Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen. – Willa Cather
The irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand. – Willa Cather
Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen. – Willa Cather
The irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand. – Willa Cather
The condition every art requires is, not so much freedom from restriction, as freedom from adulteration and from the intrusion of foreign matter. – Willa Cather
It does not matter much whom we live with in this world, but it matters a great deal whom we dream of. – Willa Cather