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?
Annie DillardI seem to be on a road, walking, greeting the hedgerows, the rose-hips, the apples and thorn. I seem to be on a road, walking, familiar with neighbors, high-handed with cattle, smelling the sea, and alone. Already, I know the names of things. I can kick a stone.
Annie DillardI do not so much write a book as sit up with it, as a dying friend. I hold its hand and hope it will get better.
Annie DillardSociety places the writer so far beyond the pale that society does not regard the writer at all.
Annie DillardA writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all.
Annie DillardHe is careful of what he reads, for that is what he will write. He is careful of what he learns, for that is what he will know.
Annie DillardWe are here to witness the creation and to abet it.
Annie DillardI feel as though I stand at the foot of an infinitely high staircase, down which some exuberant spirit is flinging tennis ball after tennis ball, eternally, and the one thing I want in the world is a tennis ball.
Annie DillardLast forever!' Who hasn't prayed that prayer? You were lucky to get it in the first place. The present is a freely given canvas. That it is constantly being ripped apart and washed downstream goes without saying.
Annie DillardI look at the mountain, which is still doing its tricks, as you look at a still-beautiful face belonging to a person who was once your lover in another country years ago: with fond nostalgia, and recognition, but no real feeling save a secret astonishment that you are now strangers. Thanks. For the memories.
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