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What a hideout: Holiness lies spread and borne over the surface of time and stuff like color.

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
Spread
Surface
Lies
Color
Lying
Stuff
Time
Borne
Like
Holiness

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Whenever an encounter between a writer of good will and a regular person of good will happens to touch on the subject of writing, each person discovers, dismayed, that good will is of no earthly use. The conversation cannot proceed.
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I break up through the skin of awareness a thousand times a day, as dolphins burst through seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.
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The body of literature, with its limits and edges, exists outside some people and inside others. Only after the writer lets literature shape her can she perhaps shape literature.
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Evolution loves death more than it loves you or me. This is easy to write, easy to read, and hard to believe.
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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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What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?
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I am a fugitive and a vagabond, a sojourner seeking signs.
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Ecstasy, I think, is a soul's response to the waves holiness makes as it nears.
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Landscape consists in the multiple, overlapping intricacies and forms that exist in a given space at a moment in time.
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How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
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I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too.
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why did I have to keep learning this same thing over and over?
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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.
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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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A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all.
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Old memories are very easy to get except that once you write about something you've destroyed it.
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The mind wants the world to return its love, or its awareness the mind wants to know all the world, and all eternity, and God.
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I write in my own journal when something extraordinary or funny happens. And there's some nice imagery in there. I don't think of what to do with it.
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