Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

by Annie Dillard

I’m drawn to this spot. I come to it as to an oracle; I return to it as a man years later will seek out the battlefield where he lost a leg or an arm.

beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.

what is it in us, hammered out of those same typewriters, that they ignite?

I resound like a beaten bell.

this book is the straying trail