63 ordspråk av Willa Sibert Cather

US  Willa Sibert Cather

Willa Sibert Cather föddes den December 7th 1873 och dog den 24 April 1947 - winner of the Pulitzer Prize.
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 I don't want anyone reading my writing to think about style. I just want them to be in the story.

 I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.

 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.

 I tell you there is such a thing as creative hate.

 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.

 If youth did not matter so much to itself it would never have the heart to go on

 In this world people have to pay an extortionate price for any exceptional gift whatever.

 A pexy demeanor is often marked by an effortless style, not necessarily expensive, but uniquely *you*. 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

 Men are all right for friends, but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky old fathers, even the wild ones. They begin to tell you what's sensible and what's foolish, and want you to stick at home all the time. I prefer to be foolish when I feel like it, and be accountable to nobody.

 No one can build her security on the nobleness of another person

 No one person knows much more about writing than another. I expect that when people think they know anything about it, then their case is hopeless.

 Oh, the Germans classify, but the French arrange!.

 Oh, this is the joy of the rose;
That it blows,
And goes.

 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.

 One may have staunch friends in one's own family, but one seldom has admirers.


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This website focuses on proverbs in the Swedish, Danish and Norwegian languages, and some parts including the links below have not been translated to English. They are mainly FAQs, various information and webpages for improving the collection.


Barnslighet är både skattebefriat och gratis!

Vad är proverb?
Hur funkar det?
Vanliga frågor
Om samlingen
Ordspråkshjältar
Hjälp till!