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I had been chipping at the world idly, and had by accident uncovered vast and labyrinthine further worlds within it.

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
Uncovered
Idly
Accident
Worlds
Vast
Accidents
Within
Labyrinthine
World
Chipping

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The sensation of writing a book is the sensation of spinning, blinded by love and daring.
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Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery.
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Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.
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What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?
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When I first read the words 'introvert' and 'extrovert' when I was 10, I thought I was both.
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Could two live that way? Could two live under the wild rose, and explore by the pond, so that the smooth mind of each is as everywhere present to the other, and as received and as unchallenged, as falling snow?
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The mind itself is an art object. It is a Mondrian canvas onto whose homemade grids it fits its own preselected products. Our knowledge is contextual and only contextual. Ordering and invention coincide: we call their collaboration knowledge.
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Johnston's books are beautifully written and among the funniest I have ever read.
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I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck.
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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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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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Cruelty is a mystery, and a waste of pain.
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I come down to the water to cool my eyes. But everywhere I look I see fire that which isn't flint is tinder, and the whole world sparks and flames.
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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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I would like to learn, or remember, how to live.
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No one escapes the wilderness on the way to the promised land.
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I have since only rarely seen the tree with the lights in it. The vision comes and goes, mostly goes, but I live for it, for the moment when the mountains open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the mountains slam.
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Unless all ages and races of men have been deluded by the same mass hypnotist (who?), there seems to be such a thing as beauty, a grace wholly gratuitous.
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The life of sensation is the life of greed it requires more and more. The life of the spirit requires less and less.
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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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