Pilgrim at Tinker Creek is a captivating 1974 nonfiction narrative by American author Annie Dillard.

Told from a first-person perspective, it details her explorations near her home and her various contemplations on nature and life. The title refers to Tinker Creek outside Roanoke in Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains.

Dillard began writing Pilgrim in the spring of 1973, drawing inspiration from her personal journals. The narrative, separated into four sections representing each season, takes place over one year.

Annie Dillard embarked on this nature-filled journey to get closer to God, whom she sees as having both positive and negative influences. The first half of the book focuses on the positive, with God being omniscient and good, while the second half explores the negative, with God being unknowable and having hard-to-understand motivations.

The book is divided into several chapters, each offering unique insights. In Chapter 1, "Heaven and Earth in Jest," we experience nature as Annie does, like her encounter with a Giant Water Bug preying on a frog.

Chapter 2, "Seeing," emphasizes the importance of looking specifically to notice things. In Chapter 3, "Winter," we learn about starlings introduced to the US and now considered a menace.

The subsequent chapters cover a wide range of topics, from the un-ordinary habits of praying mantises in Chapter 4 to the concept of endlessness in Chapter 5.

Overall, Annie Dillard is a remarkable writer, and experiencing her thoughts and experiences is a treat. She rightfully received the Pulitzer for General Non-Fiction in 1975.

This book offers a profound and engaging exploration of nature and life, making it a must-read for anyone interested in these topics. 4 stars.

Most of the information recorded here can be found on Wikipedia and Schmoop.

Annie Dillard has an extraordinary talent. She has the ability to make you part of the nature of Tinker Creek. Her focus is on the tiniest and the invisible, as if you are constantly walking or wading beside her through the river.

But it is so much more than that. The scientific aspect touches on the philosophical. While you are studying a wing of the Monarch butterfly, sitting beside a copperhead snake or a muskrat. Just by reading, you learn an incredibly large number of new things.

You become immersed in a world that you may have never known existed before. The details that Dillard presents are so vivid and engaging that you can almost feel the water lapping at your feet and the wind rustling the leaves.

It is a journey of discovery and enlightenment, one that will leave you with a newfound appreciation for the beauty and complexity of the natural world.

An accurate synopsis of good portions of this book could be described as follows: It contains descriptions of unusual and strikingly grotesque insect behaviors, presented within often overly poetic observations of nature. However, while this might account for a significant part of the work, it fails to do justice to the remainder of the book.

If one can overlook the sometimes insubstantial prose, the book reveals a unique perspective on what life, in the deepest and most universal sense, is and how it might be perceived by a young twenty-seven-year-old woman living alone in the woods of Tinker Creek. If approached with the mindset that this is almost a partial autobiography rather than a collection of essays on nature or philosophy, then there is much more to be gained from this book. With this prejudice in mind, it is sometimes easier to see beyond the words themselves to the enthusiasm that lies behind them and to the core of what they are attempting to convey.

At its weakest, the book might merit a review similar to Annie Dillard's own comments about another author: "He may not be right, but I like his adjectives." As a comparable criticism of Tinker Creek, I could say that the sentences sometimes outpace their meaning. Here is one of the more extreme examples:

Here is the word from a subatomic physicist: "Everything that has already happened is particles, everything in the future is waves." Let me twist his meaning. Here it comes. The particles are broken; the waves are translucent, laving, roiling with beauty like sharks. The present is the wave that explodes over my head, flinging the air with particles at the height of its breathless unroll; it is the live water and light that bears from undisclosed sources the freshest news, renewed and renewing, world without end.

There is something worthy of note in this attempt at profundity. However, I believe that in trying to poetically connect quantum mechanics, an earlier story about sharks she saw in the ocean, and a religious-sounding timelessness, the meaning may have been distorted too much and, well, vanished. Is the above paragraph actually saying anything? That is the impression the book gives at its lower points.

At its best, though, are the simple theses that lie between and beneath the exuberant prose. My favorite, which might epitomize the author's voice at its finest, is hidden in the later chapters: "Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you."

Annie Dillard and I hail from distinct theological streams. However, I deeply appreciate and earnestly wish to learn from her habit of attention, stillness, and the study of nature.

She is truly extravagant in using the word "extravagant." And there is every reason for her to do so. Recently, I found myself on the summit of a mountain, a place rarely traversed. I marvelled at the profusion of wildflowers, their beauty remaining unseen by the vast majority.

I am glad that I read about her perspectives, yet I think I have a greater preference for N.D. Wilson's musings, similar to those in Notes from the Tilt-a-Whirl. His thoughts seem to resonate more deeply with my own sensibilities, perhaps due to the unique way in which he presents his ideas.

While Annie Dillard's approach has its own charm and allure, N.D. Wilson's writings offer a different kind of inspiration and food for thought. I look forward to further exploring both their works and seeing how they continue to shape my own understanding of the world and my place within it.

When I was newly married, and this spring we passed our 30th year of marriage. My husband and I were hired to take the junk from a vacated home to the dump. Among the things there, I grabbed a copy of this book. We have moved it from one house to another over these many years.

Now, having read it, I can finally send it on its way. It contains quiet meditations on nature. My main take-away was that there are numerous predators that literally suck the life out of other beings. It's quite an eye-opening realization. Blarg.

I'm not sure if this is the exact kind of expansion you were looking for, but I hope it helps. If you have any specific requirements or suggestions for improvement, please let me know.

This book is truly a unique piece. It's like a collection of blog posts from a time before blogs even existed. Annie Dillard, who resides on Tinker Creek, documents her observations of nature in a stream of consciousness essay style.

She includes various facts that she "knows", although there were a few inaccuracies. But considering my science education began 20 years after this was published, I can't really hold that against her. She often goes off on tangents, starting with one thing and ending up discussing completely different topics like newly sighted blind people, contradictions, God, nature's profligate waste, or whatever random thoughts are floating around in her head.

The book presented some difficulties for me. It has a tendency to wander and meander. On one hand, when she describes a scene from nature, it's a delight to read and reminds me of the remarkable things I've witnessed in the natural world. However, on the other hand, she often strays into tangents that either lack significance or fail to capture my interest. Her meandering style and the seemingly endless series of uninteresting thoughts made it a challenge for me to keep reading. Nevertheless, I have to admit that her writing is beautiful. The prose is absolutely gorgeous, like a delicacy with an amazing texture that slides down the tongue of your brain, providing pure textural delight. The only problem is that the flavor is rather lacking.

I'll be honest, I'm not a big fan of stream of consciousness style writing. While I don't usually have much trouble reading it (except for Faulkner), I can't help but find it a bit annoying. And unfortunately, this entire book is written in that style.

There's a significant amount of philosophy in the book, covering topics such as God, contradictions, nature, fecundity, waste, destiny, randomness, observation versus seeing, innocence, and self-awareness. I prefer my books to have a clear focus and be about something specific, rather than just being about the process of thinking about something.

The philosophical musings in this book do come across as rather youthful. It's almost like a group of college students, young and brilliant, feeling invincible, sitting on the floor after a party, drunk, and discussing deep, profound thoughts. It has that kind of youthful, metaphysical meandering quality.

One aspect of the book that really bothered me was the excessive anthropomorphizing. She did it with nature, bugs, and trees. For someone who likes to incorporate science or facts (even though she also rambles about God and other silly things), it just grated on my nerves. Perhaps I was overly sensitive to it, considering the nature of the book.

Sometimes, when I'm reading, my mind tends to wander. I'll find myself several pages ahead without really remembering what I've read. I have to go back and re-read to catch what I missed. In this book, however, my mind didn't wander. I simply couldn't be bothered to digest the information I was being given. Eventually, I learned to ignore the metaphysical clutter and just focus on the anecdotes of nature, which made the book a little more bearable.

Overall, this book is deep, spiritual, and aesthetically pleasing. I understand its merits, but for some reason, I just can't bring myself to care that much.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek exists in a realm that lies somewhere between the boundaries of fiction and non-fiction, fantasy and reality, sobriety and insanity.

To engage with Annie Dillard's work is like imbibing a potent concoction that jolts one into the realization of the truly horrendous, yet wonderful, beautiful, and brutally honest world that encompasses us in every moment, every day, and in every direction.

"Intricacy, then, is the subject, the intricacy of the created world," Dillard penned, and she pursues this with great enthusiasm. Her mellifluous prose flows off the page like thick molasses, or perhaps it dances before your eyes like a captivating kaleidoscope.

Either way, it is truly wonderful. However, there is a slight drawback. After 271 pages of being enthralled by the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of her words, the reader can feel a touch of dizziness. It did seem a bit on the long side for me, and as a result, I skimmed through the last 75 pages. Nevertheless, I undeniably relished her unique perspective that could find both the sacred and the grotesque, often within the same subject matter.

It is this ability to see the world in all its complex and contradictory glory that makes Annie Dillard's work so captivating and thought-provoking.

Roses are truly beautiful flowers. They come in a variety of colors and their fragrance is simply enchanting.

The tree with the lights in it creates a magical and festive atmosphere. It seems to sparkle and shine, attracting everyone's attention.

The steers, on the other hand, are a miracle in themselves. They are strong and powerful animals, yet they can also be gentle and docile.

Yup, these are all things that bring joy and wonder to our lives. Whether it's the beauty of the roses, the magic of the tree with lights, or the miracle of the steers, they all have a special place in our hearts.

We should take the time to appreciate these simple pleasures and be grateful for the beauty and wonder that surrounds us every day.

Boring and dull.

My impression of this book is that the author seems to have sat outside and stared at a piece of grass for six hours and then described the whole uneventful thing.

I love nature just as much as the next person. I enjoy the beauty and tranquility it offers.

However, I also like something more. Oh, I don't know... maybe a plot?

Something that can engage my mind and keep me interested from start to finish.

This book, unfortunately, fails to do that. It lacks excitement and a clear direction.

It's like a long, drawn-out description of a single moment in time.

I found myself constantly losing focus and looking for something more substantial.

Maybe if the author had added some elements of mystery or adventure, it would have been a more enjoyable read.

As it stands, it's just a tedious account of watching grass grow.

I hope future books in this genre can offer more than just a static view of nature.

I first read this book a long time ago, when it was newly released. I don't recall where I came across it or the reason I picked it up. However, I vividly remember reading it and falling in love with it.

In April 2001, I read it again for my remarkable online reading group, bookgrouplist. This time, I not only read it but also had the opportunity to listen to the thoughts of many intelligent people about the book.

This year, I resolved to complete (by some means!) my memoir of the summer I spent in Yellowstone Park. Naturally, I found Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and decided to read it as a mentor text.

I listened to the audiobook, then read the ebook. I listened to the audiobook again (Did I mention that it's over ten hours long and that, despite not being an audiobook person and disliking long audiobooks the most, I didn't mind the length?). And then I read it again.

So much has stayed with me from this book. I think about the story where, right before Dillard's eyes, a frog has its juices sucked out by a predator bug and slowly deflates, sinking into the creek. I think about Dillard's questions to the Creator – the Whys and What-fors. I think about the image she shares of the silent blackbirds taking flight from the Osage orange tree. I think about the mating of the praying mantises (Who, after hearing this story, could stop thinking about it?). I think about all the scenes she shares as she walks around Tinker Creek, her random philosophizing, the details she observes and tells us about the natural world, and the ways she links Nature with our humanity... so much.

Here are a few of my favorite passages.

"We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence.  .  .  . “Seem like we’re just set down here,” a woman said to me recently, “and don’t nobody know why.”

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 4). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

The creeks—Tinker and Carvin’s—are an active mystery, fresh every minute. Theirs is the mystery of the continuous creation and all that providence implies: the uncertainty of vision, the horror of the fixed, the dissolution of the present, the intricacy of beauty, the pressure of fecundity, the elusiveness of the free, and the flawed nature of perfection. The mountains—Tinker and Brushy, McAfee’s Knob and Dead Man—are a passive mystery, the oldest of all. Theirs is the one simple mystery of creation from nothing, of matter itself, anything at all, the given. Mountains are giant, restful, absorbent. You can heave your spirit into a mountain and the mountain will keep it, folded, and not throw it back as some creeks will. The creeks are the world with all its stimulus and beauty; I live there. But the mountains are home.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (pp. 4-5). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

"That it’s rough out there and chancy is no surprise. Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended emergency bivouac. But at the same time we are also created. In the Koran, Allah asks, “The heaven and the earth and all in between, thinkest thou I made them in jest?” It’s a good question. What do we think of the created universe, spanning an unthinkable void with an unthinkable profusion of forms? Or what do we think of nothingness, those sickening reaches of time in either direction?

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 9). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

“God is subtle,” Einstein said, “but not malicious.” Again, Einstein said that “nature conceals her mystery by means of her essential grandeur, not by her cunning.” It could be that God has not absconded but spread, as our vision and understanding of the universe have spread, to a fabric of spirit and sense so grand and subtle, so powerful in a new way, that we can only feel blindly of its hem. In making the thick darkness a swaddling band for the sea, God “set bars and doors” and said, “Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further.” But have we come even that far? Have we rowed out to the thick darkness, or are we all playing pinochle in the bottom of the boat?

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 9). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle, curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf. We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what’s going on here. Then we can at least wail the right question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, if it comes to that, choir the proper praise.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 11). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. What you see is what you get.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 17). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

“Still,” wrote van Gogh in a letter, “a great deal of light falls on everything.”

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 24). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

I cannot cause light; the most I can do is try to put myself in the path of its beam.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 35). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

“Nature,” said Thoreau in his journal, “is mythical and mystical always, and spends her whole genius on the least work.” The creator, I would add, churns out the intricate texture of least works that is the world with a spendthrift genius and an extravagance of care. This is the point.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 128). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

What we know, at least for starters, is: here we—so incontrovertibly—are. This is our life, these are our lighted seasons, and then we die. (You die, you die; first you go wet, and then you go dry.) In the meantime, in between time, we can see. The scales are fallen from our eyes, the cataracts are cut away, and we can work at making sense of the color-patches we see in an effort to discover where we so incontrovertibly are. It’s common sense: when you move in, you try to learn the neighborhood.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 129). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

And it occurs to me more and more that everything I have seen is wholly gratuitous. The giant water bug’s predations, the frog’s croak, the tree with the lights in it are not in any real sense necessary per se to the world or to its creator. Nor am I. The creation in the first place, being itself, is the only necessity, for which I would die, and I shall.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 130). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery. The surface of mystery is not smooth, any more than the planet is smooth; not even a single hydrogen atom is smooth, let alone a pine. Nor does it fit together; not even the chlorophyll and hemoglobin molecules are a perfect match, for, even after the atom of iron replaces the magnesium, long streamers of disparate atoms trail disjointedly from the rims of the molecules’ loops. Freedom cuts both ways. Mystery itself is as fringed and intricate as the shape of the air in time. Forays into mystery cut bays and fine fiords, but the forested mainland itself is implacable both in its bulk and in its most filigreed fringe of detail. “Every religion that does not affirm that God is hidden,” said Pascal flatly, “is not true.”

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (pp. 145-146). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

The question from agnosticism is, Who turned on the lights? The question from faith is, Whatever for?

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 146). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

But the question of who is thinking the thought is more fruitful than the question of who made the machine, for a machinist can of course wipe his hands and leave, and his simple machine still hums; but if the thinker’s attention strays for a minute, his simplest thought ceases altogether. And, as I have stressed, the place where we so incontrovertibly find ourselves, whether thought or machine, is at least not in any way simple.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (pp. 146-147). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Anything can happen, and anything does; what’s it all about?

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 170). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

We value the individual supremely, and nature values him not a whit.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 178). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

We have not yet encountered any god who is as merciful as a man who flicks a beetle over on its feet. There is not a people in the world who behaves as badly as praying mantises.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 179). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

...we are moral creatures, then, in an amoral world. The universe that suckled us is a monster that does not care if we live or die—does not care if it itself grinds to a halt.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 179). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

So much is amiss that I must consider the second fork in the road, that creation itself is blamelessly, benevolently askew by its very free nature, and that it is only human feeling that is freakishly amiss.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 180). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

The world has signed a pact with the devil; it had to. It is a covenant to which every thing, even every hydrogen atom, is bound. The terms are clear: if you want to live, you have to die; you cannot have mountains and creeks without space, and space is a beauty married to a blind man. The blind man is Freedom, or Time, and he does not go anywhere without his great dog Death. The world came into being with the signing of the contract. A scientist calls it the Second Law of Thermodynamics. A poet says, “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower/Drives my green age.” This is what we know. The rest is gravy.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 183). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Here was a new light on the intricate texture of things in the world, the actual plot of the present moment in time after the fall: the way we the living are nibbled and nibbling—not held aloft on a cloud in the air but bumbling pitted and scarred and broken through a frayed and beautiful land.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 230). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

In another book I learn that ten percent of all the world’s species are parasitic insects. It is hard to believe. What if you were an inventor, and you made ten percent of your inventions in such a way that they could only work by harassing, disfiguring, or totally destroying the other ninety percent? These things are not well enough known.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 232). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

It is the thorn in the flesh of the world, another sign, if any be needed, that the world is actual and fringed, pierced here and there, and through and through, with the toothed conditions of time and the mysterious, coiled spring of death.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 237). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

The world “Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,/Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.” I’ve been there, seen it, done it, I suddenly think, and the world is old, a hungry old man, fatigued and broken past mending.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 241). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

“In nature,” wrote Huston Smith, “the emphasis is in what is rather than what ought to be.” I learn this lesson in a new way every day.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 241). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about on a splintered wreck I’ve come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty beats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them, under the wind-rent clouds, upstream and down.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 245). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Thomas Merton wrote, “There is always a temptation to diddle around in the contemplative life, making itsy-bitsy statues.” There is always an enormous temptation in all of life to diddle around making itsy-bitsy friends and meals and journeys for itsy-bitsy years on end. It is so self-conscious, so apparently moral, simply to step aside from the gaps where the creeks and winds pour down, saying, I never merited this grace, quite rightly, and then to sulk along the rest of your days on the edge of rage. I won’t have it. The world is wilder than that in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. We are making hay when we should be making whoopee; we are raising tomatoes when we should be raising Cain, or Lazarus.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 274). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Ezekiel excoriates false prophets as those who have “not gone up into the gaps.” The gaps are the thing. The gaps are the spirit’s one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself for the first time like a once-blind man unbound. The gaps are the cliffs in the rock where you cower to see the back parts of God; they are the fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through, the icy narrowing fiords splitting the cliffs of mystery. Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock—more than a maple—a universe. This is how you spend this afternoon, and tomorrow morning, and tomorrow afternoon. Spend the afternoon. You can’t take it with you.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 274). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

...in the plainest, truest words: knock; seek; ask. But you must read the fine print. “Not as the world giveth, give I unto you.” That’s the catch. If you can catch it will catch you up, aloft, up to any gap at all, and you’ll come back, for you will come back, transformed in a way you may not have bargained for—dribbling and crazed.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (p. 275). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

After graduating from college, I stepped into the high-paying and intense world of retail. Specifically, I worked in bookselling and served as an assistant manager for a chain. There were certain books that were extremely popular back then and I will never forget them. One of those books was Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. I might be wrong (as memory can be as unreliable as Lee Harvey Oswald, remember), but I seem to recall a picture of a woman sitting on the bank of a creek, looking down at it. It didn't look very appealing to me at that time.

Many decades later, as the miles on my odometer had increased significantly and the gas tank indicator was much lower, I picked up this book from my classroom library. It had been sitting there untouched by any student for the many years I have been teaching. It was like a rough diamond waiting to be discovered. Dillard is not only a highly accomplished amateur naturalist, but also a writer of great talent. The vocabulary she uses is as rich as the creek, the fields, and the forests she writes about. The allusions to various texts and authors are equally impressive.

Admittedly, some sections of the book were more difficult to get through than others, but this was usually because of the topic rather than the writing itself. For example, I might not be as interested in extended narratives about plants or seeds, but I couldn't help but be drawn in by all the musings on insects and parasites.

What really appeals to me the most is the philosophy in the book. It's not so much a philosophy as an outlook on life. The world, which is so often ignored and taken for granted by each of us every day, is a constant miracle in its ordinariness. Its simplicity is complex beyond imagination. Dillard not only understands this, but also serves as a guide to share this perspective with us - all with a very human voice, the kind of voice that you would like to call a friend and walk beside in the afternoon if you could.

1-800-DIL-LARD, are you there?

Wonderful, brilliant nature writing!

At times, it was slightly out of my depth, but I understand that this implies there is a wealth more to discover upon rereads.

While reading about Dillard's stalking of the muskrats and her visits to the duck pond, I felt a strong sense of kindred spirit with her.

However, this feeling dissipated during the lengthy and admiring discussion of the copperhead. I couldn't help but think that it was in rather poor taste.

Perhaps it was the way she described the snake that made me uncomfortable, or maybe it was just my personal aversion to such creatures.

Nonetheless, despite this one aspect that didn't sit well with me, the overall beauty and depth of Dillard's nature writing still managed to captivate and inspire me.

I look forward to revisiting this work in the future and uncovering even more of its hidden gems.