There is an ambition about her book that I like, one that is deeper than the ambition to declare wonder aloud. It is this intensity of experience that she seems to live in order to declare. “When her doctor took her bandages off and led her into the garden, the girl who was no longer blind saw ‘the tree with lights in it'” Annie Dillard had found the central metaphor for her book it is the vision, the spiritual conception, that she will spend her days in solitude tramping the Roanoke creek banks and the Blue Ridge mountainside.in search of for herself.Ī reader's heart must go out to young writer with a sense of wonder so fearless and unbridled. A blind child the author happened to read about saw for the first time after cataracts had been removed from her eyes.
The book is a form of meditation, written with headlong urgency, about seeing. “I am no scientist,” says Annie Dillard, “but a poet and a walker with a background in theology and a penchant for quirky facts.” In “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek” she offers “what Thoreau called ‘a meteorological journal of the mind.”
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