Elegant writing. It is like a beautiful melody that flows smoothly, captivating the reader's attention. The interesting love story within it seems to unfold like a charming画卷, filled with twists and turns and emotions that tug at the heartstrings.

However, as much as I can appreciate the beauty and charm of it all, it just isn't my cup of tea. Maybe it's because my tastes lean towards something different, something that perhaps has a more adventurous or unconventional spirit.

Nevertheless, I can still recognize the value and quality of this piece of writing. It has its own unique allure that will surely吸引 many other readers who have a penchant for such elegant and romantic tales. And that's the wonderful thing about literature - there is something for everyone, and even if this particular story doesn't resonate with me, it can still bring joy and inspiration to others.

Stunning!

This is truly one of the best books I have ever had the pleasure of reading.

The way it weaves together time, philosophy, humanity, nature, and love is simply remarkable.

The prose is indelible and poetic, painting vivid pictures in the reader's mind and touching the deepest recesses of the heart.

It is a book that makes you think, makes you feel, and makes you appreciate the beauty and complexity of the world around us.

This book will definitely go on my forever shelf, a cherished possession that I will return to again and again.

And in the unlikely event of an apocalypse, it would most likely find its way into my backpack, a source of comfort and inspiration in the midst of chaos.

It is a literary masterpiece that I would highly recommend to anyone looking for a thought-provoking and deeply moving read.

It was a long time ago that I purchased the book, during a lengthy and solitary road trip southwest. It was in a beloved bookstore nestled beside the Rockies. I held it, carried it, and kept it on my coffee table and nightstand, prolonging the sweet anticipation, knowing the wonderful reward that awaited. I have been (without exaggeration) in awe of Annie Dillard ever since the first encounter, decades ago, with "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" (which won Dillard the Pulitzer Prize). Finally, oh finally, I picked up what I expect might be her final novel. I had heard her interview on NPR at the very beginning of my southwest trip, in which she spoke of the arthritis in her fingers and the agony of the mechanics of writing. Now, immersed in the solitude of a retreat, I read. I read throughout the day and into the night until I was done.

Yet, I was never truly done. Dillard's ability to evoke light from darkness, to remind us in an age when books are losing their entertainment value against modern technology, of the divine in artistic creation, is still without comparison. I remain in awe of her gift. For half a century of being a bookworm, I have yet to find an author who can stand beside her.

See, not much seems to happen in the story. But that in itself enthralls me. The literary master can paint a scene with words, leaving out the excess of action (which I tire of in our current entertainment venues) and the boredom of high drama, yet still evoke in us the deepest emotions and eventual revelations. Consider these opening lines in the prologue of the novel, introducing us to the Maytrees, a couple living on the very tip of Cape Cod, in Provincetown, the bohemian town of charming misfits and artists: "The Maytrees' lives, the Nausets', played out before the backdrop of fixed stars. The way of the world could be slight, then and now, but rarely, among individuals, vicious. The slow heavens marked hours. They lived often outside. They drew every breath from a wad of air just then crossing from saltwater to saltwater. Their sandspit was a naked strand between two immensities, both given to special effects."

And so we enter the lives of these two, from their meeting in their youth, to the unfolding of their love, to its changing (not breaking), as Toby Maytree leaves his wife, Lou (along with their small child, Petie), for her best friend (flaky, flashy, and flirty), Deary Hightoe. Only to return again when both are near the end of their lives, and not without Deary (who somehow manages to remain humorously oblivious to how she has affected these two in what for her seems to be on the level of a change in scenery). Because by then, when Toby needs, when his world wavers, when his second wife falls fatally ill, and he himself equally so, where should he go but to the woman he knew he could depend upon, always. All of this against the backdrop of fixed stars. All of this against the backdrop of the slow heavens.

Dillard never falls into a trap, never gets sucked into making the common, ordinary. Without once naming the pain in Lou's heart at this infidelity, she still conveys its shattering, its enduring, and its opening again in the wisdom of women. We sense only how this feminine wisdom, patience, and strength is what holds the slow heavens in place. Why foolish acts fail to make the stars fall from that fixed place. And she does it with the precision of a poet.

While Dillard's dialogue is spare and infrequent, when she does use it, she allows the Maytrees to convey all we need to know in a quick moment, then moves on. When the errant once-husband returns home, now an old man, asking Lou's help to care for his ill wife, Deary, and him, this potential land mine moment becomes an elegant ballet: "Not going to slug me?" "I considered it, when Petie was a baby and you wore earplugs." "Earplugs? I don't remember any earplugs. Actually, I ran off with Deary." "I did notice that. You brute. Get some sleep." "You're wonderfully..." She growled and he stopped. He was treating her like a stranger who was helping him change a tire.

Not that the fractures of a shattered heart are gone. Such wounds remain forever. Alone in her bed, her once-husband sleeping in the next room, Lou lies awake, tossed by the waves of twenty-year-old ache. Such is love, however, if it is real. She remains loyal in the face of disloyalty, and so we witness what never wins medals, rarely receives acknowledgement or reward, but is the axis of a universe tossed by whim, impulse, and sheer human stupidity.

A kind of loyalty in Toby returns too, as if back on its compass needle to this, his north star. After Deary passes, Lou cares for Toby as he, too, grows ever more ill. Finally, he is bedridden, and because he had always so loved the ocean crashing against the spit of sand, there on the tip of the hook of Cape Cod, Lou moves his bed outside their graying, old house. They sleep together on the deck, under those same stars, to the sound of incoming and outgoing waves. She holds his hand. She reads to him. They trace together the patterns of constellations. "Lou lay beside him, silent as bandages, her immense solitude so gloriously - he might say, for who will fault a dying man's diction? - broached. 'I wither slowly in thine arms, here at the quiet limit of the world.' She got up to stretch her long dress, and his body drooped to the low and midgey spot she left warm... Around him her body, sawgrass, trash, seas, and skies altered, reeled, and gave way to dark..."

It is impossible to read Dillard without being changed, moved, and transcended to a place where, for a too short moment, the stars reel around us, then move back into their rightful place, again.

Lyrical and aesthetically-pleasing, this piece is more of a dreamy journey through the lives of a diverse group of sandy bohemians than a traditional story.

I have complex emotions regarding this work and suspect that it is something the literary elite is conditioned to admire. Although Annie Dillard's language is innovative and frequently beautiful, the sentences can be a struggle to get through. The Maytrees and their friends are somewhat likable, which was sufficient to keep me reading until the conclusion.

Besides Dillard's depictions of Provincetown's dunes, the book had relatively little enduring influence. It seems to lack a certain depth or substance that would make it truly memorable. However, it does offer a unique perspective on a particular lifestyle and community, which may be of interest to some readers. Overall, it is a work that elicits a range of reactions and interpretations.

Somewhat disappointing. It is truly hard to believe that this work came from the same author as Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. The expectations were high, given the previous masterpiece. However, this particular piece fails to live up to those lofty standards. The writing seems to lack the same depth and beauty that was so captivating in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. The descriptions are not as vivid, and the overall narrative does not draw the reader in with the same force. It is a letdown, especially for those who were eagerly anticipating another literary gem from this author. One can't help but wonder what went wrong. Perhaps the author was in a different mindset or facing different challenges while writing this. Nevertheless, it is a disappointment that cannot be ignored.

I mean, it’s Annie Dillard. She’s truly spectacular. Her language is filled to the brim with poetry and vivid imagery. You simply can’t read this book in the same way as an ordinary novel. It’s not centered around scenes or actions in the traditional sense. Instead, it’s almost like a beautiful poetic meditation presented in the form of a story. It’s absolutely lovely.

Annie Dillard has a unique talent for crafting words that paint a picture in the reader’s mind. Her use of language is so rich and evocative that it draws you in and makes you experience the story on a deeper level. As you read, you’ll find yourself lost in the beauty of her prose, thinking about the profound ideas she presents.

This book is a gem, a work of art that should be savored and enjoyed. It’s not something to be rushed through, but rather something to be contemplated and reflected upon. If you’re looking for a literary experience that will touch your heart and expand your mind, then this is the book for you.

This book has received a great deal of positive reviews. However, I found myself a little disappointed. I have not delved into any other works by Annie Dillard. Her writing style is undeniably poetic, perhaps to an excessive extent. At times, it was simply perplexing, bordering on being too "stream-of-consciousness". I became somewhat disengaged, almost observing myself reading the book rather than fully immersing in and enjoying it.

That being said, it is still a rather good story, a quick read that can be easily devoured. In fact, I liked it well enough to recommend it as an ideal beach read or something to carry along on a plane or train journey to pass 3 - 4 hours. It has its charm and can provide some entertainment and distraction during those moments when one is looking for a light and engaging read.

I often find myself struggling with anything that is even remotely close to contemporary fiction. The reason for this is that so frequently, it seems to be striving to be something more than it is, or it is recycling social commentary that is merely disguised as a story.

Even in cases where the social commentary is something that I wholeheartedly agree with, I still believe that the art itself suffers as a result.

I'm not entirely certain whether Annie Dillard can be classified as contemporary fiction or not. However, what I do know is that her work is most definitely more recent than that of Edith Wharton.

And with Annie Dillard's writing, it's all about beauty and nothing else. It's truly perfect. There is a certain elegance and charm to her words that draw you in and make you lose yourself in the story.

Her work is a refreshing departure from the often convoluted and pretentious nature of much contemporary fiction. It's a reminder that sometimes, the simplest and most beautiful things in life are the ones that truly matter.

Real Rating: 2.5* of five, rounded up because Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

I wasn't initially planning to revisit this book. I own a physical copy of it, and since I'm the one who introduced my Young Gentleman Caller to Author Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (his comment: \\"Fuck Walden! This is what {nature writing} should be!\\"), when he was shopping on Kindle this afternoon and saw this for $1.99, I told him he could take the physical copy and not spend the money. We flipped through it together for a while.

We came across a passage that made us both laugh out loud.

Three days a week she helped at the Manor Nursing Home, where people proved their keenness by reciting received analyses of current events. All the Manor residents watched television day and night, informed to the eyeballs like everyone else and rushed for time, toward what end no one asked. Their cupidity and self-love were no worse than anyone else's, but their many experiences having taught them so little irked Lou. One hated tourists, another southerners; another despised immigrants. Even dying, they still held themselves in highest regard. Lou would have to watch herself. For this way of thinking began to look like human nature—as if each person of two or three billion would spend his last vital drop to sustain his self-importance.

Given my current situation, I could really relate to the truth in that passage. And Rob, who actually seeks my company, asks me things, and listens when I answer, is also familiar with it.

However, that, most regrettably, was as good as it got. We continued reading to each other, but after about two hours, we silently agreed to stop.

If she…had known how much her first half-inch beginning to let go would take—and how long her noticing and renouncing owning and her turning her habits, and beginning the slimmest self-mastery whose end was nowhere in sight—would she have begun?
–and–
What was it she wanted to think about? Here it was, all she ever wanted: a free mind. She wanted to figure out. With which unknown should she begin? Why are we here, we four billion equals who seem significant to ourselves alone? She rejected religion. She knew Christianity stressed the Ten Commandments, Jesus Christ as the only son of God who walked on water and rose up after dying on the cross, the Good Samaritan, and cleanliness is next to godliness. Buddhism and Taoism could handle all those galaxies, but Taoism was self-evident—although it kept slipping her mind—and Buddhism made you just sit there. Judaism wanted her like a hole in the head. And religions all said—early or late—that holiness was within. Either they were crazy or she was. She had looked long ago and learned: not within her. It was fearsome down there, a crusty cast-iron pot. Within she was empty. She would never poke around in those terrors and wastes again, so help her God.

The book is now in the Little Free Library if anyone wants to go get it. It was such a disappointment.

Good and strange.

I truly felt a bit cheated by Annie. The book is peculiarly 'ungrounded'. There are snippets and particles of a tangible story scattered throughout, yet somehow it lacks any GLUE, anything that could make my heart stir. I find it difficult to critique the content or the language. As usual, her language seems almost separate FROM her writing. It's as if she uses words and language for their own sake and doesn't always worry about where it leads or what they accomplish.

The analogy that constantly comes to my mind is that of a brilliant film that someone is fast-forwarding. They stop at a poignant scene and press "play". You watch, and you can see that the actors are performing brilliantly, the moment is rich, the dialogue is eloquent and honest. And then, unfortunately, the bastard presses fast-forward again, and you are taken to another scene.

I revere Annie as a writer and a wordsmith. However, I felt cheated by "Maytrees" as a whole.

This was a truly remarkable book. I started it several times, but whenever I was reading it, I found myself completely unable to write. Its beauty and the author's mastery were so overwhelming that they absolutely paralyzed me. I had to wait until my work was done and I had both the time and the self-isolation to fully appreciate its quiet, reasonable voice.

The story, written by the great writer Annie Dillard, is about a marriage between two quiet people over a span of forty years. Set on the windswept dunes of Cape Cod, it begins just after WW2. Maytree, a rawboned poet, falls in love with the quiet, tall New England beauty Lou, who is often mistaken for Ingrid Bergman in those days. What follows is a deep meditation on love over a lifetime, all told in just over 200 pages.
They have a child, Petie, who grows into a man. Other interesting characters emerge from the salty town. There's a bohemian woman, Deary, who sleeps in the sand or on people's porches, and much loved older women like Reevadere. Provincetown also attracts a host of artists with its simplicity and its light.
This book is an absolute miracle. The descriptions are so vivid that you can almost feel the wind on the dunes and see the characters come to life. For example, here is the description of their baby, Petie: "Now between his parents outside the shack on a blanket, Petie raised his head. He unfurled an arm and placed a boneless hand on his father's forearm. He had shed that clouds-of-glory, that leaving-of-fairies glaze by which newborn people keep parents in thrall till other charms appear. Like his mother, he did not say much. His eyes gleamed dark beneath low brows, and everything struck him as funny."
The early love between Maytree and Lou is also beautifully described: "Maytree, flexed beside her, was already asleep. He usually fell asleep as if dropped from a scarp. From above he would look as if his parachute failed. Intimacy could not be unique to her and Maytree, this brief blending, this blind sea they entered together diving."
And here's Maytree going out to the beach shack his father built: "Maytree left town on impulse and headed toward his shack. The panel rolled into its shadow. On the high dune, sky ran down to his ankles. Everything he saw was lower than his socks. Across a long horizon, parabolic dunes cut sky as rogue waves do. The silence of permanence lay on the scene. He found a Cambrian calm as if the world had not yet come; he found a posthumous hush as if humans had gone. He crossed the low swale and climbed a trail his feet felt. He ate a sandwich. Now he knew, but did not believe, she loved him. Her depth he knew when he kissed her. His brain lobes seemed to part like clouds over sun."

This book is a must-read for anyone who loves beautiful writing and a deep exploration of love and life.

John Hess says this is a once in 10 years book.

After I've finished reading it, I wholeheartedly agree with him.

It's extremely difficult to even begin to describe my reaction to this remarkable book.

Annie Dillard is truly a master of using elegant yet simple phrasing and word choices.

There is a certain poetry in the entirety of her writing.

Her characters come alive and seem so real that you feel as if you know them personally.

The landscapes she描绘 become your own, transporting you into the story.

Her remarkable ability to seamlessly weave in themes such as love, loss, forgiveness, and hope - the very essence of the human condition - is what will remain with me long after I've turned the last page.

This book is not just a collection of words; it's a profound exploration of the human experience that leaves a lasting impression.