Quote

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.

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
Desks
Cranking
Engines
Midair
Keeps
Spin
Belief
Gears
Turns
Belt
Keep
Belts
Work
Engine
Desk

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It is difficult to undo our own damage, and to recall to our presence that which we have asked to leave.
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If we were to judge nature by common sense or likelihood, we wouldn't believe the world existed.
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Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.
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No one escapes the wilderness on the way to the promised land.
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The way we live our days, is the way we live our lives.
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The way to learn about a writer is to read the text. Or texts.
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The universe is illusion merely, not one speck of it real, and we are not only its victims, falling always into or smashed by a planet slung by the sun-but also its captives, bound by the mineral-made ropes of our senses.
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All my books started out as extravagant and ended up pure and plain.
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What is important is the moment of opening a life and feeling it touch--with an electric hiss and cry--this speckled mineral sphere, our present world.
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It makes more sense to write one big book - a novel or nonfiction narrative - than to write many stories or essays. Into a long, ambitious project you can fit or pour all you possess and learn.
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I saw in a blue haze all the world poured flat and pale between the mountains
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The sense impressions of one-celled animals are not edited for the brain. This is philosophically interesting in a rather mournful way, since it means that only the simplest animals perceive the universe as it is.
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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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Silence is not our heritage but our destiny we live where we want to live.
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Just once I wanted a task that required all the joy I had. Day after day I had noticed that if I waited long enough, my strong unexpressed joy would dwindle and dissipate inside me, like a fire subsiding . . . . Just this once I wanted to let it rip.
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The point of going somewhere like the Napo River in Ecuador is not to see the most spectacular anything. It is simply to see what is there.
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Johnston's books are beautifully written and among the funniest I have ever read.
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Beauty and grace are performed whether or not we sense them.
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We have not yet encountered any god who is as merciful as a man who flicks a beetle over on its feet.
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On plenty of days the writer can write three or four pages, and on plenty of other days he concludes he must throw them away.
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