Zitat des Tages von Annie Dillard:
God gave me a talent to draw. I 'owed' it to him to develop the talent.
People love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all.
I would like to learn, or remember, how to live.
Eskimo: 'If I did not know about God and sin, would I go to hell?' Priest: 'No, not if you did not know.' Eskimo: 'Then why did you tell me?'
The surest sign of age is loneliness.
Write about winter in the summer.
Every book has an intrinsic impossibility, which its writer discovers as soon as his first excitement dwindles.
The painter... does not fit the paints to the world. He most certainly does not fit the world to himself. He fits himself to the paint. The self is the servant who bears the paintbox and its inherited contents.
I noticed this process of waking, and predicted with terrifying logic that one of these years not far away I would be awake continuously and never slip back, and never be free of myself again.
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?
There is a muscular energy in sunlight corresponding to the spiritual energy of wind.
Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.
You can't test courage cautiously.
As soon as beauty is sought not from religion and love, but for pleasure, it degrades the seeker.
All my books started out as extravagant and ended up pure and plain.
Much has been written about the life of the mind.
There is a certain age at which a child looks at you in all earnestness and delivers a long, pleased speech in all the true inflections of spoken English, but with not one recognizable syllable.
You are wrong if you think that you can in any way take the vision and tame it to the page. The page is jealous and tyrannical; the page is made of time and matter; the page always wins.
Crystals grew inside rock like arithmetic flowers. They lengthened and spread, added plane to plane in an awed and perfect obedience to an absolute geometry that even stones - maybe only the stones - understood.
There is no such thing as an artist - only the world, lit or unlit, as the world allows.
Matters of taste are not, it turns out, moral issues.
The writer studies literature, not the world. He is careful of what he reads, for that is what he will write.
The dedicated life is worth living. You must give with your whole heart.
'Fecundity' is an ugly word for an ugly subject. It is ugly, at least, in the eggy animal world. I don't think it is for plants.
As a life's work, I would remember everything - everything, against loss. I would go through life like a plankton net.
I woke in bits, like all children, piecemeal over the years. I discovered myself and the world, and forgot them, and discovered them again.
I worked so hard all my life, and all I want to do now is read.
The notion of the infinite variety of detail and the multiplicity of forms is a pleasing one; in complexity are the fringes of beauty, and in variety are generosity and exuberance.
It's a little silly to finally learn how to write at this age. But I long ago realized I was secretly sincere.
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.
When I first read the words 'introvert' and 'extrovert' when I was 10, I thought I was both.