Oct 5, SUMMARY. Annie Dillard wrote “Living Like Weasels”, an essay in which she paints the story of her encounter with a weasel. She explains that. Annie Dillard – “Living Like Weasels” – Grades DRAFT – Awaiting review and improvement per the Tri-State quality review rubric. Learning Objective: The . Nov 7, Free Essay: Living like Weasels In the essay “Living like Weasels”, the author Annie Dillard wrote about her first encounter after she saw a real.

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This gives the readers insight into her thoughts and how she sees weasels. It emptied our lungs. Dillard elevates the most repulsive of animals to a holy icon, and the dillardd is deliberate. This is, mind you, suburbia.

I would like to have seen that eagle from the air a few weeks or months before lifing was shot: He sleeps in his underground den, his tail draped over his nose.

It was also a bright blow to the brain, or a sudden beating of brains, with all the charge and intimate grate of rubbed balloons. The far end is an alternating series of fields and woods, fields and ajnie, threaded everywhere with motorcycle tracks–in whose bare clay wild turtles lay eggs.

We keep our skulls. I remember muteness as a prolonged and giddy fast, where every moment is a feast of utterance received. A yellow bird appeared to my right and flew behind me.

Living Like Weasels by Annie Dillard – aplogosblog

I had crossed the highway, stepped over dil,ard low barbed-wire fences, and traced the motorcycle path in all gratitude through the wild rose and poison ivy di,lard the pond’s shoreline up into high grassy fields. The quote tells us that first we have to observe our goal from a distance to ensure we have the skills necessary to accomplish it, then finally, we have to apply ourselves fully, without thinking about or carrying out anything else.


We could live under the wild rose as weasels, mute and uncomprehending. When the weasel and Dillard meet eyes, she begins to understand them at a deeper level. What does Dillard mean by “wild”?

Time and events are merely poured, unremarked, and ingested directly, like blood pulsed into my gut through a jugular vein. The weasel is less of a fable character and more of a holy figure.

Living Like Weasels by Annie Dillard

I should have lunged for that streak of white under the weasel’s chin and held on, held on through mud and into the wild rose, held on for a dearer life. I come to Hollins Pond not so much to learn how to live as, frankly, to forget about it. Brains are private places, muttering through unique and secret tapes–but the weasel and I both plugged into another tape simultaneously, for a sweet and shocking time.

While Dillard could have just written about we humans should live like weasels, she shows us why she believes this. It caught my eye; I swiveled around–and the next instant, inexplicably, I was looking down at a weasel, who was looking up at me.

Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here As Dillard continues with her story, she describes a time when she visited a pond close to her house. His journal is tracks in clay, a spray of feathers, mouse blood and bone: Seize it and let it seize you up aloft even, till your eyes burn out and drop. Please do not tell me about “approach-avoidance conflicts. Under every bush is a muskrat hole or a beer can. Seize it and let it seize you up aloft even, till your eyes burn out and drop; let your musky flesh fall off in shreds, and let your very bones unhinge and scatter, loosened over fields, over fields and woods, lightly, thoughtless, from any height at all, from as high as eagles.


And I suspect that for me the way is like the weasel’s: And once, says Ernest Thompson Seton–once, a man shot an eagle out of the sky. The water lilies have blossomed and spread to a green horizontal plane that is terra firma to plodding blackbirds, and tremulous ceiling to black leeches, crayfish, and carp.

There was just a dot of chin, maybe two brown hairs’ worth, and then the pure white fur began that spread down his underside. I waited motionless, my mind suddenly full of data and my spirit with pleadings, but he didn’t return.

It was also a bright blow to the brain, or a sudden beating of brains, with all the charge and intimate grate of rubbed balloons.

It makes a dry, upholstered bench at the upper, marshy end of annue pond, a plush jetty raised from the thorny shore between a shallow blue body of water and a deep blue body of sky. I think I blinked, I think I retrieved weases brain from the weasel’s and tried to memorize what I was seeing, and the weasel felt the yank of separation, the careening splash-down into real life and the urgent current of instinct.

Dillard depicts her encounter with the weasel to show her readers that humans have become too distracted by their freedom of choice. I should have gone for the throat.