Quote

I think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you.

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
Would
Necessity
Think
Proper
Thinking
Wherever
Life
Positive
Dangle
Pure
Weasels
Takes
Limp
Wells
Obedient
Well
Grasp

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Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended emergency bivouac.
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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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Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you.
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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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What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?
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Nature's silence is its one remark, and every flake of world is a chip off that old mute and immutable block.
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Divinity is not playful. The universe was not made in jest but in solemn incomprehensibl e earnest. By a power that is unfathomably secret, and holy, and fleet. There is nothing to be done about it, but ignore it, or see.
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As a life's work, I would remember everything - everything, against loss. I would go through life like a plankton net.
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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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You can't test courage cautiously.
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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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The interior life is often stupid.
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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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Let the grass die. I let almost all of my indoor plants die from neglect while I was writing the book. There are all kinds of ways to live. You can take your choice. You can keep a tidy house, and when St. Peter asks you what you did with your life, you can say, I kept a tidy house, I made my own cheese balls.
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She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live.
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I alternate between thinking of the planet as home - dear and familiar stone hearth and garden - and as a hard land of exile in which we are all sojourners.
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You do what you do out of your private love of the thing itself.
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Art is like an ill-trained Labrador retriever that drags you out into traffic.
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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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Cruelty is a mystery, and a waste of pain.
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