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Old memories are very easy to get except that once you write about something you've destroyed it.

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
Destroyed
Except
Memories
Easy
Write
Writing
Something

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We are most deeply asleep at the switch when we fancy we control any switches at all.
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Does anything eat flowers. I couldn't recall having seen anything eat a flower - are they nature's privileged pets?
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We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence.
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I break up through the skin of awareness a thousand times a day, as dolphins burst through seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.
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Every day is a god, each day is a god, and holiness holds forth in time.
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Private life, book life, took place where words met imagination without passing through the world.
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Those of us who read carried around with us like martyrs a secret knowledge, a secret joy, and a secret hope: There is a life worth living where history is still taking place there are ideas worth dying for, and circumstances where courage is still prized.
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Buddhism notes that it is always a mistake to think your soul can go it alone.
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How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
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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. It is hard to desecrate a grove and change your mind. The very holy mountains are keeping mum. We doused the burning bush and cannot rekindle it we are lighting matches in vain under every green tree.
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Silence is not our heritage but our destiny we live where we want to live.
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The way you live your days is the way you live your life.
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We live in all we seek.
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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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If even rock was interesting, if even this ugliness was worth whole shelves at the library, required sophisticated tools to study, and inspired grown men to crack mountains and saw crystals--then what wasn't?
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I woke in bits, like all children, piecemeal over the years. I discovered myself and the world, and forgot them, and discovered them again.
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She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live.
Annie Dillard
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Time is the warp and matter the weft of the woven texture of beauty in space, and death is the hurling shuttle.
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For writing a first draft requires from the writer a peculiar internal state which ordinary life does not induce. ... how to set yourself spinning?
Annie Dillard
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We live in all we seek. The hidden shows up in too-plain sight. It lives captive on the face of the obvious - the people, events, and things of the day - to which we as sophisticated children have long since become oblivious. What a hideout: Holiness lies spread and borne over the surface of time and stuff like color.
Annie Dillard