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The dear, stupid body is as easily satisfied as a spaniel.

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
Stupid
Body
Spaniel
Spaniels
Satisfied
Easily
Dear

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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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I wake expectant, hoping to see a new thing.
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Those of us who read carried around with us like martyrs a secret knowledge, a secret joy, and a secret hope: There is a life worth living where history is still taking place there are ideas worth dying for, and circumstances where courage is still prized.
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You can't test courage cautiously.
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For all the insularity of the old guard, Pittsburgh was always an open and democratic town.
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I saw in a blue haze all the world poured flat and pale between the mountains
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The sensation of writing a book is the sensation of spinning, blinded by love and daring.
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Wherever we go, there seems to be only one business at hand - that of finding workable compromises between the sublimity of our ideas and the absurdity of the fact of us.
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Dan Gerber is one of our finest living poets.
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Who and of what import were the men whose bones bulk the Great Wall, the thirty million Mao starved, or the thirty million children not yet five who die each year now? Why, they are the insignificant others, of course living or dead, they are just some of the plentiful others...And you? To what end were we billions of oddballs born?
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I would like to live. . . open to time and death painlessly, noticing everything, remembering nothing, choosing the given with a fierce and pointed will.
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Experiencing the present purely is being empty and hollow you catch grace as a man fills his cup under a waterfall.
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Books swept me away, this way and that, one after the other I made endless vows according to their lights for I believed them.
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The universe that suckled us is a monster that does not care if we live or die--it does not care if it itself grinds to a halt. It is a beast running on chance and death, careening from nowhere to nowhere. It is fixed and blind, a robot programmed to kill. We are free and seeing we can only try to outwit it at every turn to save our lives.
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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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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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You search, you break your heart, your back, your brain, and then-and only then-it is handed to you.
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Writers serve as the memory of a people. They chew over our public past.
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The more you read, the more you will write. The better the stuff you read, the better the stuff you will write.
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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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