Cruelty is a mystery, and the waste of pain. But if we describe a world to compass these things, a world that is a long, brute game, then we bump against another mystery: the inrush of power and light…unless all ages and races of men have been deluded by the same mass hypnotist (who?), there seems to be such a thing as beauty, a grace wholly gratuitous…we don’t know what’s going on here. If these tremendous events are random combinations of matter run amok, the yield of millions of monkeys at millions of typewriters, then what is it in us, hammered out of those same typewriters, that they ignite? We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what’s going on here. Then we can at least wail the right question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, if it comes to that, choir the proper praise. . Annie Dillard
About This Quote

What is the greatest mystery of all? Why does just about everyone love devouring literature, especially when it comes at us in the form of a book? What makes us feel that there’s something just so about reading? We are all guilty, I’m sure. But if so, what is the reason for our sin? Why do we prefer to read, even when we can’t be bothered to do any work at all? And what about the pleasure of being lost in a world of imagination? Is there really any sense or sensibility in this pleasure? Why does it take us away from our reality when we’re in it, when it should be amplifying our reality when we’re out of it?

Source: Pilgrim At Tinker Creek

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  1. How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
  2. Spend the afternoon, you can't take it with you.
  3. You do not have to sit outside in the dark. If, however, you want to look at the stars, you will find that darkness is necessary. But the stars neither require nor demand it.
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