When reading Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, I was struck by her sense of constant observation. I found this book relatable to a startling degree–I’ve never seen my own thoughts reflected back at me, by a person whose work I am only now reading. It’s as though there has been a convergent evolution of thought, and I’m only now seeing a counterpart for the first time. It’s very strange. One passage that was particularly striking was the following:
“I have often noticed that these things, which obsess me, neither bother nor impress other people even slightly. I am horribly apt to approach some innocent at a gathering, and like the ancient mariner, fix him with a wild, glitt’ring eye and say, “Do you know that in the head of the caterpillar of the ordinary goat moth there are two hundred twenty-eight separate muscles?” The poor wretch flees. I am not making chatter; I mean to change his life.”
How many friends have I made because of the bizarre facts that I shed like feathers during a never-ending molt? How many have decided that I am strange from the list of words written on my wrist, electing to find a different seat next time? I don’t think I’m looking to change their life, but I want others to see.
Take now, for example. I’m in old main, and a honeybee’s just landed on my small table. I’m intrigued but not terribly bothered by this visit. I figure she’s as fond of the cold as I am, though I wish she would take her fuzzy self off of my cell phone. She then crawls off, chews at my laptop case zipper with tiny mandibles, then shakes out her wings and flies off. I wish her well.
Is this really so strange? How do I explain this encounter to someone else, to make them share in my open curiosity towards a creature known for its sting? I wonder, how would Dillard?
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