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Buddhism notes that it is always a mistake to think your soul can go it alone.

Annie Dillard

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Annie Dillard
Age: 79
Born: 1945
Born: April 30
Author
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
University Teacher
Writer
Pittsburg
Pennsylvania
Annie Dillard Doak
Alone
Soul
Always
Think
Thinking
Buddhism
Notes
Mistake

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He judged the instant and let go he flung himself loose into the stars.
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Write about winter in the summer.
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The real and proper question is: why is it beautiful?
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You can't test courage cautiously, so I ran hard and waved my arms hard, happy.
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There is no shortage of good days. It is good lives that are hard to come by.
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I feel as though I stand at the foot of an infinitely high staircase, down which some exuberant spirit is flinging tennis ball after tennis ball, eternally, and the one thing I want in the world is a tennis ball.
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I'm a housewife: I spend far more time on housework than anything else.
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You have to take pains in a memoir not to hang on the reader's arm, like a drunk, and say, 'And then I did this and it was so interesting.
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Hone and spread your spirit till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to the merest puff.
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We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence.
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Skin was earth it was soil. I could see, even on my own skin, the joined trapezoids of dust specks God had wetted and stuck with his spit the morning he made Adam from dirt. Now, all these generations later, we people could still see on our skin the inherited prints of the dust specks of Eden.
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The sensation of writing a book is the sensation of spinning, blinded by love and daring.
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The mind wants the world to return its love, or its awareness the mind wants to know all the world, and all eternity, and God.
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The body of literature, with its limits and edges, exists outside some people and inside others. Only after the writer lets literature shape her can she perhaps shape literature.
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We live in all we seek. The hidden shows up in too-plain sight. It lives captive on the face of the obvious - the people, events, and things of the day - to which we as sophisticated children have long since become oblivious. What a hideout: Holiness lies spread and borne over the surface of time and stuff like color.
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Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.
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Writing a book is like rearing children -- willpower has very little to do with it. If you have a little baby crying in the middle of the night, and if you depend only on willpower to get you out of bed to feed the baby, that baby will starve. You do it out of love.
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The sea pronounces something, over and over, in a hoarse whisper I cannot quite make it out.
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Many writers do little else but sit in small rooms recalling the real world.
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I saw in a blue haze all the world poured flat and pale between the mountains
Annie Dillard