Annie Dillard's writing style is rather odd and it really rubs me the wrong way as a reader.

She has a tendency to make broad and questionable generalizations just to discuss a tiny detail. This alone is quite wearing on me. What's more, just a paragraph later, she sometimes blatantly contradicts the original generalization. The first couple of times this happened, I seriously considered throwing the book across the room, if only it had enough substance to make that act enjoyable.

Unfortunately, it doesn't. And this so-called "an American childhood" is no more unique than yours, mine, or countless others. I gave it a try, at least for a while, but I failed to find anything particularly emblematic in her story that would justify the title - unless you place an inordinate amount of emphasis on the article "an" in there.

Another annoying quirk of her writing is the anthropomorphization of natural phenomena. She does it with the wind, time, clouds, and almost anything else you can think of.

I read her first, or one of her first books, Pilgrim at Tinker's Creek, which received a lot of attention when it was first published. I read it a year or two later and couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.

So I guess she's not my cup of tea and I'll stay away from any of her other works. But I want to expand on this judgment specifically in the case of this book. When did memoirs become so commonplace? In the past, people who wrote memoirs could at least claim to have something extraordinary about their lives that would capture your attention. This book, however, reads like a never-ending exercise in monologue - by someone from whom the reader is constantly waiting for a clue as to why... why are you telling me all this? There was simply no rhyme or reason to this book.

I simply cannot help but love everything written by Annie Dillard. Her memoir is truly a delightful piece that offers a captivating glimpse into the childhood of a remarkable woman. As I read through it, I found myself deeply resonating with so many of the things she said. It's as if her words have a special charm that keeps pulling me back. Even months after initially reading it, I often find myself flipping through the pages to revisit the best parts.

One particular quote that stands out to me is, "What is important is the moment of opening a life and feeling it touch--with an electric hiss and cry--this speckled mineral sphere, our present world." This sentence beautifully captures the essence of that moment when life unfolds and we become acutely aware of our connection to the world around us. It's a powerful and thought-provoking statement that lingers in my mind long after I've finished reading it.

Overall, Annie Dillard's memoir is a must-read for anyone who appreciates beautiful writing and a unique perspective on life. It has the ability to transport you to another time and place, while also making you reflect on your own experiences and memories. I highly recommend it.

I have an immense love for Annie Dillard. From the very beginning, she has always been cool and had a unique charm.

Her account of growing up in Pittsburgh is truly remarkable. It is filled with wit, charm, and a plethora of interesting ideas and memories.

She vividly describes her rock collection, the joy of gathering different specimens. Her insect collection is also a fascinating part of her story, showing her curiosity about the natural world.

The exploration of her neighborhood added another layer of depth, as she discovered new places and had various adventures. The mention of her friend's lake house on Lake Erie brings a sense of tranquility and fun.

High school is also a significant part of her narrative, with all its challenges and experiences.

But most of all, I was deeply touched by the theme of realizing one's aliveness while living. It made me reflect on my own life and appreciate the present moment.

Annie Dillard's writing has a way of captivating the reader and making them feel as if they are right there with her, experiencing every moment.

I can't wait to read more of her works and continue to be inspired by her unique perspective on life.

The text is quite lovely to read, yet it almost gives the impression of being fictional. This is mainly because it seems so distant from the experiences that my mother had while growing up during the same era.

The author, on the other hand, hailed from a family that was extremely privileged. One can only imagine the contrast between the author's upbringing and that of my mother.

Perhaps the author's family had access to resources and opportunities that were simply not available to my mother's family. It makes me wonder how different their lives were, despite living in the same time period.

This disparity in experiences serves as a reminder of the diverse backgrounds and circumstances that people can come from, even within the same era. It also makes me appreciate the unique story that my mother has to tell.

Sent me into a dreamy haze post-read. The epilogue was truly electric, sending shivers down my spine and making me tingle with excitement. Admittedly, there were a few parts that were a tad slow, but as the story progressed, the retrospective narrative began to cohere beautifully towards the end. What an incredibly cool woman she is! I absolutely loved imagining her rebellious teen self, full of spirit and determination, going off to college. And then, just a few years later, writing the remarkable "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek". It's as if you can see all the pieces slowly falling into place, creating a vivid and engaging picture of her life and journey. It's a truly captivating read that leaves you with a sense of wonder and admiration.

What is the essence of "growing up"? How exciting yet nerve-wracking is it to realize our differences from our parents? What do we do with the freedom that comes with riding a bicycle? What alterations occur when we discover the opposite sex?

Annie recalls these experiences, and in doing so, she helps us remember as well. Some of her memories bear a striking resemblance to our own, making this a truly remarkable read for adults, as it blurs the line between the fictional world of the book and our own souls. I have several such books that hold a special place in my heart from my childhood. I can't quite recall whether I felt the wet mud between my toes before or after reading Twain. Did I build a fire in the winter, or was it just Kjelgaard or Jack London's vivid descriptions that made it seem so real? Did I run down my street, feeling as if I were soaring through the air, after getting a new pair of sneakers, or did I fabricate that memory from the pages of Bradbury? I feel sorry for those who have only browsed the web and haven't indulged in the joy of reading by flashlight under the covers or delaying their mothers' requests with the plea of "One more chapter!"

Annie Dillard's memories become ours, and suddenly, we understand what it means to transition from childhood to young adulthood and how observation and experience morph into knowledge and wisdom.

She is a poet and an unapologetically honest woman, and I am grateful to have journeyed through the pages of her work.

Annie Dillard spent her childhood in Pittsburgh during the 1950s. In this memoir, she not only documents her own childhood but also details the rich history of Pittsburgh. I was particularly fascinated by the information about Andrew Carnegie and the city's wealth, which originated from various industries such as aluminum, glass, coke, electricity, copper, natural gas, as well as the banking and transportation sectors that financed and moved the goods.

Reading this book with the anticipation of drama is fruitless as Dillard's childhood was not filled with excitement. She grew up in a privileged family, with well-read parents and a highly perceptive mother. She wrote, "I had little experience of the evil hopelessness, pain, starvation, and terror that pervaded the world. I had scarcely witnessed people's malice and greed. I believed that in civilized countries, torture had ceased with the Enlightenment. I knew nothing of a nation's cruel choices. My optimism was boundless; it soared within the confined boundaries of my isolationism."

Dillard writes with the precision of an architect and the artistry of a wordsmith. Her carefully constructed sentences and fluid, poetic flow make even the most ordinary descriptions seem effortless. This book reads like a philosophical and metaphysical account of her childhood, with a tone somewhat similar to that of "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek."

What I enjoyed was learning about that aspect of American culture, Dillard's vivid depiction of her white-collar family upbringing, her love for books and the arts. It definitely helps one understand how she was able to write a book like "Pilgrim" at just twenty-seven years old. However, like "Pilgrim," I found it difficult to truly get a full picture of Annie Dillard. She has a way of revealing just enough and then pulling back. She provides snippets: perhaps one or two sentences about the two boys she was in love with over the years, or a paragraph about her teenage rebellion, or a brief note that she had a boyfriend. Her teenage years are written with such care that she doesn't really disclose much. But oh, what meaningful facts are captured in just the right way, with beautiful prose resulting from the observations of a bookish young girl and a mature and talented writer.

I was assigned this book in high school, and to be honest, I found it as exciting to read as a vacuum cleaner instruction manual.

A few weeks ago, when it turned up in a box cleared out of my childhood bedroom, all I could recall was an endless passage about the author's rock collection.

On the back inside cover, I discovered a note from my teenage self proclaiming “THIS BOOK IS A WASTE OF PAPER.”

But, in the name of fairness, I decided to give it another shot. Maybe my taste and attention span have developed since that distant first reading.

What did I consider quality entertainment back then? Badger Badger Mushroom?

(The irony of sharing a high school anecdote before criticizing a book about nostalgia for youth is not lost on me. Unlike Dillard, I didn't receive a Guggenheim grant to write this.)

So, do I like An American Childhood better now? Sadly, not much.

The only way I can imagine getting something out of this is if you were born around the same time and in the same socioeconomic bracket as Dillard, and/or have an emotional connection to the city of Pittsburgh for some reason.

The issue isn't necessarily that it's boring, as I thought as a teenager; countless literary masterpieces are character studies with little plot.

“A kid from a well-off, prominent family sees something, does a lot of research on it, and is obsessed with it until she sees something else” can be a story worth reading, despite the snide description.

Still, shouldn't there be some consistent thread, no matter how subtle? Some reason why this particular American childhood is worth re-creating other than in the author's private journal?

Well, there does seem to be such a theme, or an attempt at one: the intellectual awakening of a born writer full of curiosity about the world.

The problem is, that's just not evident. In fact, the memoir comes across as extremely self-centered – understandable in childhood, when realizing we're not the center of the universe is a normal process, but hard to understand for an adult narrator who seems to have missed that realization.

The constant long passages about her thirst for knowledge just seem like showing off. While her family's wealth is openly presented, it's not explored much beyond looking down on the less privileged.

She delves into the biology and industry of Pittsburgh without, despite often professing a love of nature, wondering how the latter harms the former, and into the history of the area's indigenous groups without asking where they went. (To be fair, she sort of admits to gaps in knowledge near the end of the book.)

Out of many examples of self-centeredness that could be used, here's a notable one: Dillard and her classmates watch a rare moth emerge from its cocoon, only to have its wings damaged from being confined in a jar on the teacher's desk.

You might expect this to be the setup for a powerful metaphor. The moth could symbolize children who enter adulthood without the resources and support Dillard had.

Or Dillard's socialite mom, who, while never described as unhappy, often seems to long for a career outside the home.

Does Dillard learn a tough lesson about respecting nature? No, she doesn't really mourn the moth, and in fact kills a bunch of insects in the course of her next hobby.

She can't look beyond herself long enough to make any of these connections. “The moth symbolized [drumroll] meeeeee.”

This is getting mean (criticizing the author as a person feels so wrong... but it's hard to avoid with a memoir!), so I feel obliged not to ignore the book's strengths.

The prose is always functional, sometimes with a wry charm similar to the narration in A Christmas Story, and sometimes quite beautiful.

For example, an early scene when she's scared of the lights from cars driving past her house at night feels genuine and actually conveys something about childhood, other than “I, Annie Dillard, was the most precocious and energetic child in history, and I haven't asked myself whether constant free time and an unlimited budget for my hobbies contributed to this.”

Wait, sorry, this is a positive paragraph! Some of her experiences are valuable to document from a historical perspective, such as learning about World War II atrocities shortly after they happened (although her equating people who read about them to people who survived them was a real WTF moment – positive paragraph, positive paragraph) and participating in Jonas Salk's polio vaccine trials.

So I don't hate the idea of picking up a shorter essay or even one of her novels, where maybe she fictionalized some of her memories and areas of knowledge to serve a plot.

Authors who share Dillard's specific interests have incorporated those interests into their fiction; Nabokov with entomology is an obvious example. She might have done the same successfully.

Two stars felt too harsh for a moment, until I remembered all the “no for real, you guys, my family's servants loved us and we even let them use our dishes” parts. Two stars.

I grew up in Pittsburgh in the 1950s. My home was filled with the laughter of comedians, and I spent my days lost in the pages of books. Perhaps it was because one day my father loaded his boat and journeyed down the Ohio River that I became confused between leaving and living. I made a vow that when I gained my freedom, I would be the one to do both.

This memoir, written in 1987, was expected to be a coming-of-age tale that would take us through the fifties, sixties, and seventies. However, Annie Dillard skipped over these impactful decades. Instead, this is a memoir where seemingly nothing happens. Literally, it is her diary of growing up in a privileged circle in Pittsburgh. Her father was a lawyer from a family business through his mother, her grandpa was the VP of a bank, and her mom's family got rich during Prohibition with her maternal grandpa being a mayor. Just to give you an idea...

If you're thinking of reading this and rolling your eyes, thinking, "It's a memoir. You can't judge. Maybe things did happen," let me tell you. NOPE. She didn't even seem to understand that she was wealthy and only mentioned the "poor" neighborhood once. She was living in a bubble. I can't fault her though. I know people like this now. They don't care about anyone else but whatever is going on with them.

If she had gone through any adversity, now would have been the perfect time to talk about it. But she had a wonderful, happy childhood. Even when she was a crappy teen, she was still understood and cared for by her parents.

Also, Annie didn't have chores. She had camping and vacations every year in Lake Erie and then in Florida. She seemed to have no responsibilities and could pursue her hobbies however she chose. It was dull. It's a great journal for herself to leave to her children, but it's super boring for someone like me.

The only saving grace here was the history, its foundation, that she inserted about Pittsburgh and her family history. It was fascinating. I also liked how they used to read the Bible and say prayers in school. I wish they wouldn't have taken that out. Even if people aren't religious, it's still good to do theology studies and have discussions about history. But I'm talking to the wall.... Even when a book isn't all that up to par, it's still a learning experience.

I think it's hard to go back in time and search for memories in your brain. I felt like that was what Dillard was doing. Some memories become made up or what we wish they actually were, or we just get brain fog throughout the years. For example, my brother will say something he remembers, and I won't remember it at all or I remember it differently.

Anyway, someone who grew up in this era might like it, but it won't be as Heavenly as Dillard's childhood. It will make you nostalgic for a time when homes weren't a million dollars and kids could go anywhere without worrying if they'll get kidnapped or murdered.

This is my second encounter with Annie Dillard's work, and I found myself experiencing the same two conflicting emotions while reading both books.

On one hand, some of the passages are simply breathtakingly beautiful. Her use of language and description is so vivid that it transports the reader into a different world.

On the other hand, there are times when she seems to be more concerned with showing off her writing skills rather than simply communicating clearly with the reader. It's as if she is putting on airs, trying too hard to impress.

The book is centered around a particular kind of childhood in a bygone era. It is both lovely and self-aware, capturing the essence of what it felt like to be a child with remarkable precision. However, despite the beauty of her writing, I really could not relate to any of it.

I'm not sure if this is because my own childhood was so drastically different or if it's because she is more focused on display rather than connection. Maybe it's a combination of both.

Either way, while I can appreciate the artistry of her writing, I can't help but feel a sense of detachment from the story.

I read this piece, filled with a sense of amazement (or perhaps a tinge of jealousy) at both Annie Dillard's exquisitely luscious writing and the remarkable clarity of her childhood memories. Her work is truly a marvel, as she poses questions that are both profound and thought-provoking.

One of my favorite stories within the text was when a grown man chased her on foot around the neighborhood after she had thrown a snowball that happened to hit his windshield. The vividness with which she describes this incident makes it come alive in the reader's mind. Second only to that was her accounts of her visits to the library.

However, I must admit that I read this during the (metaphorical) fog that was August 2021. For some reason, despite the engaging nature of her stories, I just couldn't seem to gin up more enthusiasm for the tale of her quirky childhood than awarding it a solid three stars. It's not that the book wasn't good; it just didn't quite manage to fully capture my heart and soul.

Memoir

I am truly glad that I had the opportunity to read her memoir prior to delving into other works of Annie's. While I am eager to listen to her accounts of life beyond her childhood and teen years, after reading this memoir, I feel as if I have a personal acquaintance with her.

Annie was born in 1945. The majority of her early life was spent in Pittsburg, accompanied by her two younger sisters and her intelligent, adventurous, and jokester parents. Her parents provided her with the necessary means for her explorations, meticulously explained science and history to her, yet otherwise showed no particular interest in the aspects of Annie's world.

She was an inquisitive soul, endowed with a profound memory, unwavering focus, and a wide range of interests, encompassing books, the arts, and the sciences, among others. Her extensive vocabulary and remarkable ability to vividly articulate what she witnessed and felt made this reading experience rich in beautiful details.

She inherited her mother's compassion for the underprivileged and the victims of inequality.

Reading this memoir has not only inspired me to gain a deeper understanding and appreciation of the things and people surrounding me but also to savor them in minute detail.

Here are some quotes that exemplify Dillard's remarkable talent for painting vivid pictures with words and revealing her innermost thoughts and feelings:

"The old cobblestones were pale humpy ovals like loaves. When you rode your bike over them, you vibrated all over. So could the streetcar's tracks... your handlebars twisted in your hands and threw you like a wrestler."

"I wanted to notice everything, as Holmes had, and remember it all, as no one had before."

"Knowing you are alive is feeling the planet buck under you, rear, kick, and try to throw you... It is like riding the planet like a log downstream... Have you noticed yet that you will die?... Then you feel your life as a weekend you cannot extend..."

"Everywhere things snagged me. The visible world turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world."

"I opened books like jars... I never knew where my next revelation was coming, but I knew it was coming..."

"Nothing exhilarated me more than the idea of a life dedicated to a monumental worthwhile task."

"... So this was adolescence... Why didn't I settle down, straighten out, shape up?... I thought that joy was a childish condition that had forever departed..."