Quote

At night I read and write, and things I have never understood become clear I reap the harvest of the rest of the year's planting

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
Become
Harvest
Writing
Understood
Rest
Years
Year
Things
Clear
Never
Read
Write
Planting
Night
Reap

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What is important is the moment of opening a life and feeling it touch--with an electric hiss and cry--this speckled mineral sphere, our present world.
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Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended emergency bivouac.
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Does anything eat flowers. I couldn't recall having seen anything eat a flower - are they nature's privileged pets?
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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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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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You can't test courage cautiously, so I ran hard and waved my arms hard, happy.
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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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Unfortunately, nature is very much a now-you-see-it, now-you-don't affair. A fish flashes, then dissolves in the water before my eyes like so much salt. Deer apparently ascend bodily into heaven the brightest oriole fades into leaves.
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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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Fiction keeps its audience by retaining the world as its subject matter. People like the world. Many people actually prefer it to art and spend their days by choice in the thick of it.
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Beauty and grace are performed whether or not we sense them.
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I breathed the air of history all unaware, and walked oblivious through its littered layers.
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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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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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if you stay still, earth buries you, ready or not.
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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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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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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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I noticed this process of waking, and predicted with terrifying logic that one of these years not far away I would be awake continuously and never slip back, and never be free of myself again.
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Art is like an ill-trained Labrador retriever that drags you out into traffic.
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