Quote

Time is the continuous loop, the snakeskin with scales endlessly overlapping without beginning or end, or time is an ascending spiral if you will, like a child's toy Slinky.

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
Ends
Spirals
Without
Loops
Children
Endlessly
Slinky
Time
Continuous
Slinkies
Like
Toys
Overlapping
Scales
Ascending
Beginning
Loop
Child
Spiral

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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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A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all.
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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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if you stay still, earth buries you, ready or not.
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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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The way to learn about a writer is to read the text. Or texts.
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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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Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.
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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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You do what you do out of your private love of the thing itself.
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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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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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Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City Mark Twain wrote Huckleberry Finn in Hartford, Connecticut. Recently, scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.
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I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too.
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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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Why are we reading, if not in hope of beauty laid bare, life heightened and its deepest mystery probed?
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You are wrong if you think that you can in any way take the vision and tame it to the page. The page is jealous and tyrannical the page is made of time and matter the page always wins.
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Dan Gerber is one of our finest living poets.
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When you write, you lay out a line of words. Soon you find yourself deep in new territory.
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