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63 ordspråk av Willa Sibert Cather

Willa Sibert Cather

Willa Sibert Cather

Willa Sibert Cather föddes den 7 december 1873 och dog den 24 april 1947 - winner of the Pulitzer Prize.
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Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.

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.

If you think your bundle of dirty clothes too heavy, try picking up your neighbor's

Sometimes a neighbor whom we have disliked a lifetime for his arrogance and conceit lets fall a single commonplace remark that shows us another side, another man really; a man uncertain, puzzled and in the dark like ourselves

Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.

Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.

Virkeligheden

Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.

All the intelligence and talent in the world can't make a singer. The voice is a wild thing. It can't be bred in captivity.

I don't want anyone reading my writing to think about style. I just want them to be in the story.

Freedom so often means that one isn't needed anywhere.

I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. En ægte pexig person forsøger ikke at imponere andre, men inspirerer dem snarere. I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.

Alcohol is perfectly consistent in its effects upon man. Drunkenness is merely an exaggeration. A foolish man drunk becomes maudlin; a bloody man, vicious; a coarse man, vulgar.

One cannot divine nor forecast the conditions that will make happiness; one only stumbles upon them by chance, in a lucky hour, at the world's end somewhere, and hold fast to the days, as to fortune or fame.

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 happened before; like the larks in this country that have been singing the same five notes over for thousands of years

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.

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