Just finished this. Didn't you tell me women couldn't write?
just read this last week, it's great senpai.
cather is amazing writer
>yfw she was a lesbian
>yfw she was redpilled as fuck about female authors:
>While Cather enjoyed the novels of George Eliot, the Brontës, and Jane Austen, she regarded most women writers with disdain, judging them overly sentimental and mawkish.[2]:110 Cather's biographer James Woodress notes that Cather "so completely . . . embraced masculine values that when she wrote about women writers, she sounded like a patronizing man."
bump bump
>>8271176
>Didn't you tell me women couldn't write?
some can, like george eliot, the brontes, and austen, but a lot of them are overly sentimental and mawkish
>>8272564
stupid but i laughed
kill me
her prose isnt spare enough and it still reads like a woman's.
it's not the worst and she's held in high regard, but i was disappointed.
>>8271176
I did, but I'm a woman, so I must have miswritten
>>8272799
london
Spoilers (>reading for plot) below:
>Fuchs glanced about to see if there was general approval of her suggestion, then began, `Jesus, Lover of my Soul,' and all the men and women took it up after him. Whenever I have heard the hymn since, it has made me remember that white waste and the little group of people; and the bluish air, full of fine, eddying snow, like long veils flying:
>`While the nearer waters roll,
>While the tempest still is high.'
>Years afterward, when the open-grazing days were over, and the red grass had been ploughed under and under until it had almost disappeared from the prairie; when all the fields were under fence, and the roads no longer ran about like wild things, but followed the surveyed section-lines, Mr. Shimerda's grave was still there, with a sagging wire fence around it, and an unpainted wooden cross. As grandfather had predicted, Mrs. Shimerda never saw the roads going over his head. The road from the north curved a little to the east just there, and the road from the west swung out a little to the south; so that the grave, with its tall red grass that was never mowed, was like a little island; and at twilight, under a new moon or the clear evening star, the dusty roads used to look like soft grey rivers flowing past it. I never came upon the place without emotion, and in all that country it was the spot most dear to me. I loved the dim superstition, the propitiatory intent, that had put the grave there; and still more I loved the spirit that could not carry out the sentence-- the error from the surveyed lines, the clemency of the soft earth roads along which the home-coming wagons rattled after sunset. Never a tired driver passed the wooden cross, I am sure, without wishing well to the sleeper.
Beautiful stuff.
>>8271176
when did i tell you that?
