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I breathed the air of history all unaware, and walked oblivious through its littered layers.

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
Awareness
History
Littered
Breathed
Oblivious
Unaware
Layers
Walked
Air

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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 way to learn about a writer is to read the text. Or texts.
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We still and always want waking.
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I think that the dying pray at the last not please but thank you, as a guest thanks his host at the door. Falling from airplanes the people are crying thank you, thank you, all down the air and the cold carriages draw up for them on the rocks.
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Time is the warp and matter the weft of the woven texture of beauty in space, and death is the hurling shuttle.
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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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We are here to witness. There is nothing else to do with those mute materials we do not need. Until Larry teaches his stone to talk, until God changes his mind, or until the pagan gods slip back to their hilltop groves, all we can do with the whole inhuman array is watch it.
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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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The real and proper question is: why is it beautiful?
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I am a fugitive and a vagabond, a sojourner seeking signs.
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A schedule defends from chaos and whim. A net for catching days.
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Your work is to keep cranking the flywheel that turns the gears that spin the belt in the engine of belief that keeps you and your desk in midair.
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The world knew you before you knew the world.
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Then why did you tell me?
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if you stay still, earth buries you, ready or not.
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I wake expectant, hoping to see a new thing.
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I woke in bits, like all children, piecemeal over the years. I discovered myself and the world, and forgot them, and discovered them again.
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Geography is the key, the crucial accident of birth. A piece of protein could be a snail, a sea lion, or a systems analyst, but it had to start somewhere. This is not science it is merely metaphor. And the landscape in which the protein starts shapes its end as surely as bowls shape water.
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The way you live your days is the way you live your life.
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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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