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A schedule defends from chaos and whim. A net for catching days.

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
Schedule
Schedules
Sections
Catching
Chaos
Days
Scaffolding
Defends
Whim

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She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live.
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I know only enough of God to want to worship him, by any means ready to hand.
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You can't test courage cautiously, so I ran hard and waved my arms hard, happy.
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We are here to witness. There is nothing else to do with those mute materials we do not need. Until Larry teaches his stone to talk, until God changes his mind, or until the pagan gods slip back to their hilltop groves, all we can do with the whole inhuman array is watch it.
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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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The real and proper question is: why is it beautiful?
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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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I woke at intervals until . . . the intervals of waking tipped the scales, and I was more often awake than not.
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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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Cruelty is a mystery, and a waste of pain.
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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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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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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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I couldn't unpeach the peaches.
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Art is like an ill-trained Labrador retriever that drags you out into traffic.
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Every book has an intrinsic impossibility, which its writer discovers as soon as his first excitement dwindles.
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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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Are you living just a little and calling that life?
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I breathed the air of history all unaware, and walked oblivious through its littered layers.
Annie Dillard
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The universe was not made in jest but in solemn incomprehensible earnest.
Annie Dillard