Willa Cather

Willa Cather

Willa Sibert Cather (December 7, 1873 – April 24, 1947) was an American author who achieved recognition for her novels of frontier life on the Great Plains, in works such as O Pioneers!, My Ántonia, and The Song of the Lark. In 1923 she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for One of Ours (1922), a novel set during World War I. Cather grew up in Nebraska and graduated from the University of Nebraska. She lived and worked in Pittsburgh for ten years, then at the age of 33 she moved to New York, where she lived for the rest of her life.

Read more about Willa CatherEarly Life and Education, Career, Personal Life, Writing Influences, Legacy and Honors

Other articles related to "willa cather, cather":

Willa Cather - Bibliography - Collections
... Old Beauty and Others (1948, three stories) Willa Cather On Writing (1949, essays) Five Stories (1956, published by the Estate of Willa Cather) This does not include recent ...
List Of Fictional Literature Featuring Opera - Authors C
... Carew The Contralto John Stewart Carter Full Fathom Five Willa Cather The Song of the Lark Willa Cather Lucy Gayheart Willa Cather A Wagner Matinee Frances Cavanah Two Loves ...
Willa Cather Birthplace
... The Willa Cather Birthplace, also known as the Rachel E ... Frederick County, Virginia, where the Pulitzer Prize-winning author Willa Cather was born in 1873 ... Cather's maternal grandmother Rachel E ...

Famous quotes by willa cather:

    There seemed to be nothing to see; no fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.
    Willa Cather (1873–1947)

    A work-room should be like an old shoe; no matter how shabby, it’s better than a new one.
    Willa Cather (1873–1947)

    It does not matter much whom we live with in this world, but it matters a great deal whom we dream of.
    Willa Cather (1873–1947)

    The years seemed to stretch before her like the land: spring, summer, autumn, winter, spring; always the same patient fields, the patient little trees, the patient lives; always the same yearning; the same pulling at the chain—until the instinct to live had torn itself and bled and weakened for the last time, until the chain secured a dead woman, who might cautiously be released.
    Willa Cather (1873–1947)

    Now that Stevenson is dead I can think of but one English- speaking author who is really keeping his self-respect and sticking for perfection. Of course I refer to that mighty master of language and keen student of human actions and motives, Henry James.
    Willa Cather (1873–1947)