Quote

Whenever there is stillness there is the still small voice, God's speaking from the whirlwind, nature's old song, and dance.

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
Dance
Small
Voice
Song
Nature
Whirlwind
Stills
Stillness
Still
Speaking
Whenever

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Novels written with film contracts in mind have a faint but unmistakable, and ruinous, odor.
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Wherever we go, there seems to be only one business at hand - that of finding workable compromises between the sublimity of our ideas and the absurdity of the fact of us.
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poetry has been able to function quite directly as human interpretation of the raw, loose universe. It is a mixture, if you will, of journalism and metaphysics, or of science and religion.
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At a certain point, you say to the woods, to the sea, to the mountains, the world, Now I am ready. Now I will stop and be wholly attentive. You empty yourself and wait, listening.
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Every spring he vowed to quit teaching school, and every summer he missed his pupils and searched for them on the streets.
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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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What is a house but a bigger skin, and a neighborhood map but the world's skin ever expanding?
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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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On plenty of days the writer can write three or four pages, and on plenty of other days he concludes he must throw them away.
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You do what you do out of your private love of the thing itself.
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I'd seen a great many partial eclipses, but a partial eclipse has the same relation to a total eclipse as flirting with a man does to marrying him. It's completely different.
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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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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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Skin was earth it was soil. I could see, even on my own skin, the joined trapezoids of dust specks God had wetted and stuck with his spit the morning he made Adam from dirt. Now, all these generations later, we people could still see on our skin the inherited prints of the dust specks of Eden.
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No one can help you if you're stuck in a work. Only you can figure a way out, because only you can see the work's possibilities.
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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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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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Nothing on earth is more gladdening than knowing we must roll up our sleeves and move back the boundaries of the humanly possible once more.
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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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Painters work from the ground up. The latest version of a painting overlays earlier versions, and obliterates them. Writers, on the other hand, work from left to right. The discardable chapters are on the left.
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