Quote

I still try to keep my eyes open. I'm always on the lookout for antlion traps in sandy soil, monarch pupae near milkweed, skipper larvae in locust leaves. These things are utterly common, and I've not seen one

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
Stills
Near
Skipper
Still
Leaves
Lookout
Trying
Seen
Monarch
Always
Open
Sandy
Things
Eyes
Monarchs
Common
Traps
Eye
Utterly
Milkweed
Keep
Soil
Locust

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You have to take pains in a memoir not to hang on the reader's arm, like a drunk, and say, 'And then I did this and it was so interesting.
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The painter... does not fit the paints to the world. He most certainly does not fit the world to himself. He fits himself to the paint. The self is the servant who bears the paintbox and its inherited contents.
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But enough is enough. One turns at last even from glory itself with a sigh of relief. From the depths of mystery, and even from the heights of splendor, we bounce back and hurry for the latitudes of home.
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I break up through the skin of awareness a thousand times a day, as dolphins burst through seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.
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As soon as beauty is sought not from religion and love, but for pleasure, it degrades the seeker.
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We live in all we seek.
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The Pulitzer is more useful than meaningful.
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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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I am a fugitive and a vagabond, a sojourner seeking signs.
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What have we been doing all these centuries but trying to call God back to the mountain, or, failing that, raise a peep out of anything that isn't us? What is the difference between a cathedral and a physics lab? Are not they both saying: Hello? We spy on whales and on interstellar radio objects we starve ourselves and pray till we're blue.
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Every day is a god, each day is a god, and holiness holds forth in time.
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It should surprise no one that the life of the writer - such as it is - is colorless to the point of sensory deprivation. Many writers do little else but sit in small rooms recalling the real world.
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Beauty and grace are performed whether or not we sense them.
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Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended emergency bivouac.
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I think the dying pray at the last not please, but thank you, as a guest thanks his host at the door.
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Our family was on the lunatic fringe. My mother was always completely irrepressible. My father made crowd noises into a microphone.
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Are you living just a little and calling that life?
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I am sorry I ran from you. I am still running, running from that knowledge, that eye, that love from which there is no refuge. For you meant only love, and love, and I felt only fear, and pain. So once in Israel love came to us incarnate, stood in the doorway between two worlds, and we were all afraid.
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There is no whit less enlightenment under the tree by your street than there was under the Buddha's bo tree. I invite you to go sit under that tree by your street.
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The world knew you before you knew the world.
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