By Annie Dillard
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek is the tale of a dramatic yr in Virginia's Roanoke Valley. Annie Dillard units out to work out what she will be able to see. What she sees are marvelous incidents of "beauty tangled in a rapture with violence."
Her own narrative highlights one year's exploration strolling within the Virginia zone by which Tinker Creek runs. in the summertime, Dillard stalks muskrats within the creek and contemplates wave mechanics; within the fall, she watches a monarch butterfly migration and goals of Arctic caribou. She attempts to con a coot; she collects pond water and examines it less than a microscope. She unties a snake pores and skin, witnesses a flood, and performs King of the Meadow with a box of grasshoppers. the result's a thrilling story of nature and its seasons.
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Extra resources for Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (Harper Perrennial Modern Classics)
Example text
If the giant water bug was not made in jest, was it then made in earnest? Pascal uses a nice term to describe the notion of the creator’s, once having called forth the universe, turning his back to it: Deus Absconditus. Is this what we think happened? Was the sense of it there, and God absconded with it, ate it, like a wolf who disappears round the edge of the house with the Thanksgiving turkey? ” 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.
It was hot, so hot the mirror felt warm. I washed before the mirror in a daze, my twisted summer sleep still hung about me like sea kelp. What blood was this, and what roses? It could have been the rose of union, the blood of murder, or the rose of beauty bare and the blood of some unspeakable sacrifice or birth. The sign on my body could have been an emblem or a stain, the keys to the kingdom or the mark of Cain. I never knew. I never knew as I washed, and the blood streaked, faded, and finally disappeared, whether I’d purified myself or ruined the blood sign of the passover.
Purple shadows are racing east; the wind makes me face east, and again I feel the dizzying, drawn sensation I felt when the creek bank reeled. At four-thirty the sky in the east is clear; how could that big blackness be blown? Fifteen minutes later another darkness is coming overhead from the northwest; and it’s here. Everything is drained of its light as if sucked. Only at the horizon do inky black mountains give way to distant, lighted mountains—lighted not by direct illumination but rather paled by glowing sheets of mist hung before them.