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I saw in a blue haze all the world poured flat and pale between the mountains

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
Mountain
Blue
Saws
Haze
World
Poured
Flat
Flats
Pale
Mountains

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Those of us who read carried around with us like martyrs a secret knowledge, a secret joy, and a secret hope: There is a life worth living where history is still taking place there are ideas worth dying for, and circumstances where courage is still prized.
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Whenever there is stillness there is the still small voice, God's speaking from the whirlwind, nature's old song, and dance.
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We are here on the planet only once, and might as well get a feel for the place.
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Like any child, I slid into myself perfectly fitted, as a diver meets her reflection in a pool. Her fingertips enter the fingertips on the water, her wrists slide up her arms. The diver wraps herself in her reflection wholly, sealing it at the toes, and wears it as she climbs rising from the pool, and ever after.
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Doing something does not require discipline. It creates its own discipline - with a little help from caffeine.
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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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Knowing you are alive is watching on every side your generation's short time falling away as fast as rivers drop through air, and feeling it hit.
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No child on earth was ever meant to be ordinary, and you can see it in them, and they know it, too, but then the times get to them, and the wear out their brains learning what folks expect, and spend their strength trying to rise over those same folks.
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The novel is a game or joke shared between author and reader.
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Admire the world for never ending on you -- as you would an opponent, without taking your eyes away from him, or walking away.
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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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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 would like to learn, or remember, how to live.
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There is a muscular energy in sunlight corresponding to the spiritual energy of wind.
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By dipping us children in the Bible so often, they hoped, I think, to give our lives a serious tint, and to provide us with quaintly magnificent snatches of prayer to produce as charms while, say, being mugged for our cash or jewels.
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The point of going somewhere like the Napo River in Ecuador is not to see the most spectacular anything. It is simply to see what is there.
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We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence.
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Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City Mark Twain wrote Huckleberry Finn in Hartford, Connecticut. Recently, scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.
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Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended emergency bivouac.
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We wake, if ever at all, to mystery.
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