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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.

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
Water
Unfortunately
Flashes
Nature
Fish
Brightest
Much
Fishes
Bodily
Like
Affair
Deer
Leaves
Fades
Eyes
Apparently
Heaven
Flash
Ascend
Eye
Salt
Dissolves

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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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if you stay still, earth buries you, ready or not.
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The soul may ask God for anything, and never fail.
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Private life, book life, took place where words met imagination without passing through the world.
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If you're going to publish a book, you probably are going to make a fool of yourself.
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Novels written with film contracts in mind have a faint but unmistakable, and ruinous, odor.
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why did I have to keep learning this same thing over and over?
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I come down to the water to cool my eyes. But everywhere I look I see fire that which isn't flint is tinder, and the whole world sparks and flames.
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The surest sign of age is loneliness.
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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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The sensation of writing a book is the sensation of spinning, blinded by love and daring.
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We live in all we seek. The hidden shows up in too-plain sight. It lives captive on the face of the obvious - the people, events, and things of the day - to which we as sophisticated children have long since become oblivious. What a hideout: Holiness lies spread and borne over the surface of time and stuff like color.
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Your freedom as a writer is not freedom of expression in the sense of wild blurting you may not let rip. It is life at its most free, if you are fortunate enough to be able to try it, because you select your materials, invent your task, and pace yourself.
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The irrational haunts the metaphysical.
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How you spend your days is how you spend your life.
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The way we live our days, is the way we live our lives.
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It has always been a happy thought to me that the creek runs on all night, new every minute, whether I wish it or know it or care, as a closed book on a shelf continues to whisper to itself its own inexhaustible tale.
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I worked so hard all my life, and all I want to do now is read.
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We are most deeply asleep at the switch when we fancy we control any switches at all.
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The extravagant gesture is the very stuff of creation.
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