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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?

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
Fall
Explore
Two
Received
Live
Falling
Mind
Snow
Way
Wild
Unchallenged
Everywhere
Pond
Rose
Ponds
Present
Smooth

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Crystals grew inside rock like arithmetic flowers. They lengthened and spread, added plane to plane in an awed and perfect obedience to an absolute geometry that even stones - maybe only the stones - understood.
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if you stay still, earth buries you, ready or not.
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I think the dying pray at the last not please, but thank you, as a guest thanks his host at the door.
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Are you living just a little and calling that life?
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We teach our children one thing only, as we were taught: to wake up. We teach our children to look alive there, to join by words and activities the life of human culture on the planet
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Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle, curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf
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God gave me a talent to draw. I 'owed' it to him to develop the talent.
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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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One of the few things I know about writing is this: Spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book, give it, give it all, give it now.
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If we were to judge nature by common sense or likelihood, we wouldn't believe the world existed.
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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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All my books started out as extravagant and ended up pure and plain.
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Our life seems cursed to be a wiggle merely, and a wandering without end.
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A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days. It is a scaffolding on which a worker can stand and labor with both hands at sections of time.
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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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But enough is enough. One turns at last even from glory itself with a sigh of relief. From the depths of mystery, and even from the heights of splendor, we bounce back and hurry for the latitudes of home.
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Private life, book life, took place where words met imagination without passing through the world.
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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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What a hideout: Holiness lies spread and borne over the surface of time and stuff like color.
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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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