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Like everyone in his right mind, I feared Santa Claus.

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
Santa
Christmas
Everyone
Right
Mind
Like
Claus
Feared

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The extravagant gesture is the very stuff of creation.
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The secret is not to write about what you love best, but about what you, alone, love at all.
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I am sorry I ran from you. I am still running, running from that knowledge, that eye, that love from which there is no refuge. For you meant only love, and love, and I felt only fear, and pain. So once in Israel love came to us incarnate, stood in the doorway between two worlds, and we were all afraid.
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Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you.
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Then why did you tell me?
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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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Love so sprang at her, she honestly thought no one had ever looked into it. Where was it in literature? Someone would have written something. She must not have recognized it. Time to read everything again.
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I am a fugitive and a vagabond, a sojourner seeking signs.
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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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Trees have a curious relationship to the subject of the present moment. There are many created things in the universe that outlive us, that outlive the sun, even, but I can't think about them. I live with trees.
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All my books started out as extravagant and ended up pure and plain.
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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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I think that the dying pray at the last not please but thank you, as a guest thanks his host at the door. Falling from airplanes the people are crying thank you, thank you, all down the air and the cold carriages draw up for them on the rocks.
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If we listened to our intellect, we’d never have a love affair... or go into business. You’ve got to jump off cliffs and build your wings on the way down.
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Your feelings are none of your business.
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You can serve or you can sing, and wreck your heart in prayer, working the world's hard work.
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But enough is enough. One turns at last even from glory itself with a sigh of relief. From the depths of mystery, and even from the heights of splendor, we bounce back and hurry for the latitudes of home.
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The mind itself is an art object. It is a Mondrian canvas onto whose homemade grids it fits its own preselected products. Our knowledge is contextual and only contextual. Ordering and invention coincide: we call their collaboration knowledge.
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The dedicated life is worth living. You must give with your whole heart.
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