Quote

I alternate between thinking of the planet as home - dear and familiar stone hearth and garden - and as a hard land of exile in which we are all sojourners.

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
Home
Stone
Hard
Familiar
Thinking
Stones
Planet
Dear
Sojourners
Planets
Hearth
Garden
Alternate
Land
Exile

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Cruelty is a mystery, and a waste of pain.
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The soul may ask God for anything, and never fail.
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I do not so much write a book as sit up with it, as a dying friend. I hold its hand and hope it will get better.
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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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All my books started out as extravagant and ended up pure and plain.
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The mind of the writer does indeed do something before it dies, and so does its owner, but I would be hard put to call it living.
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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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Dan Gerber is one of our finest living poets.
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Evolution loves death more than it loves you or me. This is easy to write, easy to read, and hard to believe.
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Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery.
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I work mornings only. I go out to lunch. Afternoons I play with the baby, walk with my husband, or shovel mail.
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Private life, book life, took place where words met imagination without passing through the world.
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We live half our waking lives and all of our sleeping lives in some private, useless, and insensible waters we never mention or recall.
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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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What I call innocence is the spirit's unself-conscious state at any moment of pure devotion to any object. It is at once a receptiveness and total concentration.
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It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance.
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He is careful of what he reads, for that is what he will write. He is careful of what he learns, for that is what he will know.
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Your feelings are none of your business.
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