Despite her mixed messaging regarding her theism (or denial thereof) I nonetheless adore Annie Dillard’s writing. After all, if one writes well, so be it. And she does more than write well.

Here’s just one illustration:

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 (Dillard, Annie. Three by Annie Dillard. [New York: Harper Perennial, 2001], 9).

You’ve led a tinctured, word-bloody life, Annie; salute. May you be graced into the Word of all words.