Bubbles came up on the water. Then blood came up, and the water stilled.

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annie-dillard

A writer named Lorne Ladner described it. Bubbles came up on the water. Then blood came up, and the water stilled. As the minutes elapsed, the people in the crowd exchanged glances; silent, helpless, they quit the stands. It took the Seminoles a week to find the man’s remains. At its best, the sensation of writing is that of any unmerited grace. It is handed to you, but only if you look for it. You search, you break your heart, your back, your brain, and then—and only then—it is handed to you. From the corner of your eye you see motion. Something is moving through the air and headed your way, on two white wings. It flies directly at you; you can read your name on it. If it were a baseball, you’d hit it out of the park. It is that one pitch in a thousand you see in slow motion; its wings beat slowly as a hawk’s. One line of a sonnet, the poet said—only one line of fourteen, but thank God for that one line—drops from the ceiling.

~ Annie Dillard, from “The Writing Life”

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19 thoughts on “Bubbles came up on the water. Then blood came up, and the water stilled.”

  6. They say “Dillard builds a vision of the way things are.” Beautiful work. She says, “The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.” Amen to that.

  7. “but only if you look for it. You search, you break your heart, your back, your brain, and then—and only then—it is handed to you.”
    Hhhmmm , not so sure about that!
    Or the hawk flying directly at you.

    To me it feels like the hawk is in my stomach. And it’s wings bear violently, to make its way out of my mouth.

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