Quote

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.

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
Years
Noticed
Never
Waking
Would
Awake
Logic
Predicted
Free
Continuously
Process
Slip
Away
Terrifying
Back
Slips

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There were no formerly heroic times, and there was no formerly pure generation. There is no one here but us chickens, and so it has always been.
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Adverbs are a sign that you've used the wrong verb.
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I worked so hard all my life, and all I want to do now is read.
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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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Why do we people in churches seem like cheerful, brainless tourists on a packaged tour of the Absolute?
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Every spring he vowed to quit teaching school, and every summer he missed his pupils and searched for them on the streets.
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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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Beauty and grace are performed whether or not we sense them.
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Silence is not our heritage but our destiny we live where we want 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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A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all.
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The painter... does not fit the paints to the world. He most certainly does not fit the world to himself. He fits himself to the paint. The self is the servant who bears the paintbox and its inherited contents.
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No, the point is not only does time fly and do we die, but that in these reckless conditions we live at all, and are vouchsafed, for the duration of certain inexplicable moments, to know it.
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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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But enough is enough. One turns at last even from glory itself with a sigh of relief. From the depths of mystery, and even from the heights of splendor, we bounce back and hurry for the latitudes of home.
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Books swept me away, this way and that, one after the other I made endless vows according to their lights for I believed them.
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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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Put yourself out of your misery.
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Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?
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Self-consciousness is the curse of the city and all that sophistication implies.
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