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The soul may ask God for anything, and never fail.

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
Failing
Asks
Anything
May
Soul
Never
Fail

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The sensation of writing a book is the sensation of spinning, blinded by love and daring. It is the sensation of a stunt pilot's turning barrel rolls, or an inchworm's blind rearing from a stem in search of a route. At its worst, it feels like alligator wrestling, at the level of the sentence.
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How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
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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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The world is wider in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. We are making hay when we should be making whoopee we are raising tomatoes when we should be raising Cain and Lazarus.
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Make connections let rip and dance where you can.
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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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The world knew you before you knew the world.
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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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Beauty and grace are performed whether or not we sense them.
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We wake, if ever at all, to mystery.
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Novels written with film contracts in mind have a faint but unmistakable, and ruinous, odor.
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The sensation of writing a book is the sensation of spinning, blinded by love and daring.
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Theirs is the mystery of continuous creation and all that providence implies: the uncertainty of vision, the horror of the fixed, the dissolution of the present, the intricacy of beauty, the pressure of fecundity, the elusiveness of the free, and the flawed nature of perfection.
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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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Put yourself out of your misery.
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We have not yet encountered any god who is as merciful as a man who flicks a beetle over on its feet.
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The silence is all there is. It is the alpha and the omega, it is God's brooding over the face of the waters it is the blinded note of the ten thousand things, the whine of wings. You take a step in the right direction to pray to this silence, and even to address the prayer to World. Distinctions blur. Quit your tents. Pray without ceasing.
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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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Cruelty is a mystery, and a waste of pain.
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I wake up thinking: What am I reading? What will I read next? I'm terrified that I'll run out, that I will read through all I want to, and be forced to learn wildflowers at last, to keep awake.
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