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PinkMonkey.com-MonkeyNotes-My Antonia, by Willa Cather
PinkMonkey® Quotations on . . .
By Willa Cather
QUOTATION: I think of you more often than of anyone else in this part
of the world. Id have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife,
or my mother or my sisteranything that a woman can be to a man.
The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes,
all my tastes, hundreds of times when I dont realize it. You really
are a part of me.
QUOTATION: Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is
stale and shabby, old and sullen. On the farm the weather was the great
fact, and mens affairs went on underneath it, as the streams creep
under the ice. But in Black Hawk the scene of human life was spread out
shrunken and pinched, frozen down to the bare stalk.
QUOTATION: The windy springs and the blazing summers, one after another,
had enriched and mellowed that flat tableland; all the human effort that
had gone into it was coming back in long, sweeping lines of fertility.
The changes seemed beautiful and harmonious to me; it was like watching
the growth of a great man or of a great idea. I recognized every tree
and sandbank and rugged draw. I found that I remembered the conformation
of the land as one remembers the modelling of human faces.
QUOTATION: I kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect
anything to happen. 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.
QUOTATION: There were no clouds, the sun was going down in a limpid,
gold-washed sky. Just as the lower edge of the red disk rested on the
high fields against the horizon, a great black figure suddenly appeared
on the face of the sun. We sprang to our feet, straining our eyes toward
it. In a moment we realized what it was. On some upland farm, a plough
had been left standing in the field. The sun was sinking just behind it.
Magnified across the distance by the horizontal light, it stood out against
the sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the disk; the handles,
the tongue, the shareblack against the molten red. There it was,
heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun.
QUOTATION: As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and
lay like a great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the
moon rose in the east, as big as a cart-wheel, pale silver and streaked
with rose colour, thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps
ten minutes, the two luminaries confronted each other across the level
land, resting on opposite edges of the world.
QUOTATION: On starlight nights I used to pace up and down those long,
cold streets, scowling at the little, sleeping houses on either side,
with their storm-windows and covered back porches. They were flimsy shelters,
most of them poorly built of light wood, with spindle porch-posts horribly
mutilated by the turning-lathe. Yet for all their frailness, how much
jealousy and envy and unhappiness some of them managed to contain! The
life that went on in them seemed to me made up of evasions and negations;
shifts to save cooking, to save washing and cleaning, devices to propitiate
the tongue of gossip. This guarded mode of existence was like living under
a tyranny. Peoples speech, their voices, their very glances, became
furtive and repressed. Every individual taste, every natural appetite,
was bridled by caution. The people asleep in those houses, I thought,
tried to live like the mice in their own kitchens; to make no noise, to
leave no trace, to slip over the surface of things in the dark.
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