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"The interior life is often stupid. Its egoism blinds it and deafens it; its imagination spins out ignorant tales, fascinated. It fancies that the western wind blows on the Self, and leaves fall at the feet of the Self for a reason, and people are watching. A mind risks real ignorance for the sometimes paltry prize of an imagination enriched. The trick of reason is to get the imagination to seize the actual world-if only from time to time."
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"Let each person decide his or her fate."
"There is no such thing as reincarnation, but only similar incarnation."
"Mind and Soul are one and the same thing."
"Beauty, love with truth, that is all there is."
"Science without Philosophy leads to chaos. Philosophy without Science leads to nowhere. Only together they can construct a better world."
"...an age-old patter that seemed like chaos but was not..."
"It is always, first Self, then everything else."
"The Judgement is not a question, it's a sure answer, as to a clump of dough, that will yeast and rise, or go in the oven and burn to crust."
"Can any man sacrifice is life for his fellow man?"
"I guess it's better to have a chalk smile, than an ink smile. Where chalk changes with the direction of wind, ink stays as a deep stain. Like rain, sun and hail against a fake plant."
Explore more quotes by Annie Dillard
"The writing that so thrills and exhilarates you, as if you were dancing right next to the band, is barely audible to anyone else."
"The question was not death; living things die. It was love. Not that we died, but what we cared wildly, then deeply, for one person out of billions. We bound ourselves to the fickle, changing, and dying as if they were rock."
"I am a sacrifice bound with cords to the horns of the world's rock altar, waiting for worms. I take a deep breath, I open my eyes. Looking, I see there are worms in the horns of the altar like live maggots in amber, there are shells of worms in the rock and moths flapping at my eyes. A wind from no place rises. A sense of the real exults me; the cords loosen: I walk on my way."
"It is difficult to undo our own damage, and to recall to our presence that which we have asked to leave. It is hard to desecrate a grove and change your mind. The very holy mountains are keeping mum. We doused the burning bush and cannot rekindle it; we are lighting matches in vain under every green tree."
"It could be that God has absconded but spread, as our vision and understanding of the universe have spread, to a fabric of spirit and sense so grand and subtle, so powerful in a new way, that we can only feel blindly of its hem."
"On plenty of days the writer can write three or four pages, and on plenty of other days he concludes he must throw them away."
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