I love Annie Dillard, the way she writes, the way she opens my eyes to the natural world, its beauty and violence. I am still traumatized at her account of a small green frog deflating before her eyes, liquified from the inside out and then consumed by a giant water but. But she also grounds me in the real work of being a writer. She tells it straight. I love that the same woman who wrote these words in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek when describing a creek that streams over a series of sandstone tiers,
I 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.
also wrote these practical words in The Writing Life,
Appealing workspaces are to be avoided. One wants a room with no view, so imagination can meet memory in the dark.
I love the words she chooses, and the pictures they conjure in my mind. I still have not read An American Childhood, sandwiched between these two greats. I love that I have more Dillard to discover.