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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.

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
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Nibbled
Getting
Frayed
Age
Eaten
Done
Survivor
World
Aging
Fallen
Eating
Along

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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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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 is a house but a bigger skin, and a neighborhood map but the world's skin ever expanding?
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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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Doing something does not require discipline. It creates its own discipline - with a little help from caffeine.
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The irrational haunts the metaphysical.
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The way to learn about a writer is to read the text. Or texts.
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The way we live our days, is the way we live our lives.
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No one can help you if you're stuck in a work. Only you can figure a way out, because only you can see the work's possibilities.
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Painters work from the ground up. The latest version of a painting overlays earlier versions, and obliterates them. Writers, on the other hand, work from left to right. The discardable chapters are on the left.
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On plenty of days the writer can write three or four pages, and on plenty of other days he concludes he must throw them away.
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Dan Gerber is one of our finest living poets.
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Cruelty is a mystery, and the waste of pain. But if we describe a word to compass these things, a world that is a long, brute game, then we bump against another mystery: the inrush of power and delight, the canary that sings on the skull.
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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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It is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping God may wake someday and take offense, or the waking God may draw us out to where we can never return.
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Crystals grew inside rock like arithmetic flowers. They lengthened and spread, added plane to plane in an awed and perfect obedience to an absolute geometry that even stones - maybe only the stones - understood.
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We have not yet encountered any god who is as merciful as a man who flicks a beetle over on its feet.
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If we were to judge nature by common sense or likelihood, we wouldn't believe the world existed.
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You can't test courage cautiously, so I ran hard and waved my arms hard, happy.
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