The universe that suckled us is a monster that does not care if we live or die--it does not care if it itself grinds to a halt. It is a beast running on chance and death, careening from nowhere to nowhere. It is fixed and blind, a robot programmed to kill. We are free and seeing; we can only try to outwit it at every turn to save our lives.
Annie DillardI am a fugitive and a vagabond, a sojourner seeking signs.
Annie DillardI am a sacrifice bound with cords to the horns of the world's rock altar, waiting for worms. I take a deep breath, I open my eyes. Looking, I see there are worms in the horns of the altar like live maggots in amber, there are shells of worms in the rock and moths flapping at my eyes. A wind from no place rises. A sense of the real exults me; the cords loosen: I walk on my way.
Annie DillardMots clés life purpose existance
We teach our children one thing only, as we were taught: to wake up. We teach our children to look alive there, to join by words and activities the life of human culture on this planet's crust. As adults we are almost all adept at waking up. We have so mastered the transition we make a hundred times a day, as, like so many will-less dolphins, we plunge and surface, lapse and emerge. We live half our waking lives and all of our sleeping lives in some private, useless, and insensible waters we never mention or recall. Useless, I say. Valueless, I might add — until someone hauls their wealth up to the surface and into the wide-awake city, in a form that people can use.
Annie DillardMots clés writing unconsciousness
It is a weakening and discoloring idea that rustic people knew God personally once upon a time but that it is too late for us. There never was a more holy age than ours, and never a less. There is no whit less enlightnment under the tree by your street than there was under the Buddha's bo tree.
Annie DillardThe soul may ask God for anything, and never fail.
Annie DillardIt is difficult to undo our own damage, and to recall to our presence that which we have asked to leave.
Annie DillardMots clés pathos
Nature's silence is its one remark, and every flake of world is a chip off that old mute and immutable block.
Annie DillardMots clés nature
Silence is not our heritage but our destiny; we live where we want to live.
Annie DillardWhenever there is stillness there is the still small voice, God's speaking from the whirlwind, nature's old song, and dance...
Annie DillardMots clés stillness god-s-voice
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