I have a profound admiration for the way Annie Dillard employs words. Her writing truly pops with vividness and energy. It's as if each word is carefully chosen to create a vibrant and engaging tapestry of ideas.

However, despite the beauty of her language, I still had to push myself to complete this particular piece. The content, unfortunately, did not resonate deeply enough within me to hold my attention captive.

Perhaps it was a matter of personal taste or a lack of connection with the specific themes explored. Nevertheless, I cannot deny the skill and artistry with which Dillard crafts her sentences.

Her work serves as a reminder of the power of words and the importance of finding that perfect balance between form and content to truly captivate an audience.

I finally managed to get through what I can only describe as the worst book I've ever read in my entire life. It was an assigned reading for a Contemporary Literature course I'm taking in college. When I began this book, I had no clue what to anticipate. I knew it was a memoir, and although I'm not the biggest fan of nonfiction, I started it with an open mind, hoping to gain some understanding of Dillard's life and her upbringing as a child in the 1950s. However, what I ended up with was a headache due to the meandering prose that went on and on about abstract thoughts one after another, written by a completely pretentious and unlikable narrator.

One of the fundamental rules of writing that an author learns early in their career is to show, not tell. Clearly, Dillard didn't receive this memo. Despite being marketed as a memoir, the reader only gets very rare glimpses into what her childhood was truly like. Instead, the reader is repeatedly told about vague moments in Dillard's childhood when she was struck by some abstract thought that set her on a new path and made her thirst for new knowledge, causing her to almost obsessively collect and recite pointless information on the subjects of her interests at the time. This included things like reading, writing, drawing, baseball, insect collecting, science, and rock collecting. Yes, there's even a full chapter in this book dedicated to Dillard's childhood rock collection. How fascinating.

One of the most extremely frustrating aspects of this book is Dillard's narration. She recounts all of these insights into her childhood behavior and thinking in a meandering prose that jumps from one abstract idea to another, without really expanding on the actual events from her childhood, which is what a memoir usually does. Instead, we, as the readers, are expected to simply accept the things she says about what she was thinking as a young child at face value as the whole truth, which I just couldn't do. Given that there is no evidence to support her actually thinking this way, I simply can't reconcile the mature, introspective self that the narrator presents with the rude, anti-social child that she often portrays in the text.

For a child that Dillard tries to convince us was always acutely aware of the world around her, she never once acknowledges the privileged life she led, nor does she really comment on the fact that a normal, "aware" child - like the one she tries to sell in the pages of this book - doesn't typically follow their grandparents' African American maid around "from room to room, trying to get her to spill the beans about being black." (pg. 216)

The latter half of the book is especially full of a socially maladjusted young woman who obsessively fixates on things like foreign languages, rocks, statues, or bugs while her relationships with the actual people around her fall apart. It becomes quite clear that the advanced, intelligent child that she tries to present as an absolute fact is nothing more than the creation of a pretentious author who set out to write a memoir only to realize that she didn't really remember much of her childhood and so had to fill in the gaps with her own, current beliefs and views.

The final 50 or so pages of this book are a particularly brutal struggle. Frankly, it reads like a first draft, filled with pointless and unnecessary passages that somehow managed to avoid an editor asking Dillard: "Why is this in here, really?" It's chock-full of one abstract thought after another that hardly connect to each other at all, such as the passage where Dillard recounts her last trip to Florida as a child, how she addressed her sister entirely in French, and then immediately follows this with a paragraph about how her grandmother asked her "when we were alone, what exactly it was that homosexuals did." (pg. 220) For no reason at all, this and many other random (read: made up) proclamations are inserted into the middle of Dillard's rants about what a wonderfully advanced and intelligent child she was.

This book was absolutely infuriating, and now that I'm done with it, I will be getting rid of it and praying that I never have to come across another required reading by Dillard again, because I definitely won't read her work again by choice.

It's safe to say that this experience has left a sour taste in my mouth when it comes to Dillard's writing.

A memoir about Dillard's childhood has the remarkable quality that, similar to great memoirs, it entices you, the reader, to relish her writing while simultaneously delving into your own personal history. In this particular case, it focuses on the transition from childhood to adulthood.

I have a profound love for Dillard's remarkable observational power when it comes to nature and place, especially her hometown of Pittsburgh. She also has the extraordinary ability to infuse wry humor into her stories. Consider this quote: "I could drive to Guatemala, drive to Alaska. Why, I asked myself, did I drive to - of all spots on earth - our garage?"

To be completely fair, the narration at times feels a bit jagged and disjointed. However, paradoxically, this very aspect makes the book progress at a brisk pace.

Reading this memoir provides you with the precious space and time to forge a connection between your own life and history and the surrounding world. Perhaps, like I did, you'll uncover just one memory picture that had been gradually fading away. For instance, I recalled the park in Nashville that I would walk to as a very young child. It was in that park where I learned to throw a frisbee and witnessed a group of adults engaging in role-playing as medieval knights on Saturdays.

This memoir has the potential to be a truly transformative reading experience, inviting you to explore the depths of your own past and find new meaning and connections within it.

This is actually a re-read.

Some teacher gave it to my class back in middle school. Unusually, after reading it just once, I remembered phrases, images, and pieces of it.

I can still recall thinking, "Yes, this is exactly how I feel. How did she capture it?" It remained with me long after I had forgotten the title, the storyline, and the plot.

I googled to find out what book it had come from. Quite coincidentally, my parents shipped it over with some other books of mine.

At any rate, as a child or teen who sometimes felt bigger than her skin and alternated between raging impotently and being overcome with curiosity and happiness at the world, this really resonated.

It still does to an extent now, but perhaps not quite as strongly.

I find it fascinating how a single piece of writing can have such a lasting impact on a person.

It makes me wonder what other hidden gems are out there waiting to be discovered and cherished.

Maybe one day, I'll come across another book that will touch me in the same profound way.

This is a blatant lie. The truth is, I didn't actually finish this book. But I have this overwhelming feeling that I've already dedicated far too much time to it, and it seems to be pushing me into a dreaded reading slump.

To be fair, the book is well-written. In fact, it is precisely as the title implies, "An American Childhood." I suppose the genius or whatever it is behind this work is that Dillard managed to somehow reenter the minds of her younger selves. And that's all fine and dandy. But here's the thing, I keep asking myself, "Do I really want to read about your childhood?"

What is it about your childhood that makes it so worthy of being written down and published? What makes it worth the waste of ink and the use of the skins of dead trees? What do you expect me to understand from your memoir? What kind of revelation do you hope to convey? Maybe I stopped reading too soon (I think I was around 65% through). But come on, if I'm already past the halfway point of your book, I should have at least gotten a hint of your purpose in writing this thing.

If this book wasn't so beautifully written and filled with philosophical thoughts and metaphors that are supposed to make me "think," it would have received a measly one star. Ugh, I'm going to have to come back to this later. Maybe. Who knows? Whatever. For now, I'm just done with this.

The book really appealed to me as I had grown up in Pittsburgh.

It was extremely interesting for me to compare the author's upbringing and her awareness of the world with my own experience in the same city and within a similar time frame.

The early memories are so precious, such as playing in the woods, throwing snowballs at cars, and even collecting rocks.

However, she came from an upper crust with summer homes, country clubs, and dances, which was completely alien to me. My father, a steel executive, could have pursued such a life but chose not to.

Later on, literature and language became her passion, while for me, it was technology and the pursuit of earning a living.

Nevertheless, this book is a wonderful and concise trigger that makes you reflect on your past in a positive light. There is no room for neurosis here.

Her writing is truly excellent, captivating the reader from start to finish.

This story truly brings to my mind a vivid scene from a family gathering.

It was a time when my grandma seemed to have an unending supply of tales about her adventures in Albany when she was just 16 years old.

I attempted to feign interest in what she was sharing, but deep down, I really couldn't manage to stay engaged.

All I could think about was hoping that mom would soon bring out the delicious dessert and that grandpa would pipe up and say, "Okay honey, I think that's enough."

The situation felt a bit comical yet also a part of the charm of family get-togethers.

Sometimes, we have to endure these long-winded stories from our elders, but in the end, they are all part of the fabric of our family memories.

It's those little moments, like waiting for the dessert and hoping for grandpa's intervention, that make these gatherings so special and memorable.

Even though I may not have been truly interested in grandma's Albany adventures at that moment, I know that they are an important part of her life and our family's history.

And so, I'll cherish these memories and look back on them with a smile.

Often lauded as one of the classic memoirs of the 20th century, An American Childhood truly lives up to those expectations, at least in my view. There is an absolute joy in listening to the tales of her upbringing in 1950s Pittsburgh. Her deep fascination with nature, history, and science is palpable, as are the idiosyncrasies of her parents. What sets this memoir apart is its ability to remain firmly within the boundaries of childhood. It doesn't attempt to extrapolate or use events to hint at her adult life, a common pitfall that many similar works I've read have fallen into to a great extent.

The author's vivid descriptions bring the past to life, allowing the reader to step into her shoes and experience her childhood along with her. From exploring the outdoors to engaging in intellectual pursuits, every moment is captured with a sense of wonder and authenticity. It's a captivating read that offers a unique glimpse into a bygone era and the formative years of a remarkable individual.

Overall, An American Childhood is a masterful work that combines engaging storytelling with a keen understanding of the human experience. It's a memoir that will resonate with readers of all ages and leave them with a sense of warmth and nostalgia.

5 stars for the narration; 3.5 - 4 stars for the book

An American Childhood was my initial encounter with Annie Dillard's work, and I was immediately captivated by her writing.

Dillard, a native of Pittsburgh, delves into her childhood in a Pittsburgh that is unfamiliar to many, both now and perhaps ever. Her childhood was one of privilege, yet the reader senses that she was somewhat cognizant of this. There are some cringe-worthy "of the era" sentiments as Dillard recalls the statements and actions of neighbors and close relatives. However, it must be remembered that this is 2022 me reading about Annie's 1950s childhood. The street cars of Dillard's youth are long gone, with the last run on July 6, 1985, 18 months before the book's publication. Nevertheless, the Presbyterian Seminary and the Evergreen Cafe still remain.

This could have potentially been a five-star read, but unfortunately, there was some extremely lengthy and detailed waffling on topics that held no interest for me. Maybe this isn't entirely fair, but I highly doubt that Dillard's book sales will be affected by my deducting one star. Honestly, did we really need the minute details regarding rocks, the Pirates, and so on? I think not! That being said, her writing style and flow, when she's not dedicating entire chapters to such minutiae, are truly beautiful.

Dillard's exquisite prose had the power to transport me. It made me feel a sense of nostalgia for a city that I scarcely knew. I am not of Dillard's generation, nor was I born and raised in the city, yet I am familiar with Point Breeze and the other neighborhoods she mentioned. I could vividly imagine throwing snowballs on Penn Avenue! Her writing is that poetic and powerful.

I loved Pilgrim many years ago, and it remains one of my lifetime favorite books. After reading An American Childhood, I felt an urge to go back and read Pilgrim again.

You can randomly open this book to any page and are likely to discover a great paragraph that, on its own, might make the book worth reading. The "chapters" are short and follow Dillard's growing up years chronologically. I hadn't realized before that she grew up in a very privileged family, attending private schools and having a full-time mom with home help. I must admit that this does change my view of the author. She had a life free to explore, and she took full advantage of it. Would it be fair to call her snooty? That's what we called the stuck-up kids when I was growing up.

As I was reading about this high-class, high-strung life, I also thought about the book Nickel and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich and the low-income world that the book attempts to portray through the artificial work experiences of another privileged person. "My days and nights were my own to plan and fill," says Dillard.

Despite my negative judgments about Dillard's life, her writing still captures me. The concept of the idyllic childhood is both glimpsed and rejected.

"Was it all, the whole bright and various planet, where I had been so ardent about finding myself alive, only a passion peculiar to children, that I would outgrow even against my will?"

I think Dillard was successful in her goal of chronicling childhood, at least her own. "Somebody had to do it, somebody had to hang onto the days with teeth and fists, or the whole show had been in vain. That it was impossible never entered my reckoning."

Dillard does subscribe to the American Dream. "Hard work bore fruit. That is what we learned growing up in Pittsburgh, growing up in the United States." Ehrenreich in Nickel and Dimed might make a different claim.

4.5, but I'm rounding up because, well, Pittsburgh.

I am truly captivated by Annie Dillard's body of work. It's rather an interesting phenomenon. With some of her works like "The Living", I seem to have an intense love for it. On the other hand, "Teaching a Stone to Talk" leaves me with a feeling of hatred. And then there's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek", which I appreciate yet with a certain degree of befuddlement. This particular work, I would definitely place in the "love" category.

Sometimes, Dillard's playfulness can take her a bit too far into the realm of preciousness. However, in this case, she manages to bring it back in quickly.

What I also really love about "An American Childhood" is how it bucks a lot of the common memoir tropes. Instead of following the traditional path, it adjusts the focus to specific moments, memories, and feelings. I now work and spend a significant amount of time in the areas that she so vividly describes. It's truly great to see that the same buildings she mentions over and over again, such as houses, her schools, and churches, still stand there majestic and proud. It's as if they are silent witnesses to the passage of time and the stories she has told.

Already at twenty-three, childhood seems to me a very remote region of my past.

As I was impinged upon with a small pang of nostalgia for youth, I picked up Annie Dillard's An American Childhood - her memoir of her Pittsburgh youth.

While there are a number of poignant moments and elegant turns of phrase, the work as a whole feels a bit shallow, a bit too much on the surface of things.

In his Nobel Speech, William Faulkner said that the only thing worth writing about was the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself - Annie Dillard misses this mark repeatedly.

She has some nice things to say about memory, about time, about childhood, but she is timid in analyzing herself and those she loves.

That is the danger in memoirs, one is forever at risk, over-exposed.

An American Childhood reads more like the perusal of a family photo album than of a true memoir.

The memoir begins with what I believe is its greatest sequence: the story of young Annie's father's intended but incomplete trip down the Ohio River.

Something which he had dreamed about, obsessed over, given up what constituted his life for, but ultimately had to forgo this dream under the pressure to be a present father.

Isn't this really the American Childhood, if not ultimately the American Life?

In the present day, dreams are often caught under the grinding cogs of life, sacrificed for stability, for fulfilling the expectations of others, for living up to the normal, the uniform.

Young Annie elaborates about a number of her youthful passions: reading, drawing, baseball, amateur geology, etc.

And though she is impassioned by them, they ultimately do not constitute a fire for her, that passion which is blinding and soul-rapturing, which occupies the heart and mind and blocks out everything else.

She lives a rather privileged Pittsburgh childhood, vacations on Lake Erie, plays baseball with boys, and eventually grows up to dance with them.

She describes childhood as something that must be "woken up from" - but is that childhood or is it that wonder that lives in childhood?

It seemed that her many wonders were supplanted by many routines as the memoir progressed.

Hazy, honied memories - vague and variegated, disjointed, but poignant, were replaced by witty caricatures of her fellow Pittsburghers, her family, and herself.

But what dreams did she harbor and let go?

Ultimately this memoir lacked that intermittent pull at the heart for me.

There was no secret, no heartbreak, no wonder even.

Every life is a story of loss, every room is haunted by ghosts, phantoms of lives not lived, paths not taken.

We as Americans have become tricked into believing that the American Dream is about getting a good job, having children, moving to the suburbs, playing lawn tennis with the neighbors, and retiring to a family plot beneath an eighty-year old elm tree.

But that isn't it.

It's taking stupid risks, making big mistakes, wanting something because you want it, because you need it.

It isn't about making money, and maybe you will never make money doing it, maybe you will lose all your money trying to get it, but it is that it that makes this life worth living.

It is that it that is the heart of literature.

Annie's father and his trip down the Ohio, that is what the American story should be, what it was once.

It is a crime to live life as a progression of photographs, flimsy pictures taped to the infinite corridor of time.

Life is motion, it is action and trajectory, and we are driven forward only by ourselves.

It is no wonder that the great tragedy of the 21st century is the tragedy of ennui.

It is that ennui that gets the better of us, it is the easy, the normal, but it is death, it is stasis, it is not life.

To be bored is to be waiting, to be in the purgatory of life.

May everyone's life be a boat ride down the river.

Don't turn back, or be turned to a pillar of salt.