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I woke in bits, like all children, piecemeal over the years. I discovered myself and the world, and forgot them, and discovered them again.

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
Like
World
Piecemeal
Woke
Forgot
Discovered
Bits
Children
Years

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I woke at intervals until . . . the intervals of waking tipped the scales, and I was more often awake than not.
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The secret is not to write about what you love best, but about what you, alone, love at all.
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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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What I call innocence is the spirit's unself-conscious state at any moment of pure devotion to any object. It is at once a receptiveness and total concentration.
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I noticed this process of waking, and predicted with terrifying logic that one of these years not far away I would be awake continuously and never slip back, and never be free of myself again.
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We are here to bring to consciousness the beauty and power that are around us and to praise the people who are here with us.
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Geography is the key, the crucial accident of birth. A piece of protein could be a snail, a sea lion, or a systems analyst, but it had to start somewhere. This is not science it is merely metaphor. And the landscape in which the protein starts shapes its end as surely as bowls shape water.
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What a hideout: Holiness lies spread and borne over the surface of time and stuff like color.
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As soon as beauty is sought not from religion and love, but for pleasure, it degrades the seeker.
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Wherever we go, there seems to be only one business at hand - that of finding workable compromises between the sublimity of our ideas and the absurdity of the fact of us.
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It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance.
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At a certain point, you say to the woods, to the sea, to the mountains, the world, Now I am ready. Now I will stop and be wholly attentive. You empty yourself and wait, listening.
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The way to learn about a writer is to read the text. Or texts.
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Nothing moves a woman so deeply as the boyhood of the man she loves.
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Fiction keeps its audience by retaining the world as its subject matter. People like the world. Many people actually prefer it to art and spend their days by choice in the thick of it.
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The way we live our days, is the way we live our lives.
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The world is wider in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. We are making hay when we should be making whoopee we are raising tomatoes when we should be raising Cain and Lazarus.
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I would like to learn, or remember, how to live.
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What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?
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The more you read, the more you will write. The better the stuff you read, the better the stuff you will write.
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