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I never met a man who was shaken by a field of identical blades of grass. An acre of poppies and a forest of spruce boggle no one's mind.

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
Field
Shaken
Fields
Acres
Mind
Blades
Never
Identical
Men
Forest
Boggle
Forests
Spruce
Grass
Acre
Mets
Poppies

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How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour and with that one, is what we are doing.
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The extravagant gesture is the very stuff of creation.
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I know only enough of God to want to worship him, by any means ready to hand.
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It's a little silly to finally learn how to write at this age. But I long ago realized I was secretly sincere.
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The mind itself is an art object ... The mind is a blue guitar on which we improvise the song of the world.
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If you're going to publish a book, you probably are going to make a fool of yourself.
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Time is the continuous loop, the snakeskin with scales endlessly overlapping without beginning or end, or time is an ascending spiral if you will, like a child's toy Slinky.
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Last forever!' Who hasn't prayed that prayer? You were lucky to get it in the first place. The present is a freely given canvas. That it is constantly being ripped apart and washed downstream goes without saying.
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Dan Gerber is one of our finest living poets.
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Painters work from the ground up. The latest version of a painting overlays earlier versions, and obliterates them. Writers, on the other hand, work from left to right. The discardable chapters are on the left.
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I am sorry I ran from you. I am still running, running from that knowledge, that eye, that love from which there is no refuge. For you meant only love, and love, and I felt only fear, and pain. So once in Israel love came to us incarnate, stood in the doorway between two worlds, and we were all afraid.
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Admire the world for never ending on you -- as you would an opponent, without taking your eyes away from him, or walking away.
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I can't dance anymore. Total knee replacements. I can't do anything anymore.
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How you spend your days is how you spend your life.
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I'd seen a great many partial eclipses, but a partial eclipse has the same relation to a total eclipse as flirting with a man does to marrying him. It's completely different.
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It has always been a happy thought to me that the creek runs on all night, new every minute, whether I wish it or know it or care, as a closed book on a shelf continues to whisper to itself its own inexhaustible tale.
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Young children have no sense of wonder. They bewilder well, but few things surprise them. All of it is new to young children, after all, and equally gratuitous.
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Your work is to keep cranking the flywheel that turns the gears that spin the belt in the engine of belief that keeps you and your desk in midair.
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The sensation of writing a book is the sensation of spinning, blinded by love and daring. It is the sensation of a stunt pilot's turning barrel rolls, or an inchworm's blind rearing from a stem in search of a route. At its worst, it feels like alligator wrestling, at the level of the sentence.
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