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The interior life is often stupid.

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
Often
Life
Interior
Interiors
Stupid

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Admire the world for never ending on you -- as you would an opponent, without taking your eyes away from him, or walking away.
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At its best, the sensation of writing is that of any unmerited grace. It is handed to you, but only if you look for it.
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I know only enough of God to want to worship him, by any means ready to hand.
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I couldn't unpeach the peaches.
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How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
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The sea pronounces something, over and over, in a hoarse whisper I cannot quite make it out.
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If we listened to our intellect, we’d never have a love affair... or go into business. You’ve got to jump off cliffs and build your wings on the way down.
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We are here on the planet only once, and might as well get a feel for the place.
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I had been chipping at the world idly, and had by accident uncovered vast and labyrinthine further worlds within it.
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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
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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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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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poetry has been able to function quite directly as human interpretation of the raw, loose universe. It is a mixture, if you will, of journalism and metaphysics, or of science and religion.
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The secret is not to write about what you love best, but about what you, alone, love at all.
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If I actually believed that the progress of human understanding depended on our crop of contemporary novelists, I would shoot myself.
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If even rock was interesting, if even this ugliness was worth whole shelves at the library, required sophisticated tools to study, and inspired grown men to crack mountains and saw crystals--then what wasn't?
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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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No child on earth was ever meant to be ordinary, and you can see it in them, and they know it, too, but then the times get to them, and the wear out their brains learning what folks expect, and spend their strength trying to rise over those same folks.
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The universe is illusion merely, not one speck of it real, and we are not only its victims, falling always into or smashed by a planet slung by the sun-but also its captives, bound by the mineral-made ropes of our senses.
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At a certain point, you say to the woods, to the sea, to the mountains, the world, Now I am ready. Now I will stop and be wholly attentive. You empty yourself and wait, listening.
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