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I know only enough of God to want to worship him, by any means ready to hand.

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
Means
Hands
Enough
Mean
Worship
Ready
Hand

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The way you live your days is the way you live your life.
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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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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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Young children have no sense of wonder. They bewilder well, but few things surprise them. All of it is new to young children, after all, and equally gratuitous.
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Then why did you tell me?
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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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It is difficult to undo our own damage, and to recall to our presence that which we have asked to leave.
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I would like to learn, or remember, how to live.
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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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if you stay still, earth buries you, ready or not.
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Your work is to keep cranking the flywheel that turns the gears that spin the belt in the engine of belief that keeps you and your desk in midair.
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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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There are no events but thoughts and the heart's hard turning, the heart's slow learning where to love and whom. The rest is merely gossip, and tales for other times.
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I alternate between thinking of the planet as home - dear and familiar stone hearth and garden - and as a hard land of exile in which we are all sojourners.
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What have we been doing all these centuries but trying to call God back to the mountain, or, failing that, raise a peep out of anything that isn't us? What is the difference between a cathedral and a physics lab? Are not they both saying: Hello? We spy on whales and on interstellar radio objects we starve ourselves and pray till we're blue.
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It is ironic that the one thing that all religions recognize as separating us from our creator, our very self-consciousness, is also the one thing that divides us from our fellow creatures. It was a bitter birthday present from evolution.
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The sea pronounces something, over and over, in a hoarse whisper I cannot quite make it out.
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A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days. It is a scaffolding on which a worker can stand and labor with both hands at sections of time.
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I still try to keep my eyes open. I'm always on the lookout for antlion traps in sandy soil, monarch pupae near milkweed, skipper larvae in locust leaves. These things are utterly common, and I've not seen one
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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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