emgrace444's review against another edition
5.0
an entire book romanticizing pittsburgh. i love this.
beautiful beautiful beautiful from start to finish. her prose is to die for & makes the most mundane, everyday things fascinating.
this is a childhood memoir, spanning from her earliest memory to her departure for college. we become immersed in her musings as a child & her rise to consciousness. we explore the world with her as she discovers she’s a small hill in life’s (& pittsburgh’s) topography. the reader feels & sympathizes as she develops her own ideas, interests, goals, hobbies, mistakes, loves.
i felt so seen in this book; so many things validated that i thought were only feelings i had. this book made my heart swell. an all time favorite of mine for sure.
the most cohesive, moving, & beautiful bildungsroman i’ve ever read.
beautiful beautiful beautiful from start to finish. her prose is to die for & makes the most mundane, everyday things fascinating.
this is a childhood memoir, spanning from her earliest memory to her departure for college. we become immersed in her musings as a child & her rise to consciousness. we explore the world with her as she discovers she’s a small hill in life’s (& pittsburgh’s) topography. the reader feels & sympathizes as she develops her own ideas, interests, goals, hobbies, mistakes, loves.
i felt so seen in this book; so many things validated that i thought were only feelings i had. this book made my heart swell. an all time favorite of mine for sure.
the most cohesive, moving, & beautiful bildungsroman i’ve ever read.
bog_elfin's review against another edition
5.0
I am in awe of Dillard's memory and her ability to paint concise and charming scenes in my mind on every subject from her childhood. I wholeheartedly enjoyed following her from the library to the baseball diamond to the Ohio River, and all of her adventures in between. So much writing about the postwar generation seems overly precious or condescending to a child of the 2000s like myself, but I did not feel that with An American Childhood. It reminded me of Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye.
ericaceae's review against another edition
3.0
I liked it, but mostly because she grew up in Pgh too.
bobbo49's review against another edition
5.0
Dillard's reflections on her childhood in Pittsburg in the period 1945-1962 - an absolutely beautiful rendering of a time, a place, and a lyrical perspective as she grows into the artist we love. Magical.
madelini's review against another edition
4.0
This book was delightful. It follows the explorations and interests of a young Annie Dillard as she explores the world around her, becoming enthralled in various pursuits. It’s the kind of book that has a sort of contagious excitement, causing you to look at everyday, mundane moments anew.
katyscriv's review against another edition
emotional
funny
hopeful
informative
inspiring
reflective
sad
medium-paced
5.0
bickleyhouse's review against another edition
5.0
This isn't going to be an easy review, because I listened to this book on Audible. Because of that, I can't thumb through the pages and find the passages that most resonated with me. However, I can look at other reviews to help me remember things.
What I do know is that I absolutely love Annie Dillard's writing, both the style and the content, so far. Of course, this is only my second foray into her work, but there will definitely be more. I do wish that I had read this in print form, and may still do so.
I was drawn into Ms. Dillard with Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. An American Childhood is another memoir, full of reflections of her days growing up in Pittsburgh. Having been to Pittsburgh one time, I can at least relate to a few of the place names she mentions.
Up front, I will also mention that the narrator for this audiobook, Tavia Gilbert, did a stellar job of reading this book. I will also mention that if you have an Audible account, this title is included at no extra charge, so it didn't even cost me a credit.
Annie Dillard grew up in the fifties, so she is not too far removed from my own childhood. She is thirteen years older than me, about one generation. So I am not totally unfamiliar with some of the things about which she writes. Her experiences are roughly halfway between mine and my parents.
She writes of "waking," as a young girl, somewhere around the age of ten years old. By this, she simply means becoming self-aware, I believe. It's a time when a child wakes up and discovers that she exists, and that she has a relationship with the world around her.
“I woke in bits, like all children, piecemeal over the years. I discovered myself and the world, and forgot them, and discovered them again. I woke at intervals until, by that September when Father went down the river, the intervals of waking tipped the scales, and I was more often awake than not. I noticed this process of waking, and predicted with terrifying logic that one of these years not far away I would be awake continuously and never slip back, and never be free of myself again.”
She writes of her love of reading. This, in itself endears her to me, as I have loved to read since my parents introduced me to books, when I was a child. She, like me, loved the library.
“'When you open a book,' the sentimental library posters said, 'anything can happen.' This was so. A book of fiction was a bomb. It was a land mine you wanted to go off. You wanted it to blow your whole day. Unfortunately, hundreds of thousands of books were duds. They had been rusting out of everyone’s way for so long that they no longer worked. There was no way to distinguish the duds from the live mines except to throw yourself at them headlong, one by one.”
She developed a love of rocks, of all things, throwing herself headlong into rock collecting for a time.
“If even rock was interesting, if even this ugliness was worth whole shelves at the library, required sophisticated tools to study, and inspired grown men to crack mountains and saw crystals--then what wasn't?”
There are times when the writing style almost seems to be "stream of consciousness," even within a chapter. I'm sure this drives some people bonkers, but I rather enjoyed it, especially as I listened. All of a sudden, in the middle of one thing, she would be talking about boys.
“The interior life expands and fills; it approaches the edge of skin; it thickens with its own vivid story; it even begins to hear rumors, from beyond the horizon skin’s rim, of nations and wars. You wake one day and discover your grandmother; you wake another day and notice, like any curious naturalist, the boys.”
There was a period where she got herself a microscope and began the search for the elusive amoeba in local pond water. She was, of course, eventually successful and was quite excited about it. Her parents, however, did not share that excitement, but that also taught her something about passions. During one such episode, she share this:
"She did not say, but I understood at once, that they had their pursuits (coffee?) and I had mine. She did not say, but I began to understand then, that you do what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself.
"I had essentially been handed my own life. In subsequent years my parents would praise my drawings and poems, and supply me with books, art supplies, and sports equipment, and listen to my troubles and enthusiasms, and supervise my hours, and discuss and inform, but they would not get involved with my detective work, nor hear about my reading, nor inquire about my homework or term papers or exams, nor visit the salamanders I caught, nor listen to me play the piano, nor attend my field hockey games, nor fuss over my insect collection with me, or my poetry collection or stamp collection or rock collection. My days and nights were my own to plan and fill.”
There are hilarious moments, touching, tender moments, and sad moments. I found myself nearly in tears multiple times.
She loved baseball, too. Yet another thing that makes me like her even more. She played baseball with the boys. There are even portions about ballroom dancing. Apparently, back in those days, a part of a child's education was ballroom dancing classes. I'm somewhat glad that these were not inflicted upon me.
There are so many more quotes I could share, but it's almost like I'm not reviewing, but summarizing. The actual review is short. I loved this book!
In the final chapter, there is talk of dancing with her family. They would always dance together. Father would put on a jazz record or some other kind of music, and she would run downstairs, and they would dance. But then Mother would tell Father to turn down the music. He reminds the children of a scene in Kerouac's On the Road, where the narrator says that the only place he ever got to hear the music loud enough was in a Mexican bar where he was dancing. As the book closes, Annie wonders about New Orleans, the place where the best jazz happens. She wonders, if she could ever get to New Orleans, would the music be loud enough?
Perhaps she is not only speaking of literal music.
What I do know is that I absolutely love Annie Dillard's writing, both the style and the content, so far. Of course, this is only my second foray into her work, but there will definitely be more. I do wish that I had read this in print form, and may still do so.
I was drawn into Ms. Dillard with Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. An American Childhood is another memoir, full of reflections of her days growing up in Pittsburgh. Having been to Pittsburgh one time, I can at least relate to a few of the place names she mentions.
Up front, I will also mention that the narrator for this audiobook, Tavia Gilbert, did a stellar job of reading this book. I will also mention that if you have an Audible account, this title is included at no extra charge, so it didn't even cost me a credit.
Annie Dillard grew up in the fifties, so she is not too far removed from my own childhood. She is thirteen years older than me, about one generation. So I am not totally unfamiliar with some of the things about which she writes. Her experiences are roughly halfway between mine and my parents.
She writes of "waking," as a young girl, somewhere around the age of ten years old. By this, she simply means becoming self-aware, I believe. It's a time when a child wakes up and discovers that she exists, and that she has a relationship with the world around her.
“I woke in bits, like all children, piecemeal over the years. I discovered myself and the world, and forgot them, and discovered them again. I woke at intervals until, by that September when Father went down the river, the intervals of waking tipped the scales, and I was more often awake than not. I noticed this process of waking, and predicted with terrifying logic that one of these years not far away I would be awake continuously and never slip back, and never be free of myself again.”
She writes of her love of reading. This, in itself endears her to me, as I have loved to read since my parents introduced me to books, when I was a child. She, like me, loved the library.
“'When you open a book,' the sentimental library posters said, 'anything can happen.' This was so. A book of fiction was a bomb. It was a land mine you wanted to go off. You wanted it to blow your whole day. Unfortunately, hundreds of thousands of books were duds. They had been rusting out of everyone’s way for so long that they no longer worked. There was no way to distinguish the duds from the live mines except to throw yourself at them headlong, one by one.”
She developed a love of rocks, of all things, throwing herself headlong into rock collecting for a time.
“If even rock was interesting, if even this ugliness was worth whole shelves at the library, required sophisticated tools to study, and inspired grown men to crack mountains and saw crystals--then what wasn't?”
There are times when the writing style almost seems to be "stream of consciousness," even within a chapter. I'm sure this drives some people bonkers, but I rather enjoyed it, especially as I listened. All of a sudden, in the middle of one thing, she would be talking about boys.
“The interior life expands and fills; it approaches the edge of skin; it thickens with its own vivid story; it even begins to hear rumors, from beyond the horizon skin’s rim, of nations and wars. You wake one day and discover your grandmother; you wake another day and notice, like any curious naturalist, the boys.”
There was a period where she got herself a microscope and began the search for the elusive amoeba in local pond water. She was, of course, eventually successful and was quite excited about it. Her parents, however, did not share that excitement, but that also taught her something about passions. During one such episode, she share this:
"She did not say, but I understood at once, that they had their pursuits (coffee?) and I had mine. She did not say, but I began to understand then, that you do what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself.
"I had essentially been handed my own life. In subsequent years my parents would praise my drawings and poems, and supply me with books, art supplies, and sports equipment, and listen to my troubles and enthusiasms, and supervise my hours, and discuss and inform, but they would not get involved with my detective work, nor hear about my reading, nor inquire about my homework or term papers or exams, nor visit the salamanders I caught, nor listen to me play the piano, nor attend my field hockey games, nor fuss over my insect collection with me, or my poetry collection or stamp collection or rock collection. My days and nights were my own to plan and fill.”
There are hilarious moments, touching, tender moments, and sad moments. I found myself nearly in tears multiple times.
She loved baseball, too. Yet another thing that makes me like her even more. She played baseball with the boys. There are even portions about ballroom dancing. Apparently, back in those days, a part of a child's education was ballroom dancing classes. I'm somewhat glad that these were not inflicted upon me.
There are so many more quotes I could share, but it's almost like I'm not reviewing, but summarizing. The actual review is short. I loved this book!
In the final chapter, there is talk of dancing with her family. They would always dance together. Father would put on a jazz record or some other kind of music, and she would run downstairs, and they would dance. But then Mother would tell Father to turn down the music. He reminds the children of a scene in Kerouac's On the Road, where the narrator says that the only place he ever got to hear the music loud enough was in a Mexican bar where he was dancing. As the book closes, Annie wonders about New Orleans, the place where the best jazz happens. She wonders, if she could ever get to New Orleans, would the music be loud enough?
Perhaps she is not only speaking of literal music.