“ Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen. ”
Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.
~ Willa Cather
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.
I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.
That is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.
