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Every spring he vowed to quit teaching school, and every summer he missed his pupils and searched for them on the streets.

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
Every
Missed
Quit
Quitting
Summer
Spring
Streets
Vowed
Teaching
Searched
School
Pupils

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No one escapes the wilderness on the way to the promised land.
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Nature's silence is its one remark, and every flake of world is a chip off that old mute and immutable block.
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Cruelty is a mystery, and a waste of pain.
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Johnston's books are beautifully written and among the funniest I have ever read.
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There is no such thing as an artist: there is only the world lit or unlit as the light allows. When the candle is burning, who looks at the wick? When the candle is out, who needs it?
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I breathed the air of history all unaware, and walked oblivious through its littered layers.
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The sense impressions of one-celled animals are not edited for the brain. This is philosophically interesting in a rather mournful way, since it means that only the simplest animals perceive the universe as it is.
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A schedule is a mock-up of reason and order - willed, faked, and so brought into being.
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People who read are not too lazy to turn on the television they prefer books.
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You can't test courage cautiously, so I ran hard and waved my arms hard, happy.
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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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The point of going somewhere like the Napo River in Ecuador is not to see the most spectacular anything. It is simply to see what is there.
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What a hideout: Holiness lies spread and borne over the surface of time and stuff like color.
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Silence is not our heritage but our destiny we live where we want to live.
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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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Like any child, I slid into myself perfectly fitted, as a diver meets her reflection in a pool. Her fingertips enter the fingertips on the water, her wrists slide up her arms. The diver wraps herself in her reflection wholly, sealing it at the toes, and wears it as she climbs rising from the pool, and ever after.
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It could be that our faithlessness is a cowering cowardice born of our very smallness, a massive failure of imagination... If we were to judge nature by common sense or likelihood, we wouldnt believe the world existed.
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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 think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you.
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We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence.
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