Short stories are always a mixed bag, don't you think?

I came across this collection and found it to be an interesting sampling of Dillard's work. It was also quite suitable for that last 30-minute read before going to bed.

The stories in the collection offered a variety of themes and styles, each one presenting a unique perspective. Some were thought-provoking, while others were simply entertaining.

Now that I've had a taste of Dillard's short stories, I'm eager to explore something longer-form to truly get a sense of her writing prowess. I'm curious to see how she develops her characters and plots over a more extended narrative.

I'm sure there's a wealth of depth and complexity to be discovered in her longer works, and I can't wait to embark on that literary journey.

Whether it's a novel or a novella, I'm looking forward to immersing myself in Dillard's world and experiencing her storytelling at a deeper level.

Maybe I'll find that one piece of work that will become a favorite and stay with me for a long time. Only time will tell.

But for now, I'm content with having found this interesting collection of short stories and having had a glimpse into the mind of Annie Dillard.

Annie Dillard is an extremely accomplished and influential writer.

Her essays in "Teaching a Stone to Talk" and her autobiographical work "An American Childhood" are truly captivating.

Although "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" brought her a Pulitzer Prize, I found myself getting stuck in the early chapters.

However, it is well worth persevering with her, as she is a master at weaving a continuous thread throughout a book.

Sometimes it takes time to discern the pattern she is working towards.

Dillard has a profound interest in science and nature, which she often turns to for answers to the "big questions" of life.

"Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" is not only interesting but also educational, as one can acquire knowledge about insects, creeks, otters, and more.

She dedicated a year to observing the area around the creek and learning how to immerse herself completely in the observation process, truly learning to see and experience her surroundings on a deeper level.

Dillard is a bold author, unafraid to tackle major themes such as the meaning of life and the nature of the universe.

For the most part, she manages to pull it off successfully.

She is one of my favorites, but unless you are a die-hard fan, I would suggest reading her work in smaller portions rather than devouring "The Annie Dillard Reader" all at once.

This way, you can fully appreciate and absorb the depth and beauty of her writing.

You have devoured all of Annie's books. Some you have read more than once. Yet, this particular book holds a special allure for you.

It is a tad heavy, but it's well worth the effort of lugging it around in your briefcase or backpack. Whoever claimed that beauty comes without effort clearly didn't understand the value of this literary gem.

Now, imagine finding yourself on a deserted island or stranded in the Canadian wilderness in the dead of winter. With this book by your side, you are safe. When your soul aches, it offers solace.

After a long day of struggle, as you walk to catch the evening train, the very weight of the book seems to lighten your step. On the train ride home, you open the book at random, and slowly, a gentle light filters in. Sometimes, you soar through the air, loop, and land gingerly, as if nothing had happened.

You read other books, of course. You have to. But this book remains an essential addition to your collection. You carry it like a precious talisman, a spare tire that you hope you'll never need but are grateful to have nonetheless.

It's not just a collection of remembered joys bound together. It's the fact that Annie herself selected these writings, creating something entirely new. Moreover, you can catch a glimpse of an early version of the novel The Living, a work distilled to its essence. Then, you can go back and read the final version, observing the flesh and blood that the author deemed necessary for the work to live on forever.

If you aspire to write, is there a better way to learn? Additionally, this book allows you to view an author's lifetime of works as a single, unified creation, a long and arduous struggle to give voice to the ineffable. So skillfully structured, the images and themes in different books recur, bounce, blend, and bifurcate, like a symphony, a palette, or a Fourth of July firework exploding into a million stars against the dark sky.

A great collection that is truly remarkable. It is worth having just for the piece titled "Living Like Weasels". This particular work stands out as a gem within the collection.

The author's words in "Living Like Weasels" paint a vivid and thought-provoking picture. It takes the reader on a journey of self-discovery and reflection. The imagery used is so powerful that it makes the reader feel as if they are right there, observing the weasels in their natural habitat.

The collection as a whole is a treasure trove of literary excellence. Each piece contributes something unique and valuable. Whether it's a short story, a poem, or an essay, there is something for everyone to enjoy.

Overall, this collection is a must-have for any lover of literature. It will inspire, educate, and entertain. It is a work that will be cherished for years to come.

I came to Annie Dillard rather late in life. It was only a few years ago that I read a novel set on Cape Cod, and then a few months ago, I delved into her memoir about childhood. Now, I have thoroughly gone through this reader, and I must say that the sections from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek are truly spectacular. In fact, they are in somewhat better control than the mystical speculations of the final book excerpted here, Holy the Firm.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek captivated me in part because I have a deep familiarity with the Blue Ridge in Virginia. I have hiked and camped there numerous times and have lived in its shadows for a significant number of years. Dillard's rendering of the Blue Ridge world is remarkable. Her exactitude in describing clouds, insects, muskrats, the sounds of the wind, the trees, and the creek is simply outstanding. I can attest that she captures every detail and then places it all within a moving theology of scientific pantheism. She makes a compelling case for the presence of the divine in the multiform intricacies of nature. Strangely, she manages to find the general within the specific, the very specific indeed. For example, the insect that devours a frog from the inside out, or the female praying mantis that consumes her mate, starting with the head, even as he fertilizes her. There are scores of such examples that drive home the point that this complex diversity emphasizes the plausibility of some kind of mischievous, endlessly talented god. She frequently cites Christianity, but she does not attempt to proselytize. She presents different representations of godliness, such as the stories from Tinker Creek, which she views as another kind of holy book, teeming with microscopic hymns, with the soil and water full of them. At the same time, this work is both a scientific report and a present-day myth. Her reasoning is not linear; it is not a simple syllogism. However, as she connects this myth to her own perception, she does the same for the reader. Importantly, she reaches no definitive conclusion. She notes that throughout the eons, there have already been countless conclusions. We are only witnesses to 10% of the life forms that have inhabited, scurried, and flown over the earth since the Big Bang. The divinity in life, she suggests, lies in its process, its inertial thrust, and it is best worshipped through knowledge.

There are other strong pieces in this reader, albeit of a lesser scope. There is an account of the gospel according to St. Luke and a meditation on the styles found in prose fiction. Holy the Firm, on the other hand, is a puzzle. Some of it is written in the style of the Book of Revelation, with echoes of other mystics and prophets. And then there is a capstone story about a young girl whose face is severely burned and what must be done to ensure that she will be loved, an onus that Dillard or the narrator places on herself, culminating in a stunning final sentence that I will not quote here. I encourage you to read it for yourself and discover its power.

There's an incredible story of a weasel and an eagle.

The weasel, small and seemingly insignificant, yet filled with unwavering determination, pursues its prey with passion.

The eagle, majestic and powerful, soars through the sky with grace and authority.

The encounter between the two creates a powerful image that serves as a reminder of the importance of living out your passion.

Just like the weasel, we should not let our size or limitations hold us back from pursuing our dreams.

And the excerpt of "An American Childhood" only made me wish there was more to read.

It left me longing for more of the author's experiences and insights, eager to explore the world she had created within the pages of the book.

The story of the weasel and the eagle, along with the tantalizing excerpt, both have the power to inspire and motivate us to embrace our passions and live life to the fullest.

There is an uproariously funny essay about Catholic mass and polar explorers that is truly perfect. I adore it and can't help but burst out laughing every time I read about the bumbling way we worship, especially during mass, which is comparable to how 19th-century explorers fumbled through the Arctic, unable to succumb or adapt to the conditions. It combines seriousness with humor, presenting a version of Dante's levels of hell and the positions many would occupy in Dillard's mind. Beneath it all, there is a way to explain why we pray and a hope that God sees us as adorable and harmless as penguins.

And more from Pilgrim: I have often noticed that these things that obsess me neither bother nor impress other people in the slightest. I am horribly prone to approaching some innocent at a gathering, and like the ancient mariner, fix him with a wild, glittering eye and say, "Do you know that in the head of the caterpillar of the ordinary goat moth there are two hundred twenty-eight separate muscles?" The poor wretch flees. I'm not just making idle chatter; I mean to change his life.

What I aim to do is not so much learn the names of the fragments of creation that flourish in this valley, but to keep myself open to their meanings, which is to try to impress myself at all times with the fullest possible force of their very reality. I want to have things as multiply and intricately present and visible in my mind as possible. Then perhaps I might be able to sit on the hill by the burnt books and see not only the starlings, the grass field, the quarried rock, the viney woods, and the mountains beyond, but also, and simultaneously, the barbs of feathers, the springtails in the soil, the crystals in the rock, the chloroplasts streaming, the rotifers pulsing, and the shape of the air in the pines. And, if I strive to keep my eye on quantum physics, if I attempt to keep up with astronomy and cosmology, and truly believe it all, I might ultimately be able to make out the landscape of the universe. Why not?

Think of a globe, a revolving globe on a stand. Think of a contour globe, whose mountain ranges cast shadows and whose continents rise in bas-relief above the oceans. But then: think of how it really is. These heights aren't just suggested; they're there. When I think about walking across a continent, I think of all the neighborhood hills, the tiny grades up which children drag their sleds. It is all so sculpted, three-dimensional, casting a shadow. What if you had an enormous relief globe that was so huge it showed roads and houses - a geological survey globe, a quarter of a mile to an inch - of the whole world, and the ocean floor! Looking at it, you would know what would have to be left out: the free-standing sculptural arrangement of furniture in rooms, the jumble of broken rocks in a creek bed, tools in a box, labyrinthine ocean liners, the shape of snapdragons, walrus. Where is the one thing you care about on earth, the molding of one face?

What do I make of all this texture? What does it mean about the kind of world in which I have been placed? The texture of the world, its filigree and scrollwork, means that there is the possibility for beauty here, a beauty inexhaustible in its complexity, which opens to my knock, which answers in me a call I do not remember making, and which trains me to the wild and extravagant nature of the spirit I seek.

If the earth were as smooth as a ball bearing, it might be beautiful seen from another planet, like the rings of Saturn. But here we live and move; we wander up and down the banks of the creek, we ride a railway through the Alps, and the landscape shifts and changes. If the earth were smooth, our brains would be smooth as well; we would wake, blink, walk two steps to get the whole picture and lapse into dreamless sleep. Because we are living people, and because we are on the receiving end of beauty, another element necessarily enters the question. The texture of space is a condition of time. Time is the warp and matter is the weft of the woven texture of beauty in space, and death is the hurtling shuttle...

What I want to do, then, is add time to the texture, paint the landscape on an unrolling scroll, and set the giant relief globe spinning on its stand.

Last year I had a very unusual experience. I was awake, with my eyes closed, when I had a dream. It was a small dream about time. I was dead, I guess, in deep blank space high above many white stars. My own consciousness had been revealed to me, and I was happy. Then I saw far below me a long, curved band of color. As I came closer, I saw that it stretched endlessly in either direction, and I understood that I was seeing all the time of the planet where I had lived. It looked like a woman's tweed scarf; the longer I studied any one spot, the more dots of color I saw. There was no end to the depth and variety of dots. At length I started to look for my time, but, although more and more specks of color and deeper and more intricate textures appeared in the fabric, I couldn't find my time, or any time at all that I recognized as being near my time. I couldn't make out so much as a pyramid. Yet as I looked at the band of time, all the individual people, I understood with special clarity, were living at that very moment with great emotion, in intricate detail, in their individual times and places, and they were dying and being replaced by ever more people, one by one, like stitches in which whole worlds of feeling and energy were wrapped in a never-ending cloth. I suddenly remembered the color and texture of our life as we knew it - these things had been utterly forgotten - and I thought as I searched for it on the limitless band, "that was a good time then, a good time to be living." And I began to remember our time.

I recalled green fields with carrots growing, one by one, in slender rows. Men and women in bright vests and scarves came and pulled the carrots out of the soil and carried them in baskets to shaded kitchens, where they scrubbed them with yellow brushes under running water. I saw white-faced cattle lowing and wading in creeks. I saw May apples in forests, erupting through leaf-strewn paths. Cells on the root hairs of sycamores split and divided, and apples grew spotted and striped in the fall. Mountains kept their cool caves and squirrels raced home to their nests through sunlight and shade.

I remembered the ocean, and I seemed to be in the ocean myself, swimming over orange crabs that looked like coral, or off the deep Atlantic banks where whitefish school. Or again I saw the tops of poplars, and the whole sky brushed with clouds in pallid streaks, under which wild ducks flew with outstretched necks, and called, one by one, and flew on.

All these things I saw. Scenes grew in depth and sunlit detail before my eyes, and were replaced by ever more scenes, as I remembered the life of my time with increasing feeling.

At last I saw the earth as a globe in space, and I recalled the ocean's shape and the form of continents, saying to myself with surprise as I looked at the planet, "yes, that's how it was then, that part there was called France." I was filled with the deep affection of nostalgia - and then I opened my eyes.

We all ought to be able to conjure up sights like these at will, so that we can keep in mind the scope of texture's motion in time.

Those people who shoot endless time-lapse films of unfurling roses and tulips have the wrong idea. They should train their cameras instead on the melting of pack ice, the green filling of ponds, the tidal swings... They should film the glaciers of Greenland, some of which creak along at such a fast clip that even the dogs bark at them. They should film the invasion of the southernmost Canadian tundra by the northernmost spruce-fir forest, which is happening right now at the rate of a mile every 10 years. When the last ice sheet receded from the North American continent, the earth rebounded 10 feet. Wouldn't that have been a sight to see?

Say you could view a time-lapse film of our planet: what would you see? Transparent images moving through light, "an infinite storm of beauty."

The beginning is swaddled in mists, blasted by random blinding flashes. Lava pours and cools; seas boil and flood. Clouds materialize and shift; now you can see the earth's face through only random patches of clarity. The land shudders and splits, like pack ice rent by a widening lead. Mountains burst up, jutting and dull and soften before your eyes, clothed in forests like felt. The ice rolls up, grinding green land under water forever; the ice rolls back. Forests erupt and disappear like fairy rings. The ice rolls up - mountains are mowed into lakes, land rises wet from the sea like a surfacing whale - the ice rolls back.

A blue-green streaks the highest ridges, a yellow-green spreads from the south like a wave up a strand. A red dye seems to leak from the north down the ridges and into the valleys, seeping south; a white follows the red, then yellow-green washes north, then red spreads again, then white, over and over, making patterns of color too swift and intricate to follow. Slow the film. You see dust storms, locusts, floods, in dizzying flash frames.

Zero in on a well-watered shore and see smoke from fires drifting. Stone cities rise, spread, and then crumble, like patches of alpine blossoms that flourish for a day an inch above the permafrost, that iced earth, no root can suck, and wither in an hour. New cities appear, and rivers sift silt onto their rooftops; more cities emerge and spread in lobes like lichen on rock. The great human figures of history, those intricate, spirited tissues that roamed the earth's surface, are a wavering blur whose split second in the light was too brief an exposure to yield any images. The great herds of caribou pour into the valleys and trickle back, and pour, a brown fluid.

Slow it down more, come closer still. A dot appears, like a flesh-flake. It swells like a balloon; it moves, circles, slows, and vanishes. This is your life.

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 molecule's loops. Freedom cuts both ways. Mystery itself is as fringed and intricate as the shape of the air at times. Forays into mystery cut bays and fine fjords, but the forested mainland itself is implacable both in its bulk and in its most filigreed fringe of detail.

The question from agnosticism is, "who turned on the lights?" The question from faith is "whatever for?" Thoreau climbed Mount Katahdin and gives vent to an almost outraged sense of the reality of the things of this world: "I fear bodies, I tremble to meet them. What is this Titan that has possession of me? Talk of mysteries - think of our life in nature, - daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, - rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! The solid earth! The actual world! The common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? Where are we?"

The wonder is - given the errant nature of freedom and the burgeoning of texture in time - the wonder is that all the forms are not monsters, that there is beauty at all, grace gratuitous, pennies found, like a mockingbird's free fall. Beauty itself is the fruit of the creator's exuberance that grew such a tangle, and the grotesques and horrors bloom from that same free growth, that intricate scramble and twine up and down the conditions of time.

This, then, is the extravagant landscape of the world, given, given with pizzazz, given in good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over.

That something is everywhere and always amiss is part of the very stuff of creation. It is as though each clay form had baked into it, fired into it, a blue streak of nonbeing, a shaded emptiness like a bubble that not only shapes its very structure but that also causes it to list and ultimately explode. We could have planned things more mercifully, perhaps, but our plan would never get off the drawing board until we agreed to the very compromising terms that are the only ones that being offers.

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 poet says, "the force that through the green fuse drives the flower / drives my green age."

In the cool of the evening I take to the bridges over the creek. I am prying into secrets again, and taking my chances. I might see anything happen; I might see nothing but light on the water. I walk home exhilarated or becalmed, but always changed, alive. "It scatters and gathers," Heraclitus said, "it comes and goes." And I want to be in the way of its passage and cooled by its invisible breath.

In the forty minutes I watched the muskrat, he never saw me, smelled me, or heard me at all. When he was in full view, of course I never moved except to breathe. My eyes would move, too, following his, but he never noticed. Only once, when he was feeding from the opposite bank about eight feet away, did he suddenly rise upright, all alert - and then he immediately resumed foraging. But he never knew I was there.

I never knew I was there, either. For that forty minutes last night I was as purely sensitive and mute as a photographic plate; I received impressions, but I did not print out captions. My own self-awareness had disappeared; it seems now almost as though, had I been wired to electrodes, my EEG would have been flat. I have done this sort of thing so often that I have lost self-consciousness about moving slowly and halting suddenly. And I have often noticed that even a few minutes of this self-forgetfulness is tremendously invigorating. I wonder if we do not waste most of our energy just by spending every waking minute saying hello to ourselves. Martin Buber quotes an old Hasid master who said, "When you walk across the field with your mind pure and holy, then from all the stones, and all growing things, and all animals, the sparks of their souls come out and cling to you, and then they are purified and become a holy fire in you."

This is what I had come for, just this, and nothing more. A fling of leafy motion on the cliffs, the assault of real things, living and still, with shapes and powers under the sky - this is my city, my culture, and all the world I need.

All at once, something wonderful happened, although at first, it seemed perfectly ordinary. A female goldfinch suddenly hove into view. She lighted weightlessly on the head of a bankside purple thistle and began emptying the seedcase, sowing the air with down.

The lighted frame of my window filled. The down rose and spread in all directions, wafting over the dam's waterfall and wavering between the tulip trunks and into the meadow. It vaulted towards the orchard in a puff; it hovered over the ripening pawpaw fruit and staggered up the steep-faced terrace. It jerked, floated, rolled, veered, swayed. The thistle down faltered down toward the cottage and gusted clear to the woods; it rose and entered the shaggy arms of pecans. At last it strayed like snow, blind and sweet, into the pool of the creek upstream, and into the race of the creek over rocks down. It shuddered onto the tips of growing grasses, where it poised, light, still wracked by errant quivers. I was holding my breath. Is this where we live, I thought, in this place in this moment, with the air so light and wild?

The same fixity that collapses stars and drives the mantis to devour her mate eased these creatures together before my eyes: the thick adept bill of the goldfinch, and the feathery coded down. How could anything be amiss? If I myself were lighter and frayed, I could ride these small winds, too, taking my chances, for the pleasure of being so purely played.

The thistle is part of Adam's curse. "Cursed is the ground for thy sake, in sorrow shalt thou eat of it; thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee." A terrible curse: But does the goldfinch eat thorny sorrow with the thistle or do I? If this furling air is fallen, then the fall was happy indeed. If this creekside garden is sorrow, then I seek martyrdom.

I was weightless; my bones were taut skins blown with buoyant gas; it seemed that if I inhaled too deeply, my shoulders and head would waft off. Alleluia.

Yes, it's tough, it's tough, that goes without saying. But isn't waiting itself and longing a wonder, being played on by wind, sun, and shade?

I was in no tent under leaves, sleepless and glad. There was no moon at all; along the world's coasts the sea tides would be springing strong. The air itself also has lunar tides; I lay still. Could I feel in the air an invisible sweep and surge, and an answering knock in the lungs? Or could I feel the starlight

Anne Dillard's command of language and expression is truly astonishing.

Nowhere is this more evident than in this collection of essays. I have a particular affection for, and have never been able to forget, the essay "Living Like Weasels."

It details the moment when she came face-to-face with a weasel, an encounter that led her to provocatively reflect on the nature of the weasel. Dillard vividly describes finding the bones of a hawk with a weasel's skull attached, which serves to illustrate the mammal's intense, laser-like focus and its all-or-nothing approach to life.

When the author contends that we should "live like weasels," I wholeheartedly agree.

Weasels live in the moment, with a single-minded determination and a lack of distraction. They pursue their goals with an intensity that we humans often lack. By emulating their way of life, we too can find a greater sense of purpose and fulfillment.

"Living Like Weasels" is not only a beautiful piece of writing but also a powerful reminder of the importance of living fully and authentically.

Because Annie Dillard's reader consists of portions from several works, some pages are ranked as five stars and others as four stars. However, we don't have a 4 1/2 option, even though that's where this book stands as a whole on GR. In simpler terms, Annie is simply wonderful. One caution: if you don't like to engage your brain when you read, do not pick up anything of Dillard's. Everything she writes is like poetry, really, and requires simple concentration. I love her for helping us learn how to see. She has a unique way of describing the world around us, making us notice the smallest details that we might otherwise overlook. Her writing is not only beautiful but also thought-provoking, making us question our own perceptions and experiences. Whether it's a description of a natural scene or a reflection on a personal moment, Annie Dillard's words have the power to touch our hearts and expand our minds.

It is not advisable to attempt to handle this as if it were a single book and just power through it. Instead, it is better to regard the individual essays as separate works. This approach allows for a more in-depth and focused understanding of each piece. By treating them separately, one can give full attention to the unique ideas, arguments, and styles presented in each essay. It also provides the opportunity to take breaks and reflect between readings, enhancing the overall learning and appreciation experience. There is more to come in this regard, so stay tuned for further exploration and analysis of these individual essays.

A wonderful array of Dillard's best writing awaits you.

Her words are like precious gems, carefully crafted and arranged to create a literary masterpiece.

Each piece in this collection is a testament to her talent and creativity.

Whether it's a vivid description of nature, a profound exploration of the human condition, or a humorous anecdote, Dillard's writing always engages and delights.

It is a pleasure to keep this collection at your elbow,随时可供你翻阅。

You can dip into it whenever you have a spare moment and be transported to another world.

Let Dillard's words inspire you, move you, and make you see the world in a new light.

This is a book that you will return to again and again, finding something new and wonderful each time.

So, don't miss out on this opportunity to experience the magic of Dillard's writing.

Pick up this collection today and start your journey into a world of literary excellence.

I stole this from my sister and so feel compelled to read it.

Otherwise, I would probably have traded it in.

It's not that I have a particular interest in the item itself.

Maybe it was just a spur-of-the-moment act of mischief.

But now that I have it, I can't help but wonder what it might hold.

Could there be something valuable or interesting inside?

As I start to read, I find myself getting more and more engaged.

The words seem to draw me in, and I forget about everything else around me.

Before I know it, I'm completely immersed in the story.

And I realize that stealing this from my sister might have been the best thing I could have done.

Now I'm looking forward to sharing my newfound discovery with her.