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I have a deep admiration for what Annie Dillard accomplishes. She has a remarkable talent for constructing an essay in which readers gain little to no knowledge about her actual life, yet they have the sensation of having been granted a peek into something extremely personal. She has a knack for attaining poignancy within her highly intellectual and philosophical musings, and I believe this stems from her ability to create an unforgettable image and expand upon it.
Weirdly, The Writing Life was the least captivating of the three for me. I had just finished reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, which is truly amazing, and in comparison, Dillard's work felt a bit lackluster. I had hoped to learn more about the practical aspects of what she does, the nitty-gritty details, but this text leans too far towards the philosophical.
An American Childhood is gentle and nostalgic. It has a very serialized quality, with each chapter delving into a specific memory, allowing it to be read in fits and starts. It's about kids riding their bikes down streets illuminated by lamplight. It's about grass stains on the knees of your pants. It's about girls in party dresses attending church-sponsored dances and whispering behind their gloved hands about the boys. It's beautiful from beginning to end.
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek is Dillard's most renowned work. It's all about Dillard living in a cabin in rural Virginia, strolling through fields and swamps, observing bugs and frogs, and pondering life. Her obvious inspiration is Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, which I read years ago. Both of these books—Thoreau’s and Dillard’s—are outstanding pieces of American literature and philosophy, and it makes me feel like a complete philistine, or someone entirely devoid of spiritual essence, not to have an affinity for them. But truth be told, I don't. I don't like nature. I like couches. I like store-bought food. I like disinfectant. Nevertheless, Dillard managed to make me feel, at least for a moment, that my rebellion is utterly futile. That, I think, is her main aim.
Weirdly, The Writing Life was the least captivating of the three for me. I had just finished reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, which is truly amazing, and in comparison, Dillard's work felt a bit lackluster. I had hoped to learn more about the practical aspects of what she does, the nitty-gritty details, but this text leans too far towards the philosophical.
An American Childhood is gentle and nostalgic. It has a very serialized quality, with each chapter delving into a specific memory, allowing it to be read in fits and starts. It's about kids riding their bikes down streets illuminated by lamplight. It's about grass stains on the knees of your pants. It's about girls in party dresses attending church-sponsored dances and whispering behind their gloved hands about the boys. It's beautiful from beginning to end.
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek is Dillard's most renowned work. It's all about Dillard living in a cabin in rural Virginia, strolling through fields and swamps, observing bugs and frogs, and pondering life. Her obvious inspiration is Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, which I read years ago. Both of these books—Thoreau’s and Dillard’s—are outstanding pieces of American literature and philosophy, and it makes me feel like a complete philistine, or someone entirely devoid of spiritual essence, not to have an affinity for them. But truth be told, I don't. I don't like nature. I like couches. I like store-bought food. I like disinfectant. Nevertheless, Dillard managed to make me feel, at least for a moment, that my rebellion is utterly futile. That, I think, is her main aim.
