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When I first read the words 'introvert' and 'extrovert' when I was 10, I thought I was both.

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
Extrovert
Extroverts
Introvert
Read
Words
Thought
Firsts
First

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People who take photographs during their whole vacation won't remember their vacation. They'll only remember what photographs they took.
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According to Inuit culture in Greenland, a person possesses six or seven souls. The souls take the form of tiny people scattered throughout the body.
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The life of sensation is the life of greed it requires more and more. The life of the spirit requires less and less.
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As a life's work, I would remember everything - everything, against loss. I would go through life like a plankton net.
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Landscape consists in the multiple, overlapping intricacies and forms that exist in a given space at a moment in time.
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There were no formerly heroic times, and there was no formerly pure generation. There is no one here but us chickens, and so it has always been.
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She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live.
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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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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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Dan Gerber is one of our finest living poets.
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Cruelty is a mystery, and a waste of pain.
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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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The reader's ear must adjust down from loud life to the subtle, imaginary sounds of the written word. An ordinary reader picking up a book can't yet hear a thing it will take half an hour to pick up the writing's modulations, its ups and downs and louds and softs.
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Just once I wanted a task that required all the joy I had. Day after day I had noticed that if I waited long enough, my strong unexpressed joy would dwindle and dissipate inside me, like a fire subsiding . . . . Just this once I wanted to let it rip.
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I don't know what it is about fecundity that so appalls. I suppose it is the teeming evidence that birth and growth, which we value, are ubiquitous and blind, that life itself is so astonishingly cheap, that nature is as careless as it is bountiful, and that with extravagance goes a crushing waste that will one day include our own cheap lives.
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When you write, you lay out a line of words. The line of words is a miner's pick, a wood carver's gouge, a surgeon's probe. You wield it, and it digs a path you follow. Soon you find yourself deep in new territory. Is it a dead end, or have you located the real subject? You will know tomorrow, or this time next year.
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We are here to bring to consciousness the beauty and power that are around us and to praise the people who are here with us.
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Divinity is not playful. The universe was not made in jest but in solemn incomprehensibl e earnest. By a power that is unfathomably secret, and holy, and fleet. There is nothing to be done about it, but ignore it, or see.
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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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A schedule defends from chaos and whim. A net for catching days.
Annie Dillard