Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

by Dillard, Annie

• ISBN13: 9780061233326
• ISBN10: 0061233323
• eBook ISBN(s): 9780061847806
• Additional ISBN(s): 9780060912796, 9780060953027
• Edition: Revised
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2010-08-25
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publications
• More Book Details

About This Book

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard is a deeply personal and philosophical exploration of nature and the human experience. This book is a must-read for anyone interested in nature writing, philosophy, and the intersection of the two.

Who Uses It?

Primarily, this book is used by students and educators in literature and environmental studies courses at the college and university levels. It's also a valuable resource for anyone interested in understanding the natural world and the human place within it. The book's themes of observation, reflection, and the search for meaning make it appealing to readers from various backgrounds.

History and Editions

First published in 1974, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek has been a classic in the field of nature writing for decades. The revised edition, published in 2007, offers a fresh perspective on the original work while maintaining its timeless essence. This edition includes updated language and formatting to enhance readability.

Author and Other Works

Annie Dillard is a renowned American author known for her lyrical and insightful writing style. She has written several notable books, including The Living and An American Childhood. Her work often explores themes of nature, spirituality, and the human condition.

Detailed Information

ISBNs and Formats

• Hardcover: ISBN-13: 9780061233326
• eTextbook: ISBN-13: 9780061233333 (The ebook for "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" is available right here on eCampus.com!)
• eTextbook: ISBN-13: 9780061233340 (The ebook for "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" is available right here on eCampus.com!)
• Paperback: ISBN-13: 9780061233357

Publication Details

• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Publication Date: 2007
• Number of Pages: 304
• Language: English

Other Editions and Formats

• First Edition: Published in 1974
• Revised Edition: Published in 2007

Rental Options

Rental options are available through eCampus.com with various rental durations.

Key Features

• Comprehensive Coverage: The book covers a year in the author's life as she explores the natural world around her.
• Personal Reflections: Dillard's personal experiences and observations are woven throughout the narrative.
• Philosophical Insights: The book delves into deeper philosophical questions about the nature of reality and human existence.

By exploring the intricate details of nature and her own experiences, Annie Dillard creates a rich and thought-provoking work that continues to captivate readers to this day.

Excerpts

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Chapter One

Heaven and Earth in Jest

I used to have a cat, an old fighting tom, who would jump through the open window by my bed in the middle of the night and land on my chest. I'd half-awaken. He'd stick his skull under my nose and purr, stinking of urine and blood. Some nights he kneaded my bare chest with his front paws, powerfully, arching his back, as if sharpening his claws, or pummeling a mother for milk. And some mornings I'd wake in daylight to find my body covered with paw prints in blood; I looked as though I'd been painted with roses.

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. We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence. . . . "Seem like we're just set down here," a woman said to me recently, "and don't nobody know why."

These are morning matters, pictures you dream as the final wave heaves you up on the sand to the bright fight 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.

I still think of that old tomcat, mornings, when I wake. Things are tamer now; I sleep with the window shut. The cat and our rites are gone and my life is changed, but the memory remains of something powerful playing over me. I wake expectant, hoping to see a new thing. If I'm lucky I might be jogged awake by a strange bird call. I dress in a hurry, imagining the yard flapping with auks, or flamingos. This morning it was a wood duck, down at the creek. It flew away.

I live by a creek, Tinker Creek, in a valley in Virginia's Blue Ridge. An anchorite's hermitage is called an anchor-hold; some anchor-holds were simple sheds clamped to the side of a church like a barnacle to a rock. I think of this house clamped to the side of Tinker Creek as an anchor-hold. It holds me at anchor to the rock bottom of the creek itself and it keeps me steadied in the current, as a sea anchor does, facing the stream of light pouring down. It's a good place to live; there's a lot to think about. The creeks-Tinker and Carvin's -- are an active mystery, fresh every minute. Theirs is the mystery of the continuous creation and all that providence implies: the uncertainty of vision, the horror of the fixed, the dissolution of the present, the intricacy of beauty, the pressure of fecundity, the elusiveness of the free, and the flawed nature of perfection. The mountains-Tinker and Brushy, McAfee's Knob and Dead Man-are a passive mystery, the oldest of all. Theirs is the one simple mystery of creation from nothing, of matter itself, anything at all, the given. Mountains are giant, restful, absorbent. You can heave your spirit into a mountain and the mountain will keep it, folded, and not throw it back as some creeks will. The creeks are the world with all its stimulus and beauty; I live there. But the mountains are home.

The wood duck flew away. I caught only a glimpse of something like a bright torpedo that blasted the leaves where it flew. Back at the house I ate a bowl of oatmeal; much later in the day came the long slant of light that means good walking.

If the day is fine, any walk will do; it all looks good. Water in particular looks its best, reflecting blue sky in the flat, and chopping it into graveled shallows and white chute and foam in the riffles. On a dark day, or a hazy one, everything's washed-out and lackluster but the water. It carries its own lights. I set out for the railroad tracks, for the hill the flocks fly over, for the woods where the white mare lives. But I go to the water.

Today is one of those excellent January partly cloudies in which fight 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. Kazantzakis says that when he was young he had a canary and a globe. When he freed the canary, it would perch on the globe and sing. All his life, wandering the earth, he felt as though he had a canary on top of his mind, singing.

West of the house, Tinker Creek makes a sharp loop, so that the creek is both in back of the house, south of me, and also on the other side of the road, north of me. I like to go north. There the afternoon sun hits the creek just right, deepening the reflected blue and lighting the sides of trees on the banks. Steers from the pasture across the creek come down to drink; I always flush a rabbit or two there; I sit on a fallen trunk in the shade and watch the squirrels in the sun. There are two separated wooden fences suspended from cables that cross the creek just upstream from my tree-trunk bench. They keep the steers from escaping up or down the creek when they come to drink. Squirrels, the neighborhood children, and I use the downstream fence as a swaying bridge across the creek. But the steers are there today...

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Copyright © by Annie Dillard. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.