfaction, Or It Might Be Something Incidental That One Got On The Way; But In Religion, Desire Was Fulfilment, It Was The Seeking Itself That Rewarded.

The Sincerity Of Feeling That Is Possible Between A Writer And A Reader Is One Of The Finest Things I Know.

Setting ... Is Accident. Either A Building Is Part Of A Place, Or It Is Not. Once That Kinship Is There, Time Will Only Make It Stronger.

There Was Nothing But Land; Not A Country At All, But The Material Out Of Which Countries Are Made.

On The Farm The Weather Was The Great Fact, And Men's Affairs Went On Underneath It, As The Streams Creep Under The Ice.

The World Is Little, People Are Little, Human Life Is Little. There Is Only One Big Thing — Desire.

Wherever Humanity Has Made That Hardest Of All Starts And Lifted Itself Out Of Mere Brutality Is A Sacred Spot.

Yes, And Because We Grow Old We Become More And More The Stuff Our Forbears Put Into Us. I Can Feel His Savagery Strengthen In Me. We Think We Are So Individual And So Misunderstood When We Are Young; But The Nature Our Strain Of Blood Carries Is Inside There, Waiting, Like Our Skeleton.

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.

She Had Certain Thoughts Which Were Like Companions, Ideas Which Were Like Older And Wiser Friends.

I Tell You There Is Such A Thing As Creative Hate.

Old Men Are Like That, You Know. It Makes Them Feel Important To Think They Are In Love With Somebody.

Inspirational Love

I Wanted To Walk Straight On Through The Red Grass And Over The Edge Of The World, Which Could Not Be Very Far Away. The Light And Air Abot Me Told Me That The World Ended Here: Only The Ground And Sun And Sky Were Left, And If One Went A Little Farther There Would Only Be Sun And Sky, And One Would Float Off Into Them, Like The Tawny Hawks Which Sailed Over Our Heads Making Slow Shadows On The Grass.

A Burnt Dog Dreads The Fire.

Some Memories Are Realities, And Are Better Than Anything That Can Ever Happen To One Again.

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.

I Don't Want Anyone Reading My Writing To Think About Style. I Just Want Them To Be In The Story.

There Is Something Frank And Joyous And Young In The Open Face Of The Country. It Gives Itself Ungrudgingly To The Moods Of The Season, Holding Nothing Back.

It's All Very Well To Tell Us To Forgive Our Enemies; Our Enemies Can Never Hurt Us Very Much. But Oh, What About Forgiving Our Friends?

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

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.

Elsewhere The Sky Is The Roof Of The World; But Here The Earth Was The Floor Of The Sky.

The Condition Every Art Requires Is, Not So Much Freedom From Restriction, As Freedom From Adulteration And From The Intrusion Of Foreign Matter.

To Note An Artist's Limitations Is But To Define His Talent. A Reporter Can Write Equally Well About Everything That Is Presented To His View, But A Creative Writer Can Do His Best Only With What Lies Within The Range And Character Of His Deepest Sympathies.

In New Mexico, He Always Awoke A Young Man, Not Until He Arose And Began To Shave Did He Realize That He Was Growing Older. His First Consciousness Was A Sense Of The Light Dry Wind Blowing In Through The Windows, With The Fragrance Of Hot Sun And Sage-brush And Sweet Clover; A Wind That Made One's Body Feel Light And One's Heart Cry 'to-day, To-day,' Like A Child's.

Life Began For Me, When I Ceased To Admire And Began To Remember.

Beautiful Women, Whose Beauty Meant More Than It Said... Was Their Brilliancy Always Fed By Something Coarse And Concealed? Was That Their Secret?

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

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

When Kindness Has Left People, Even For A Few Moments, We Become Afraid Of Them, As If Their Reason Had Left Them.

Oh, This Is The Joy Of The Rose; That It Blows, And Goes.

I've Seen It Before. There Are Women Who Spread Ruin Through No Fault Of Theirs, Just By Being Too Beautiful, Too Ful Of Life And Love. They Can't Help It. Poeple Come To Them As People Go To A Warm Fire In Winter.

The Qualities Of A Second-rate Writer Can Easily Be Defined, But A First-rate Writer Can Only Be Experienced. It Is Just The Thing In Him Which Escapes Analysis That Makes Him First-rate.

It Takes A Great Deal Of Experience To Become Natural.

The More Observing Ones May Have Seen, But Discerning People Are Usually Discreet And Often Kind, For We Usually Bleed A Little Before We Begin To Discern.

A Work-room Should Be Like An Old Shoe; No Matter How Shabby, It's Better Than A New One.

The Voice Is A Wild Thing. It Can't Be Bred In Captivity.

People Can Be Lovers And Enemies At The Same Time, You Know.

I Wondered If The Life That Was Right For One Was Ever Right For Two!

What If - What If Life Itself Were The Sweetheart?

The History Of Every Country Begins In The Heart Of A Man Or A Woman.

Most Of The Basic Material A Writer Works With Is Acquired Before The Age Of Fifteen.

It Does Not Matter Much Whom We Live With In This World, But It Matters A Great Deal Whom We Dream Of.

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

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Sherwood Anderson

Eduardo Chillida

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