Name: Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
ISBN: 9781433261244

Annie Dillard

Tavia Gilbert

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Samantha M Crawford

The world is wilder than that in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. 

Erin O’Donnell

The fact of his free fall was like the old philosophical conundrum about the tree that falls in the forest. The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.

Maria Buitrago

These are morning matters, pictures you dream as the final wave heaves you up on the sand to the bright light and drying air. You remember pressure, and a curved sleep you rested against, soft, like a scallop in its shell. But the air hardens your skin; you stand; you leave the lighted shore to explore some dim headland, and soon you're lost in the leafy interior, intent, remembering nothing. 

 It could be that God has not 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. In making the thick darkness a swaddling band for the sea, God “set bars and doors" and said, “Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further." But have we come even that far? Have we rowed out to the thick darkness, or are we all playing pinochle in the bottom of the boat? 

The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.

I was still ringing. I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck. I have since only very rarely seen the tree with the lights in it. The vision comes and goes, mostly goes, but I live for it, for the moment when the mountains open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the mountains slam.

Seeing is of course very much a matter of verbalization. Unless I call my attention to what passes before my eyes, I simply won't see it. It is, as Ruskin says, “not merely unnoticed, but in the full, clear sense of the word, unseen," My eyes alone can't solve analogy tests using figures, the ones which show, with increasing elaborations, a big square, then a small square in a big square, then a big triangle, and expect me to find a small triangle in a big triangle. I have to say the words, describe what I'm seeing. If Tinker Mountain erupted, I'd be likely to notice. But if I want to notice the lesser catacysms of valley life, I have to maintain in my head a running description of the present. It's not that I'm observant; it's just that I talk too much. Otherwise, especially in a strange place, Il never know what's happening. Like a blind man at the ball game, I need a radio. 

The mental effort involved in these reasonings proves overwhelming for many patients. It oppresses them to realize, if they ever do at all, the tremendous size of the world, which they had previously conceived of as something touchingly manageable. It oppresses them to realize that they have been visible to people all along, perhaps unattractively so, without their knowledge or consent. A disheartening number of them refuse to use their new vision, continuing to go over objects with their tongues, and lapsing into apathy and despair. 

Can I stay still: How still? It is astonishing how many people cannot, or will not, hold still. I could not, or would not, hold still for thirty minutes inside, but at the creck I slow down, center down, empty. I am not excited; my breathing is slow and regular. In my brain I am not saying, Muskrat! Muskrat! There! I am say- ing nothing. If I must hold a position, I do not "freeze." If I freeze, locking my muscles, I will tire and break. Instead of going rigid, I go calm. I center down wherever I am; I find a balance and repose. I retreat not inside myself, but outside myself, so that I am a tissue of senses. Whatever I see is plenty, abundance. I am the skin of water the wind plays over; I am petal, feather, stone. 

A little blood from the wrists and throat is the price I would willingly pay for that pressure of clacking weights on my shoulders, for the scent of deserts, groundfire in my ears — for being so in the clustering thick of things, rapt and enwrapped in the rising and falling real world.

I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about on a splintered wreck I've come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty beats and shines not in its imperfections but over- whelmingly in spite of them, under the wind-rent clouds, upstream and down. Simone Weil says simply, "Let us love the country of here below. It is real: it offers resistance to love."

I wake expectant, hoping to see a new thing.

Today is one of those excellent January partly cloudies in which light chooses an unexpected part of the landscape to trick out in gilt, and then shadow sweeps it away. You know you’re alive. You take huge steps, trying to feel the planet’s roundness arc between your feet.

In the book which won her a Pulitzer Prize in 1975, Dillard writes in the form of a journal, trying to understand God by chronicling the seasons along Tinker Creek in Virginias Blue Ridge Mountains, and by exploring the paradoxical coexistence of beauty and violence.

A beautiful, Walden-esque book about nature. Dillard asks the reader to really SEE the world around her, and to share her obsession. I likened myself to her description of trapping people in the corners of parties to relay these wonders through (incredibly nerdy) facts about nature. 

I sometimes found myself a bit lost in her fever dream, and chuckled at the Afterword description of re-reading a book you wrote in your 20s when you “fancied a grand sentence was not quite done until it was overdone”.

Jacqui Spears

A beautiful, Walden-esque book about nature. Dillard asks the reader to really SEE the world around her, and to share her obsession. I likened myself to her description of trapping people in the corners of parties to relay these wonders through (incredibly nerdy) facts about nature. 

I sometimes found myself a bit lost in her fever dream, and chuckled at the Afterword description of re-reading a book you wrote in your 20s when you “fancied a grand sentence was not quite done until it was overdone”.

Dillard beschrijft beeldend en beschouwend het verloop van de seizoenen rondom de rivier Tinker Creek. Het gaat over insecten, overvloed, rijkdom van de natuur, heel precies en zeer goed geïnformeerd beschreven. Bovenal gaat het over (spirituele) betekenis en tijdloosheid vinden in de alledaagsheid van de natuur. Prachtige poëtische knappe zinnen vol verwondering en gedreven door nieuwsgierigheid. Een literair essay. De structuur is zeer kundig opgebouwd. 

Akkemay Lammers

Nathan Griffin

This won a Pulitzer. This has a 4+ star rating on Goodreads (while I usually find reputable). A handful of people I know who have reputable reading opinions claimed they didn't hate this.

So then why did I hate reading this? Why did I fall asleep repeatedly reading this? I typically love the "haha it's not about what the title implies it's about" genre. 

This isn't about a creek. It's VERY obviously not about a creek. 

But I'm not really sure what it's about. The only thing I really took away from this is that she probably knows about the classic folk song "Wreck of the Old 97" because she makes a pretty cool subtle reference to it. But that's really about it.

I bought the Kindle version of this so I'm going to be tempted to read it again in 2-3 years, so somebody please (seriously) tell me what I should try to get out of it next time.

The Pulitzer Prize-winning novel about the remarkable year one woman spent in Virginia’s Roanoke Valley—now available in a limited Olive Edition. “A remarkable psalm of terror and celebration.”—Time Pilgrim at Tinker Creek is the story of a dramatic year in Virginia's Roanoke Valley. Annie Dillard sets out to see what she can see. What she sees are astonishing incidents of "beauty tangled in a rapture with violence." Her personal narrative highlights one year's exploration on foot in the Virginia region through which Tinker Creek runs. In the summer, Dillard stalks muskrats in the creek and contemplates wave mechanics; in the fall, she watches a monarch butterfly migration and dreams of Arctic caribou. She tries to con a coot; she collects pond water and examines it under a microscope. She unties a snake skin, witnesses a flood, and plays King of the Meadow with a field of grasshoppers. The result is an exhilarating tale of nature and its seasons.

sydnee smith

Dillard Annie

This winner of the Pulitzer Prize in 1975, and listed by the New York Times as one of the best 100 non-fiction books of the century, gives timeless reflections on solitude, writing and faith amid the beautiful though sometimes brutal world of nature on the author's doorstep in Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains.

香玫

Pelgrim langs Tinker Creek

Dominique de moel

Yvonne

Casper Schipper

Jon Noronha

Colton Ray

Rowan Hitchcock

Andrew Louis

Seth Kalback

Fallstreak

Tim Pennington-Russell

Stephanie Ridiculous

An exhilarating meditation on nature and its seasons-a personal narrative highlighting one year's exploration on foot in the author's own neighborhood in Tinker Creek, Virginia. In the summer, Dillard stalks muskrats in the creek and contemplates wave mechanics; in the fall she watches a monarch butterfly migration and dreams of Arctic caribou. She tries to con a coot; she collects pond water and examines it under a microscope. She unties a snake skin, witnesses a flood, and plays -King of the Meadow' with a field of grasshoppers.

Christopher McCaffery

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek has continued to change people's lives for over thirty years. A passionate and poetic reflection on the mystery of creation with its beauty on the one hand and cruelty on the other, it has become a modern American literary classic in the tradition of Thoreau. Living in solitude in the Blue Ridge Mountains near Roanoke, Virginia, and observing the changing seasons, the flora and fauna, the author reflects on the nature of creation and of the God who set it in motion. Whether the images are cruel or lovely, the language is memorably beautiful and poetic, and insistently celebratory. Just pay attention, Dillard urges throughout, and you will find yourself 'sailing headlong and breathless under the gale force of the spirit'.