1 | P a g e Table of Contents -- Course Reader -- English 1A – Fall 2019 Course Syllabus 2 Revision Process 6 Sample Formatting Page 7 Sample Process Letter 8 1. Inductive Analysis Essay (4-5 pgs.) 50 points Page Essay Prompt 9 Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson 10 “The Transparent I” by William Fitzgerald (Sample Essay) 11 2. Deductive Analysis Essay (6-7 pgs.) 100 points Page Essay Prompt 14 “Seeing” by Annie Dillard 15 An Outline of the Essential Key Points of Dillard’s Essay 22 Sample Paragraphs for writing about “Seeing” 24 3. Personal Essay (4-6 pages) 25 points Page Essay Prompt 25 “Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address” 27 The Pledge of Allegiance 30 “Allegiance to Gratitude” by Robin Wall Kimmerer 31 “Learning the Grammar of Animacy” by Robin Wall Kimmerer 36 4. Research Essay (8-10 pgs.) 200 points Page Essay Prompt 41 Sample Prospectus 44 Sample Annotated Bibliography 45 Sample Outline for a Possible Approach to Writing the Research Essay 46 “The Impermanence of Order: The True Nature of Gardens” by William Fitzgerald 47 Basic Outline for “The Impermanence of Order” by William Fitzgerald 51 “Gardening Means War” by Michael Pollan 53 “The How-To Garden” by Jim Nollman 57 5. Group Presentation Page Group Presentation Prompt 67 Sentence Combining Page Sentence Patterns 68 Clause/Phrase Review 69 Sentence Focus 71 Coordination 77 Conjunctive Adverbs and Transitional Phrases 78 Subordination 80 Run Together Sentences (RTS) 83 Free Modifiers: Adjective Clauses 85 Free Modifiers: Noun Phrase Appositives (NPA) 91 Free Modifiers: Clause Modifying Verbal Phrases (CMVP) 94 Free Modifiers: Absolute Phrases 97 Correlative Conjunctions 100 Fragments 101 Faulty Parallel Structure 103 Punctuation 104 PIE Paragraph Structure 109 Quoting, Paraphrasing, and Summarizing vs. Plagiarism 110 MLA - Format for Bibliographical Sources Page Citing Sources In-Text: Contextualizing Sources 112 The Mechanics of In-Text Citations 116 Citing Sources in Your Essay as You Move Between Different Sources 119 Punctuating when Using Quotation Marks 119 Italicizing Titles vs. Using Quotation Marks 119 Formatting the Works Cited Page 121 Works Cited: Printed Sources 122 Works Cited: Sources from the Web 128 Works Cited: Other Common Sources 131 2 | P a g e English 1A (CRN 71261-502) — Fall 2019 Tuesday Evenings 6:10 pm – 10 pm (Art 311) Instructor: Nathan Wirth | Phone: 415.239.3199 (best to use email) | Email: [email protected] | Office: Art 213 Office Hours: Mondays and Tuesdays 5 pm to 6 pm and By Appointment Prerequisite for the course: Completion of English 96, 88, or 88b with a C or better or placement in English 1A Course Website on Canvas: https://ccsf.instructure.com Important Dates Last Day to Drop Without a "W": Sep. 6 | Last Day to Withdraw: Nov. 7 | Final Exam Date: Dec 17 Holidays: Jan 21, Feb 18, March 25 Required Texts & Materi ...

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Table of Contents -- Course Reader -- English 1A – Fall 2019
Course Syllabus 2
Revision Process 6
Sample Formatting Page 7
Sample Process Letter 8
1. Inductive Analysis Essay (4-5 pgs.) 50 points Page
Essay Prompt 9
Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson 10
“The Transparent I” by William Fitzgerald (Sample Essay) 11
2. Deductive Analysis Essay (6-7 pgs.) 100 points Page
Essay Prompt 14
“Seeing” by Annie Dillard 15
An Outline of the Essential Key Points of Dillard’s Essay 22
Sample Paragraphs for writing about “Seeing” 24
3. Personal Essay (4-6 pages) 25 points Page
Essay Prompt 25
“Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address” 27
The Pledge of Allegiance 30
“Allegiance to Gratitude” by Robin Wall Kimmerer 31
“Learning the Grammar of Animacy” by Robin Wall Kimmerer
36
4. Research Essay (8-10 pgs.) 200 points Page
Essay Prompt 41
Sample Prospectus 44
Sample Annotated Bibliography 45
Sample Outline for a Possible Approach to Writing the Research
Essay 46
“The Impermanence of Order: The True Nature of Gardens” by

2. William Fitzgerald 47
Basic Outline for “The Impermanence of Order” by William
Fitzgerald 51
“Gardening Means War” by Michael Pollan 53
“The How-To Garden” by Jim Nollman 57
5. Group Presentation Page
Group Presentation Prompt 67
Sentence Combining Page
Sentence Patterns 68
Clause/Phrase Review 69
Sentence Focus 71
Coordination 77
Conjunctive Adverbs and Transitional Phrases 78
Subordination 80
Run Together Sentences (RTS) 83
Free Modifiers: Adjective Clauses 85
Free Modifiers: Noun Phrase Appositives (NPA) 91
Free Modifiers: Clause Modifying Verbal Phrases (CMVP) 94
Free Modifiers: Absolute Phrases 97
Correlative Conjunctions 100
Fragments 101
Faulty Parallel Structure 103
Punctuation 104
PIE Paragraph Structure 109
Quoting, Paraphrasing, and Summarizing vs. Plagiarism 110
MLA - Format for Bibliographical Sources Page
Citing Sources In-Text: Contextualizing Sources 112
The Mechanics of In-Text Citations 116
Citing Sources in Your Essay as You Move Between Different
Sources 119
Punctuating when Using Quotation Marks 119

3. Italicizing Titles vs. Using Quotation Marks 119
Formatting the Works Cited Page 121
Works Cited: Printed Sources 122
Works Cited: Sources from the Web 128
Works Cited: Other Common Sources 131
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English 1A (CRN 71261-502) — Fall 2019
Tuesday Evenings 6:10 pm – 10 pm (Art 311)
Instructor: Nathan Wirth | Phone: 415.239.3199 (best to use
email) |
Email: [email protected] | Office: Art 213
Office Hours: Mondays and Tuesdays 5 pm to 6 pm and By
Appointment
Prerequisite for the course: Completion of English 96, 88, or
88b with a C or better or placement in English 1A
Course Website on Canvas: https://ccsf.instructure.com
Important Dates
Last Day to Drop Without a "W": Sep. 6 | Last Day to
Withdraw: Nov. 7 | Final Exam Date: Dec 17
Holidays: Jan 21, Feb 18, March 25
Required Texts & Materials
A Reliable Internet connection for Canvas
Course Reader (Download from Canvas)

4. The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan (NOT available in
Bookstore)
Major Learning Outcomes
Outcome 1: Analyze university-level texts.
Outcome 2: Compose research-based, organized essays that are
driven by an arguable thesis and employ critical thinking.
Outcome 3: Apply the major conventions of standard written
English.
Outcome 4: Choose and integrate credible sources for support,
using appropriate citation format.
Course Description
This course is, first and foremost, a class about writing. We will
consider a variety of strategies for combining clauses
and phrases (adjective clauses, noun phrase appositives, verbal
phrases, absolute phrases), practice ways to focus
sentences more clearly, discuss how to develop and cultivate a
thesis, and go over the basic elements and strategies
for writing a research paper (citing sources, integrating
quotations, doing research, etc.). We will also, as a class and
in groups, be discussing the various texts and articles that you
will be reading during the semester. Naturally, any
class that focuses on writing and reading also inevitably leads
to thinking. This course is designed to take you through
a variety of experiences, perspectives and written assignments
that will help you to build a well-rounded
understanding of the various questions that will be posed during
this course and then to write about them.
Logging into Canvas
• Log into Canvas from MyCCSF:
https://www.ccsf.edu/en/myccsf.html
• Username: Your CCSF ID (example W12345678, @12345678,
or D12345678)
• Password: Your RAMID password

5. Internet. All homework-related assignments
and essays must be uploaded to Canvas, so if you do not have
access to the site, you will not be able to submit
your work.
contains all of the assignments and handouts for the
semester. You are required to bring the course reader to every
class. It can be found on Canvas.
Lab Hours Requirement
• The English Department require all 1A students to complete
the online library research tutorials.
• Failure to complete ALL the tutorials and/or turn in the
badges to prove you have completed them will result in
no participation points (a loss of 25 points).
Essays/Written Work/Assignments/
Formatting: All written work (except for rough drafts and notes)
must be typed and double spaced. If you don't
follow the proper formatting, I will return the paper to you. It is
essential that you meet the minimum required page
limit. If you do not, then points will be deducted from your
essay. You are always welcome to write more than the
minimum. Here are my basic, standard formatting guidelines.
• Set the margins of your document to 1 inch on all sides.
• Use Times New Roman 12 pt.
• Pages must be numbered. Place the number in the top right
corner. Omit the number on the first page.
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6. • Indent the first line of paragraphs five spaces from the left
margin.
• Include a title
• Staple the pages.
• Underline your thesis statement.
• No large gaps between paragraphs.
Quizzes: There will be four reading quizzes for The Botany of
Desire. Check Canvas for dates and other details.
Assignments: You will be given several essential assignments
for your research paper (including, for example, a
prospectus and an annotated bibliography). Details are
available on Canvas and in the course reader.
Process Letters: For each formal essay, you are required to
include a brief letter that outlines the difficulties and
successes you experienced while working on your essay. Your
letter should be a short reflection (a) about your
experience writing your essay. What did you struggle with?
What problems did you encounter? How did you
overcome them? What do you feel satisfied about? Any
concerns that you want me to address when I read your
essay? The pedagogy behind this is to allow each student the
opportunity to actually think about his / her writing
process and to reflect on what each student does or does not do
when writing. You can find a sample in the course
reader.
Group Presentations: Instead of a final exam, you will be
participating in a group project that will be presented
either on December 10th or December 17th. All students must
attend both class meetings.

7. Revisions: You have the option to rewrite the first two essays
(unless you receive an A). For your rewrite, you must
include a detailed analysis of the changes that you made (e.g.
what was the mistake? what did you do to change
it?). Each rewrite, if done well, can earn up to a full grade;
however, in order to earn that many points, your
rewrite must be significantly improved and include detailed
notes about the changes you made. Specific details are
available in the course reader and will be discussed in class.
• If your first two essays do not meet the standards and
requirements for a passing essay, you will have to meet
me during an office hour to discuss strategies for fixing those
issues. Failure to rewrite the essay within three
weeks after I return the essay will result in a failing grade for
that essay (which means that you will not be able
to pass the course).
Plagiarism: Here is the official CCSF policy on plagiarism:
"Plagiarism is defined as the unauthorized use of the
language and thought of another author and representing them
as your own." Plagiarism is a violation of the rules
of student conduct, and discipline may include, but is not
limited to," a failing grade in an assignment, test, or class
in proven cases of cheating or plagiarism or other academic
dishonesty.”
• My official policy is that you will receive a failing grade for
the assignment (0 points for the assignment). At
my discretion, I sometimes offer a plagiarizer the opportunity to
rewrite the essay for an F with points (e.g.
55/100). If you should plagiarize a second time, then you will
receive a failing grade for the essay and, as a
result, for the class.

8. • My official thoughts about Plagiarism: I feel that plagiarizing
is exceptionally lame. Why bother going to
school if you have no intention of doing your own work? If you
are stressed out about your writing, just come
talk to me and we can discuss your situation.
Staying on Task: It is essential that you read the essay and
assignment prompts carefully. Any essays that do not
follow what the prompt specifically asks for will be returned
ungraded. I will read them after you revise them, but
they will be considered late. That said— the essays are
designed to allow you the opportunity to develop exactly
how you wish to address the questions posed, so you can still
express your individuality.
Late Essays: I will accept late essays, but if your essay is late, I
will provide no comments and return it at my
convenience (which might take a while). You are NOT allowed
to rewrite late essays. All late essays must be
turned in no later than two weeks after the due date.
Requirements for Passing the Class: All the essays must be
completed with a passing grade or you cannot pass the
course. No exceptions.
Help: I will gladly comment on thesis statements, outlines, or a
paragraph or two from your essays via email or
during office appointments-- but not on entire essays. Make
sure that you have specific questions about specific
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9. things before you email me or come to an office appointment.
You can also get lots of quality help in the English
Lab (Rosenberg Library R205) — and your visits to the lab
count towards your lab-hours requirement.
Bring the course workbook to each and every class. Check the
course schedule on Canvas before each class to see
what we will be covering and make sure that you bring the
necessary materials to class.
Attendance/Participation/Class Discussion/Teacher-Student
Conference
Attendance: Let me make this as obvious as possible. Your
presence is important both to me and for your success
in the course. If you have made vacation plans, have work
obligations, can’t attend the final class, and/or have no
intention of showing up regularly, then I would not recommend
taking this course. Even if you find me and/or the
material boring, you still have to come to class; however, if that
is how you feel, I would strongly recommend that
you find a teacher and/or class more to your liking and
schedule.
• For a night class, you are allowed one unexcused absence (no
questions asked and no consequences for that
absence), but I reserve the right to reduce your participation
grade by five points for each subsequent
absence. Please note that this is not an invitation to miss a
class.
• If you miss three or more classes in a row before the final
withdrawal date -- and do not contact me to let me
know if you are still in the class— I will drop/withdraw you
from the course.

10. • If you miss a total of five class meetings before the final
withdrawal date — I will drop/withdraw you from the
course. There comes a point when you are just not really taking
the course-- and this, as far as I am concerned,
is pretty much when you have arrived at that point.
• You are expected to arrive to class on time and to bring the
proper materials (course reader, assignments ...
check Canvas for details). If you are late then YOU have to let
me know, or you will remain marked absent.
Three "lates / tardies" equal one absence.
• Please note that if you miss a class, you are still responsible
for all material/assignments covered in class.
• I recommend that you exchange email addresses with at least a
couple of students so that you can keep up
with anything you might miss in class. Though I will be as
helpful as I can, do not rely on me to keep you up to
date. I will not respond to emails that ask me what was covered
in class. Check Canvas for the latest schedule
/ due dates / required reading, etc. EVERYTHING is there.
• If life deals one of those many unfortunate situations that we
all dread but have to deal with, and, as a result,
you have to be absent for a few classes, then please have the
courtesy to let me know. I do not need to know
the details—just that you are “dealing with something” and,
thus, missing classes. I will drop or withdraw you
from the class if I have not heard from you after two weeks.
Don’t just vanish! Keep in touch and let me know
what is going on.
Participation Grade: I base your participation grade on

11. attendance, class participation, and completing the lab
work (25 pts). Most students, when attendance is good, receive
21 or 22 points. To get more points you need to
participate in discussions. Talking during class while others are
speaking (whether it be me or your fellow
classmates) will result in a reduced participation grade as well.
Class Discussion: This class is built around a lot of class
discussion and interaction; therefore, it is important that
you take part in class discussions—which means that you must
put your best effort towards reading the material
and thinking about it. Consistent lack of participation will
result in a lower participation score.
Teacher-Student Conference: Between November 29th and
December 3rd, I will conduct individual conferences
with each student. Failure to participate in a conference will
result in losing all your participation points.
General Class Rules
Eating & Drinking in Class: Official school rules prohibit eating
in class, so if you spill something, clean up after
yourself.
Smart Phones & Laptops in Class: I am beginning to accept that
some students use their smart phones to access
information during class, but I am not entirely convinced yet.
Let me say this: if you are far more interested in your
smart phone than the class, you should seriously ask yourself
why you are bothering to take this course.
Do not disrupt the class. If you do, I will ask you to leave and
then mark you absent.
responsibly/accordingly.
DURING LECTURES OR CLASS DISCUSSIONS!

12. during class. If you feel the
class is boring and/or stupid, I encourage you to
drop the course and find one that is more interesting to you.
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Other Concerns
school has provided you. You can forward your school email to
your regular email account (and that way you won’t miss
anything the school sends you). This is the email that I am
provided
and my only way of contacting you. All mail related to Canvas
is delivered to your school email as well.
and discussion of adult themes and situations may occur. If
these
kinds of things offend you, you should consider taking a
different course.
: If you need classroom or testing
accommodations because of a disability, or have any other
special needs,
please give me your DSPS form or make an appointment with
me as soon as possible. Disabled Students Programs and
Services (DSPS) is located in Room 323 of the Rosenberg
Library, phone (415) 452 5481

13. Grade Breakdown (Subject to Change)
70% of your grade
• Inductive Analysis Essay 1 (Emerson) = 50 points
• Deductive Analysis Essay 2 (Annie Dillard’s “Seeing”) = 100
points
• Personal Essay (Kimmerer) = 50 pts
• Research Essay (Gardening) = 200 points
20% of Your Grade
• In-class Essay = 25 pts
• Group Presentation = 25 points
• Assignments (Various Points)
• Reading Quizzes (Various pts.)
10% of Your Grade
• Participation (Attendance + Class Discussion + Online
Tutorials + Student-Teacher Conference) = 25 points
The Complete and Detailed Schedule for the Class Is on Canvas
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Revision Process
If your grade is below passing, then disregard this process. You
must meet with me in person so that we
can discuss your rewrite. It is your responsibility to make this

14. appointment.
Turn in a printed copy of the rewritten essay to me – Do Not
Upload Rewrites to Canvas
This exercise in revision is not just a process of fixing the
corrections or responding to the comments I
made. Treat this as a revision of the essay as a whole. Think
about how you can improve or tighten up
your points/writing. In other words, this is a revision of the
whole essay.
As you revise your essay keep notes about the changes you have
made to your essay. I need to know
WHY you made EVERY change. Note: Because Nathan marked
it / told me to is not an acceptable
reason. If I asked you a question or commented about
something you wrote, I expect you to address
what I said and tell me how and why you fixed it. I want to
know what your reasoning is for every
change you make. Keep track of these changes on your freshly-
printed, revised draft.
Go ahead and write on the essay in pencil.
(A) Underline / circle the section you have changed in your
revised essay and then explain the nature of
the problem, how you fixed it, and why your fix has taken care
of the problem. The amount of points
you are awarded will be based on how detailed your
explanations are. If you are going to only make
minor changes and / or spend no time explaining this, then do
not bother revising the essay.

15. (B) For all sentence related errors—name the error (such as run
together sentence, misspelled word,
subject-verb agreement, incorrect verb tense, proofreading
error, wrong word choice, the sentence fell
apart/derailed/too weighty, etc) and then explain what you have
done to fix the problem.
(C) If it is repetitive problem—such as forgetting to use the
right tense or keeping the comma inside the
quotation marks or incorrectly formatting your in-text
citations— then explain the nature of the error
and circle each instance of that error. Do not explain the
instance of each error.
If you do not follow these requirements, then I will not read
your revised essay.
The amount of points that you are rewarded will reflect the
quality of your rewrite and how detailed
your explanations are. In general, your grade will be boosted a
half grade or a full grade if you do a
good job (for example a C+ will become a B-). If your rewrite
significantly improves your essay, then I
reserve the right to increase it a full grade (for example, a C
could become a B).
Provide me a printed copy with your corrections. Do not upload
the revision to Canvas.
Please Note
- or better, then you cannot rewrite the
essay.
rewritten.

16. If I am not requiring you to rewrite / revise your essay, then
don’t bother with this process unless you
really want to rewrite your essay and learn something from the
process. Anything less will receive no
points. Just changing a few quick things will not yield very
many points (and might receive no points).
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Sample Format Guidelines for Essays
Not a Writing Sample – Just a Formatting Sample
Bane
Personal Essay (Solitude)
December 31, 9768
The Eye of Solitude
Since my early childhood days, I have often returned to the
Point Reyes National
Seashore, but after moving to Marin County a few years ago,
that "often" has been
replaced with "as much as once a week," especially during the
winter and spring after a
good rain has settled but the clouds have not yet left. As a

17. child, my family was far too
poor to ever travel, but over several summers we would board
the Golden Gate Transit
bus before sunrise, in the dark, and then leave to come home on
the final bus, which
would return us to San Francisco in the dark. And thus began a
tradition of sorts, one
that stretches back to those early childhood days and looks
further forward to whatever
I may encounter in future visits. Now that I live in Novato, a
forty five minute drive
away, I visit Drake's Beach each week, camera, neutral density
filters, and tripod in
hand so that I can find yet another way to photograph this
stretch of beach where land
ends and the sea begins-- or if you wish where the sea ends and
land begins-- or,
perhaps, where the land and the sea simply meet, that shoreline
bringing to mind the
line on a map where the blue of the water is separated by the
color of the land mass.
These are the kinds of thoughts that I often play with as I wait
for the seconds to pass
into minutes during the long exposure photographs that I work

18. on each visit. Indeed,
gazing out into the sea, I often find a certain kind of silence, a
silence that is experienced
in between the sounds of the sea, a silence that I only find in
solitude.
Lately, I have been thinking about what Emerson and Thoreau
had to say about
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SAMPLE PROCESS LETTER
Dear Mr. Nathan,
Overall, I feel like I understand the question and answered it
well; however, I really struggled
with my introduction and my conclusion. I know that they are
supposed to be like the bookends of the
essay and really tie together my overall points/thesis, but I
don’t feel like I fully introduce my essay and I
am not certain if the introduction even really relates to my
thesis. I wish I had taken more time with it. I

19. am not entirely certain if I ever fully figured out exactly what
Emerson is saying about solitude. I do,
however, feel that I have a good grasp of Emerson’s main ideas
(I am not certain that I adequately
explained his thoughts, and I may have claimed he said things
he never actually says in the essay).
I feel confident about my body paragraphs. I worked very hard
on trying to write good
transitions between paragraphs and I think most of them are
very effective, but I also think a few of them
are a bit too formulaic. I think I did a really good job
integrating the sources and finding ways to support
my argument that solitude helps us to understand nature in very
human terms. I am used to thinking of
the first sentence of each paragraph as a topic sentence, so it
might take me a while to adjust to your
instruction about considering them as points.
I wish I had taken a little more time to revise the essay. I feel
good about the writing overall, but
I know that I could have cleaned up and better focused some of
the sentences. I’d really appreciate it if
you would comment on the conclusion and let me know if you
think I successfully tied together all the
elements of my body paragraphs and my thesis.

20. I plan to start the next essay even earlier so that I have lots of
extra time to proofread and
rethink my sentences (and make sure that all the elements of the
essay work together smoothly). I know
every student says that!
Thanks!
Miley
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Essay 1: Inductive Analysis Essay -- Emerson (50 pts.)
Length: 4-5 pgs. Due Date: Check Canvas
Task: Analyze the text of the excerpt from Emerson’s Nature
and discuss how the writer explains (a) his experience
with nature while in solitude and (b) the spiritual connection
that he has with God through nature.
• To successfully accomplish this task, you will need to analyze
Emerson’s actual language. This is essential. I am
not asking you what your thoughts are about Emerson’s views.
I am asking you to analyze what he wrote.
• You need to make sure that you analyze the following key
elements in Emerson’s essay:
a) What Emerson feels is required to achieve the kind
of solitude he is discussing. How one can achieve it.

21. b) How our awe for the stars help us to understand
what true solitude means.
c) How all “natural objects” can fill us with the same
sense of awe if we are open to their influence.
d) How seeing this way is the way the poet sees.
e) How seeing with this sense of wonder is the way
many people experience nature when they are children.
f) How the “transparent eyeball” passage represents the
awe, the willingness to be open to the influence of
all “natural objects,” the way the poet sees, the
child-like wonder that we can have for nature, and his
thorough about this (do not skip it).
Please note I am not asking you to discuss your views about his
thoughts. Your task is to analyze the text (so you will
need to summarize, paraphrase and directly quote from Emerson
and use your analysis of the text to shape your
understanding of how he experiences solitude and nature). And
your essay is not only a summary … it is an analysis.
Do not write from the perspective of what you think Emerson is
trying to say; instead, write from the perspective of
what he actually writes and how his observations are
interconnected-- and what they, ultimately, lead to.
so you should not retell everything that happens in
them. Instead, focus on those passages that you choose to
analyze. You should summarize, paraphrase and quote
those passages that will help you to demonstrate how Emerson
describes his experiences with nature in solitude. Do
not use “I” or “You.”
ssay, which
means you do not begin your essay with the traditional
introduction that includes a thesis statement. Instead, you
should, after stating the title and the author’s full name,

22. jump right in and start analyzing what Emerson does and how
he does it. Your goal is to connect the various
elements of his essay and show how he ultimately connects with
God through his deep connection with nature.
Thus, it makes the most sense to discuss his essay by analyzing
these elements in the order he writes them in—your
job also including the need to make connections between these
elements. Your conclusion must, ultimately and
conclusively, state how Emerson’s essay explores his
connection with God through solitude and nature. And, very
importantly, state your thesis in your conclusion. Think of it
this way: this essay form requires you to argue towards
your thesis (instead of stating it at the beginning of your essay).
(1) When writing about the essay, use the present tense
(Example: Emerson explains a certain quality of solitude).
(2) In your introductory paragraph, refer to the title of the full
essay (Nature) and the author’s full name (Ralph
Waldo Emerson).
(3) For the rest of the essay, use the author’s last name
(Emerson). Do not repeat his full name again.
(4) Once you have mentioned the title, do not mention it again.
Do not write “in the essay.” We will know that you
are discussing the essay.
(5) For in-text citations / quotations, use the page number in the
course reader. You do not need to mention the
author’s last name in the citation because once you have
introduced us to the title and the author’s name, we will
know that you are only quoting that source because your task is
to analyze that essay and that essay only.
(6) Provide a Works Cited page. Here is the correctly formatted
bibliographical citation. Pay attention to the

23. italicized titles and the indented second line.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Nature. English 1A Course Reader.
Edited by Nathan Wirth, Nathan’s Mind Inc., 2019.
course schedule for due dates and the upload link.
which you write about your writing process for the
essay. Please make this the first page of your document (and it
does not count as one of the required pages). You
can find a sample process letter in this course reader.
reader before you upload your essay.
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Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1836
To go into solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his
chamber as from society. I am not solitary whilst I
read and write, though nobody is with me. But if a man would
be alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come
from those heavenly worlds, will separate between him and
what he touches. One might think the atmosphere was
made transparent with this design, to give man, in the heavenly
bodies, the perpetual presence of the sublime. 1 Seen
in the streets of cities, how great they are! If the stars should
appear one night in a thousand years, how would men
believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the
remembrance of the city of God which had been shown!
But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the

24. universe with their admonishing 2 smile.
The stars awaken a certain reverence, because though always
present, they are inaccessible; but all natural
objects make a kindred impression, when the mind is open to
their influence. Nature never wears a mean appearance.
Neither does the wisest man extort 3 her secret, and lose his
curiosity by finding out all her perfection. Nature never
became a toy to a wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the
mountains, reflected the wisdom of his best hour, as much
as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood.
When we speak of nature in this manner, we have a distinct but
most poetical sense in the mind. We mean
the integrity of impression made by manifold natural objects. It
is this which distinguishes the stick of timber of the
wood-cutter, from the tree of the poet. The charming landscape,
which I saw this morning, is indubitably4 made up of
some twenty or thirty farms. Miller owns this field, Locke that,
and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them
owns the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no
man has but he whose eye can integrate all the parts,
that is, the poet. This is the best part of these men's farms, yet
to this their warranty-deeds give no title.
To speak truly, few adult persons can see nature. Most persons
do not see the sun. At least they have a very
superficial seeing. The sun illuminates only the eye of the man,
but shines into the eye and the heart of the child. The
lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still
truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the
spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood. His intercourse
with heaven and earth becomes part of his daily food.
In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man,
in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, -- he is my
creature, and maugre 5 all his impertinent 6 griefs, he shall be
glad with me. Not the sun or the summer alone, but
every hour and season yields its tribute of delight; for every
hour and change corresponds to and authorizes a

25. different state of the mind, from breathless noon to grimmest
midnight. Nature is a setting that fits equally well a
comic or a mourning piece. In good health, the air is a cordial7
of incredible virtue. Crossing a bare common, in snow
puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my
thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I
have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of
fear. In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the
snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a
child. In the woods, is perpetual youth. Within these
plantations of God, a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial8
festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he
should tire of them in a thousand years. In the woods, we return
to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can
befall me in life, -- no disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my
eyes,) which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare
ground, -- my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into
infinite space, -- all mean egotism vanishes. I become a
transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the
Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or
particle of God. The name of the nearest friend sounds then
foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be
acquaintances, -- master or servant, is then a trifle and a
disturbance. I am the lover of uncontained and immortal
beauty. In the wilderness, I find something more dear and
connate9 than in streets or villages. In the tranquil
landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man
beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature.
The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister, is the
suggestion of an occult relation between man
and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They
nod to me, and I to them. The waving of the boughs in
the storm, is new to me and old. It takes me by surprise, and yet
is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a higher
thought or a better emotion coming over me, when I deemed I
was thinking justly or doing right.

26. Yet it is certain that the power to produce this delight, does not
reside in nature, but in man, or in a harmony
of both. It is necessary to use these pleasures with great
temperance. For, nature is not always tricked in holiday
attire, but the same scene which yesterday breathed perfume and
glittered as for the frolic of the nymphs, is
overspread with melancholy today. Nature always wears the
colors of the spirit. To a man laboring under calamity, the
heat of his own fire hath sadness in it. Then, there is a kind of
contempt of the landscape felt by him who has just lost
by death a dear friend. The sky is less grand as it shuts down
over less worth in the population.
1 sublime = of such grandeur, or beauty as to inspire great
admiration or awe (so much awe that it comes with fear /
respect & thus reverence)
2 admonish = to urge to a duty; remind
3 extort = obtain (something) by force, threats, or other unfair
means
4 indubitably = too evident to be doubted
5 maugre = in spite of
6 impertinent = not pertinent to a particular matter; irrelevant.
7 cordial = a comforting or pleasant-tasting medicine
8 perennial = lasting or existing for a long or apparently infinite
time; enduring or continually recurring.
9 connate = (especially of ideas or principles) existing in a
person or thing from birth; innate.
11 | P a g e
Sample of Essay One – Emerson

27. William Fitzgerald
English 1A
Mr. Nathan
The Transparent I
Ralph Waldo Emerson begins his essay Nature by offering his
readers the conditions necessary to
find a certain quality of solitude, one that he later experiences
when he finds a very deep and personal
connection with nature and, ultimately, God: “To go into
solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his
chamber as from society” (10). One should note that Emerson
specifically indicates the necessity to leave
both his connections with home and the society that his home is
located in; in fact, he indicates the need
to sever his ties from others even further by realizing that being
physically alone, being at home without
anyone else around, is not necessarily enough, for even when he
reads and writes in solitude he is still
connected with those whose thoughts he might read and for
those whom he might write. To best find the
truest sense of the solitary, he explains one should look to the
brilliance of the heavens and its many
stars, for this is how one can feel truly disconnected from the
rest of the world. The stars, Emerson
writes, “will separate” man “between him and what he touches”
(10). In other words, those who look to
the brilliance of the stars will see something filled with such
immensity they will feel a sense of awe that
separates them from all that is material, all that is touchable,
and, as a result, leave them to feel alone
and solitary in the face of such grandeur. But the stars are not
just beautiful. They also fill one with the

28. sense of the sublime, a word which not only describes the sheer
beauty and grandeur of the lights that fill
the night but also indicates the power of the stars, a power and
intensity that elicits veneration and
respect and awe and, thus, a touch of uneasiness. That fear, that
respect, that reverence, is essential to
understanding what Emerson wishes to communicate because
the heavens in all their vastness and
mystery are, in his words, “the city of God” (10). So,
ultimately, Emerson equates the intensity of this
quality of solitude he seeks with the intensity of connecting
with God, but, at this point, God is high in the
heavens and out of his reach.
Next, he shifts from the reverence and awe one might feel for
the stars to reverence for the
many facets of nature down here on earth, writing that that the
stars are “inaccessible,” that we can
never touch them and that, in the end, this is an essential part of
the reason why they “awaken a certain
reverence” (10)— “awaken” implying our senses and spirit have
been asleep or dulled and that through
this experience those inactive senses are stirred up, excited, and
aroused. And this is precisely where
Emerson associates that same awakening, that same awe, that
same reverence for the majesty of the
nighttime sky with all and any “natural objects” (10), the phrase
“kindred impression” (10) connecting the
stars to all “natural objects” (all of which we can touch, unlike
the stars, if we choose). “Kindred”
denotes there is a definite similarity between the stars and the
natural objects of the earth, but even
though they are not the same, they do, in a sense, come from the
same natural origin (later in the essay,
the “Universal Being”). “Impression” indicates the effect
something has on the mind, the conscience, and

29. one’s feelings. So, when combined in this context, these two
words indicate, once again, that Emerson is
drawing a connection between the intensity and awe we hold for
the stars and the awe and reverence
that we might have for any natural object, but, for this to
happen, the mind must be “open to their
influence” (10). “Influence” is the key word here, for it
indicates that experiencing these natural objects
and surroundings can affect one’s moods and feelings, that one
can experience the same awe for the stars
in the entirety of nature if one is open to seeing that influence,
that, ultimately, nature is as grand and
awe-inspiring as those stars (and, by connection, one can also
experience God in and through nature).
Emerson then shifts to explaining how the wise person— i.e.,
the person whose mind is open to
the influence of nature— recognizes that nature does not act
meanly, that nature is not a trivial toy to be
played with, that nature never ceases to amaze and intrigue the
person who experiences it, and, perhaps
most importantly, the truly wise person realizes the best
moments experiencing nature as an adult return
one to the wonder which childhood was often filled with, to a
time before the experiences of being an
adult deadened and dulled the innocence and curiosity of
childhood experiences in nature. In other
words, one of the deepest consequences of opening one’s mind
to the influence of nature is that it
awakens, in part, some of that lost wonder of our childhood.
Emerson then connects this reawakened
mind to a “most poetical sense” of how we see things. To see
things poetically is to see them as they are
and not in an analytical or purely functional way; the poet sees
nature in its entirety and not by its
material divisions. He offers the example of the woodcutter—

30. who sees a tree only for its potential
12 | P a g e
materials— and the poet, who sees the tree for what it is: as a
whole tree with all the beauty one might
associate with a tree— as well as a “natural object” that shares
a “kindred impression” with the stars that
invokes a sense of awe, reverence and wonder. He further
explains this poetical perception by describing
a walk through a variety of farms and woods, in which he sees
all these parcels of individually owned land
as one landscape and not a landscape divided by ownership.
The poetically-awakened mind realizes one
can possess a deed to some land, but one can never own the
landscape, the view, the experience (and the
awe and the wonder it can invoke if one’s mind is open to the
influence) .
And it is this poetical sense of mind that Emerson sees through
when he later goes for a walk in
the woods at twilight. The poetically-minded individual is the
one whose mind, heart, spirit and eyes,
“whose inward and outward senses,” are “still truly adjusted to
each other; who has retained the spirit of
infancy even into the era of manhood” (10). Indeed, the “lover
of nature,” as Emerson refers to it, sees
nature not only with the eyes but with a curiosity and
exhilaration that has not been deadened, one that
can continually be reawakened. As he takes his walk, he feels a
perfect exhilaration and his senses are
filled with delight, recognizing that every season brings its own
delights and reactions and that, very

31. importantly, one can feel a sense of excitement even when one
feels sad. For Emerson, experiencing
nature is like a ritual, one that offers him an opportunity to
communicate with both the heavens and the
earth, for God can be found— if one’s mind is open to such
influence, to such awe and reverence— in
both those celestial stars he discusses at the beginning of the
essay and the natural world that he is now
taking a walk in. He recognizes that a man (woman) can “cast
off his years” and “what period soever of
life” be always a child (10). So, before he describes the very
intense connection with the natural world
that he is about to have, Emerson once again connects the
feeling of childhood wonder and the awe of
nature that can be found if one’s mind is open to their influence.
In fact, this connection is so intense he
likens it to a “perennial festival,” which implies that a walk of
this kind is very similar to a ritual one might
experience in a church, but, in this case, no building is
necessary, for nature, itself, is the place of worship,
the place of ritual. He also takes the reader back to the
beginning of the essay by saying that a person
would never tire of this ritual in even a thousand years, which
brings us back to how even more intense
the stars in the night sky would be if they only appeared every
thousand years. But, in this case, he states
that one would never tire of what is clearly there, what can be
clearly touched.
And it is in this state of “perfect exhilaration” that one returns
to reason and faith, these words
being essential because, for Emerson and his fellow
transcendentalists, the spiritual and the scientific
were never in competition with one another. They generally
believed that the world could be understood
through spiritual intuition, but they also accepted scientific

32. doctrine. For some, this might be difficult to
understand— especially since he is about to speak about his
very deep, mystical connection with nature in
exceptionally poetic terms— but that poetic outlook is exactly
what fuels his direct experience. It may be
poetic, but it is also reasoned through a connection to what is
there, to what he sees in terms of what
these natural objects actually are. And with this focused
attention on his surroundings, he then writes
about the intensity of his connection to both the natural
landscape and God:
There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, -- no disgrace, no
calamity, (leaving
me my eyes,) which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare
ground, -- my
head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, --
all mean
egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am
nothing; I see all; the
currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part
or particle of God
(10).
At first glance, Emerson’s words seem to suggest an almost
hallucinatory experience, but when one
considers the reverence, the childhood wonder, and the most
poetical sense of mind that he has already
introduced us to, one can see the absolute delight and awe he
has for such an intense experience, a
moment of experience in which he fully absorbs his
surroundings, the intensity of the connection itself
being what instructs and connects him. Indeed, he speaks in
mystical terms, in a connection through

33. which he purely experiences the moment itself as if he is there,
but not there, and, in that state, connects
with God. In this perennially festive moment, he lets the self,
the “mean egotism” go, and it is as if he
joins, in that moment, the same “infinite space” where one
would find the stars and the “city of God,” as
if he has bridged the “intercourse with heaven and earth” (10).
To be transparent is to be opaque, as if
you are there but cannot be seen. One might also think of a
substance like water which is sheer and
allows light to shine through, as if in those moments the light of
everything in the universe, viz., the
“Universal Being,” radiate through him thus allowing him to
absorb everything in his surroundings. The
“eye,” the organ through which we see, can also be seen as a
pun on the personal pronoun “I,” which
13 | P a g e
connects this experience to the self, and, as a result, the self,
the “I,” is also made transparent and one
then becomes nothing, as if one is no longer there, and then
becomes a “part” of God or a minute particle
of God, both indicating that he has connected and become part
of nature and part of God. At the very
least, one sees the absolute intensity by which he finds this
connection, one that is bound to reverence, to
wonder, and to a most distinctly poetical sense of mind.
Emerson clarifies one last time the wonder he has for nature by
explaining that every time he
sees the “waving of the boughs in the storm,” it “is new to” him
“and old,” for it takes him “by surprise,

34. and yet is not unknown” (10). At first this might seem
paradoxical, for how can something one sees often
be both known and surprising? The answer lies in the wonder
of the poetical mind open to the influence
of nature. Regardless of the amount of times, he has seen such
things and experienced such moments, he
always feels wonder for them (as if each experience is “new”).
Finally, he ends by pointing out that nature
itself does not provide the emotional connection. It is the
individual who connects in this way—and he
calls this connection a “higher thought” or “better emotion,”
both suggesting that one must, again, be
open to such influences. For, after all, one could go for a walk
in the woods and feel nothing but
boredom, for it is the mood of the individual that sets the
experience. Earlier, he said that nature “never
wears a mean appearance” (10) and then ends with the
observation that nature “always wears the color
of the spirit” (10), a claim that clearly states that nature itself
does not control our mood—though it can
certainly affect our mood.
Ultimately, Emerson has written about experiencing an intense,
mystical-like connection with the
natural world, one that is, in fact, so intense that he has, at
times, connected to the “Universal Being.” In
order to explain the depth of this experience, he writes about
the reverence and awe one can have for
nature if one’s mind is open to the influence of such things— so
much so that he connects the awe one
might have for the brilliant, shining stars in the nighttime sky to
the awe one can have for all natural
things in this world down below those stars. To open one’s
mind to nature in this way is to see nature
poetically, to see it with a wonder that links one back to a
similar wonder and curiosity one had for nature

35. as a child. He represents the intensity of this awe and wonder
by using a metaphor of “becoming a
transparent eyeball” (10), a comparison which offers the
perspective that when he experiences this
intense connection, it is so intense he becomes one with both
nature and God. Early in the essay, he
refers to the unreachable stars as the “City of God” (10), and
later in the essay he refers to nature as
the“plantations of God” (10). By doing so, Emerson expresses
his belief that the unreachable God he
reveres so much in those unreachable stars can be experienced
in and through the beauty and awe of
nature experienced down here on earth. But, again, one must be
open to such possibilities, such
influences.
I underlined the entire conclusion because all of it can be seen
as a thesis for what Emerson ultimately
“does” in his essay—as well as “how” he “does” it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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14 | P a g e
Essay 2: Deductive Analysis Essay -- “Seeing” (100 points)
Length: 6-7 pages Due Date: Check Canvas
Task: Write an analysis of how Dillard, in her essay, explores a
variety of ways for what it means to see, both

36. literally (the natural obvious) and figuratively (the artificial
obvious), and how she connects and builds from them
throughout her essay so that by the end of the essay she comes
to a realization about a kind of seeing that is more
visionary than it is biological or neurological.
• Very important: Your task is to analyze what Dillard says and
how she says it (and how everything is
interrelated)—and not what you think she says or how you feel
about what she says. You need to provide a clear
connection between the points and observations she makes in
her essay.
• Do not write from the perspective that Dillard is trying to
show us how to see or how to better enjoy our lives or be
happy. Dillard is writing about her thoughts and experiences.
You are analyzing that so write from that
perspective.
you should not retell everything that she writes
about. Instead, focus on those passages that you choose to
analyze in order to build and expand your thesis. You
should summarize, paraphrase and quote those passages that
will help you to demonstrate the different ways that
Dillard discusses what it means to see. Look for ways to
connect those passages so that your reader can see what
your analysis of them equals (thus allowing you to carefully
connect everything to come to an overall conclusion
about how Dillard explores what it means to see). You should
demonstrate an awareness of what the essay, overall,
is about.
the nature of what Dillard does in her essay—and
then make sure that your introduction is introducing us to your
thesis and the analysis you will be covering in your

37. body paragraphs. (2) Your thesis should be a specific claim
about how Dillard ponders what it means to see and how
those different “ways and meanings” lead to the end of her
essay where she experiences a visionary-like moment. (3)
Your body paragraphs should connect your various analyses of
the passages you cover (and directly relate to the
claim that you make in your thesis and where you are going in
your conclusion). They should also provide your
reader the material needed to understand how you came to your
conclusion. (4) Your conclusion should tie together
everything you say in your body paragraphs and tell us,
ultimately and conclusively, how Dillard’s various
explorations of “seeing” lead to her visionary moment at the
end of the essay. Your conclusion should be specifically
connected to your thesis / your thesis should be specifically
linked to your conclusion.
• In your introductory paragraph, refer to the title of the book
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and the author’s full name
(Annie Dillard). Make it clear that “Seeing” is a chapter from
that book.
Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard writes about a variety
of different meanings for what it means “to see.”
• For the rest of the essay, use the author’s last name (Dillard).
Do not repeat her full name again.
• Once you have mentioned the title, do not mention it again.
Do not write “in the essay.” We will know that you
are discussing the essay.
• For in-text citations / quotations, use the page number from
the course reader. You do not need to mention the
author’s last name in the citation because once you have

38. introduced us to the title and the author’s name, we
will know that you are only quoting that source because your
task is to analyze that essay and that essay only
• Provide a works cited page. Here is the correctly formatted
bibliographical citation. Pay attention to the
italicized title of the course reader.
Dillard, Annie. “Seeing.” English 1A Course Reader. Edited
by Nathan Wirth, Nathan’s Mind, Inc. 2019
time to effectively combine sentences using
coordination and subordination.
subordinators, conjunctive adverbs and
transitional expressions to provide, where appropriate, clear
transitions between your ideas.
eaningful and relevant context for
your quotations, paraphrasing, and summaries. Be
sure you also provide (a) relevant explanations of them and (b)
specific analysis.
the
course schedule for due dates and the upload link.
which you write about your writing process for the
essay. Please make this the first page of your document (and it
does not count as one of the required pages). You
can find a sample process letter in this course reader.
reader before you upload your essay.

39. 15 | P a g e
"Seeing” by Annie Dillard
This is Chapter Two from the book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,
Harper Perennial, 1974)
When I was six or seven years old, growing up in Pittsburgh, I
used to take a precious penny of my own
and hide it for someone else to find. It was a curious
compulsion; sadly, I’ve never been seized by it since. For some
reason I always “hid” the penny along the same stretch of
sidewalk up the street. I would cradle it at the roots of a
sycamore, say, or in a hole left by a chipped-off piece of
sidewalk. Then I would take a piece of chalk, and, starting
at either end of the block, draw huge arrows leading up to the
penny from both directions. After I learned to write
I labeled the arrows: SURPRISE AHEAD or MONEY THIS
WAY. I was greatly excited, during all this arrow-drawing, at
the thought of the first lucky passer-by who would receive in
this way, regardless of merit, a free gift from the
universe. But I never lurked about. I would go straight home
and not give the matter another thought, until, some
months later, I would be gripped again by the impulse to hide
another penny.
It is still the first week in January, and I’ve got great plans. I’ve
been thinking about seeing. There are lots
of things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises. The world
is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast
broadside from a generous hand. But—and this is the point—
who gets excited by a mere penny? If you follow one

40. arrow, if you crouch motionless on a bank to watch a tremulous
ripple thrill on the water and are rewarded by the
sight of a muskrat kid paddling from its den, will you count that
sight a chip of copper only, and go your rueful
way? It is dire poverty indeed when a man is so malnourished
and fatigued that he won’t stoop to pick up a penny.
But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that
finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since
the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your
poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. What
you see is what you get.
I used to be able to see flying insects in the air. I’d look ahead
and see, not the row of hemlocks across the
road, but the air in front of it. My eyes would focus along that
column of air, picking out flying insects. But I lost
interest, I guess, for I dropped the habit. Now I can see birds.
Probably some people can look at the grass at their
feet and discover all the crawling creatures. I would like to
know grasses and sedges—and care. Then my least
journey into the world would be a field trip, a series of happy
recognitions. Thoreau, in an expansive mood,
exulted, “What a rich book might be made about buds,
including, perhaps, sprouts!” It would be nice to think so. I
cherish mental images I have of three perfectly happy people.
One collects stones. Another—an Englishman, say—
watches clouds. The third lives on a coast and collects drops of
seawater which he examines microscopically and
mounts. But I don’t see what the specialist sees, and so I cut
myself off, not only from the total picture, but from
the various forms of happiness. Unfortunately, nature is very
much a now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t affair. A fish
flashes, then dissolves in the water before my eyes like so much
salt. Deer apparently ascend bodily into heaven;
the brightest oriole fades into leaves. These disappearances stun
me into stillness and concentration; they say of

41. nature that it conceals with a grand nonchalance, and they say
of vision that it is a deliberate gift, the revelation of
a dancer who for my eyes only flings away her seven veils. For
nature does reveal as well as conceal: now-you-
don’t-see-it, now-you-do. For a week last September migrating
red-winged blackbirds were feeding heavily down
by the creek at the back of the house. One day I went out to
investigate the racket; I walked up to a tree, an Osage
orange, and a hundred birds flew away. They simply
materialized out of the tree. I saw a tree, then a whisk of
color, then a tree again. I walked closer and another hundred
blackbirds took flight. Not a branch, not a twig
budged: the birds were apparently weightless as well as
invisible. Or, it was as if the leaves of the Osage orange
had been freed from a spell in the form of redwinged
blackbirds; they flew from the tree, caught my eye in the sky,
and vanished. When I looked again at the tree, the leaves had
reassembled as if nothing had happened. Finally I
walked directly to the trunk of the tree and a finally hundred,
the real diehards, appeared, spread, and vanished.
How could so many hide in the tree without my seeing them?
The Osage orange, unruffled, looked just as it had
looked from the house, when three hundred red-winged
blackbirds cried from its crown. I looked downstream
where they flew, and they were gone. Searching, I couldn’t spot
one. I wandered downstream to force them to
play their hand, but they’d crossed the creek and scattered. One
show to a customer. These appearances catch at
my throat; they are the free gifts, the bright coppers at the roots
of trees.
It’s all a matter of keeping my eyes open. Nature is like one of
those line drawings of a tree that are
puzzles for children: Can you find hidden in the leaves a duck, a
house, a boy, a bucket, a zebra, and a boot?
Specialists can find the most incredibly well-hidden things. A

42. book I read when I was young recommended an easy
way to find caterpillars to rear: you simply find some fresh
caterpillar droppings, look up, and there’s your
caterpillar. More recently an author advised me to set my mind
at ease about those piles of cut stems on the
ground in grassy fields. Field mice make them; they cut the
grass down by degrees to reach the seeds at the head.
It seems that when the grass is tightly packed, as in a field of
ripe grain, the blade won’t topple at a single cut
through the stem; instead, the cut stem simply drops vertically,
held in the crush of grain. The mouse severs the
bottom again and again, the stem keeps dropping an inch at a
time, and finally the head is low enough for the
16 | P a g e
mouse to reach the seeds. Meanwhile, the mouse is positively
littering the field with its little piles of cut stems into
which, presumably, the author of the book is constantly
stumbling.
If I can’t see these minutiae, I still try to keep my eyes open.
I’m always on the lookout for antlion traps in
sandy soil, monarch pupae near milkweed, skipper larvae in
locust leaves. These things are utterly common, and
I’ve not seen one. I bang on hollow trees near water, but so far
no flying squirrels have appeared. In flat country I
watch every sunset in hopes of seeing the green ray. The green
ray is a seldom-seen streak of light that rises from
the sun like a spurting fountain at the moment of sunset; it
throbs into the sky for two seconds and disappears.
One more reason to keep my eyes open. A photography
professor at the University of Florida just happened to see

43. a bird die in midnight; it jerked, died, dropped, and smashed on
the ground. I squint at the wind because I read
Stewart Edward White: “I have always maintained that if you
looked closely enough you could see the wind—the
dim, hardly-made-out, fine debris fleeing high in the air.” White
was an excellent observer, and devoted an entire
chapter of The Mountains to the subject of seeing deer: “As
soon as you can forget the naturally obvious and
construct an artificial obvious, then you too will see deer.”
But the artificial obvious is hard to see. My eyes account for
less than one percent of the weight of my
head; I’m bony and dense; I see what I expect. I once spent a
full three minutes looking at a bullfrog that was so
unexpectedly large I couldn’t see it even though a dozen
enthusiastic campers were shouting directions. Finally I
asked, “What color am I looking for?” and a fellow said,
“Green.” When at last I picked out the frog, I saw what
painters are up against: the thing wasn’t green at all, but the
color of wet hickory bark.
The lover can see, and the knowledgeable. I visited an aunt and
uncle at a quarter-horse race in Cody,
Wyoming. I couldn’t do much of anything useful, but I could, I
thought, draw. So, as we all sat around the kitchen
table after supper, I produced a sheet of paper and drew a horse.
“That’s one lame horse,” my aunt volunteered.
The rest of my family joined in: “Only place to saddle that one
is his neck”; “Looks like we better shoot the poor
thing, on account of those terrible growths.” Meekly, I slid the
pencil and paper down the table. Everyone in that
family, including my three young cousins, could draw a horse.
Beautifully. When the paper came back it looked as
though five shining, real quarter horses had been corralled by
mistake with a papier-mâché moose; the real horses
seemed to gaze at the monster with a steady, puzzled air. I stay

44. away from horses now, but I can do a creditable
goldfish. The point is that I just don’t know what the lover
knows; I just can’t see the artificial obvious that those in
the know construct. The herpetologist asks the native, “Are
there snakes in that ravine?” “Nosir.” And the
herpetologist comes home with, yessir, three bags full. Are
there butterflies on that mountain? Are the bluets in
bloom, are there arrowheads here, or fossil shells in the shale?
Peeping through my keyhole I see within the range of only
about thirty percent of the light that comes
from the sun; the rest is infrared and some little ultraviolet,
perfectly apparent to many animals, but invisible to
me. A nightmare network of ganglia, charged and firing without
my knowledge, cuts and splices what I do see,
editing it for my brain. Donald E. Carr points out that the sense
impressions of one-celled animals are not edited
for the brain: “This is philosophically interesting in a rather
mournful way, since it means that only the simplest
animals perceive the universe as it is.”
A fog that won’t burn away drifts and flows across my field of
vision. When you see fog move against a
backdrop of deep pines, you don’t see the fog itself, but streaks
of clearness floating across the air in dark shreds.
So I see only tatters of clearness through a pervading obscurity.
I can’t distinguish the fog from the overcast sky; I
can’t be sure if the light is direct or reflected. Everywhere
darkness and the presence of the unseen appalls. We
estimate now that only one atom dances alone in every cubic
meter of intergalactic space. I blink and squint. What
planet or power yanks Halley’s Comet out of orbit? We haven’t
seen that force yet; it’s a question of distance,
density, and the pallor of reflected light. We rock, cradled in
the swaddling band of darkness. Even the simple
darkness of night whispers suggestions to the mind. Last

45. summer, in August, I stayed at the creek too late.
Where Tinker Creek flows under the sycamore log bridge to the
tear-shaped island, it is slow and shallow,
fringed thinly in cattail marsh. At this spot an astonishing
bloom of life supports vast breeding populations of
insects, fish, reptiles, birds, and mammals. On windless summer
evenings, I stalk along the creek bank or straddle
the sycamore log in absolute stillness, watching for muskrats.
The night I stayed too late I was hunched on the fog
staring spellbound at spreading, reflecting stains of lilac on the
water. A cloud in the sky suddenly lighted as if
turned on by a switch; its reflection just as suddenly
materialized on the water upstream, flat and floating, so that
I couldn’t see the creek bottom, or life in the water under the
cloud. Downstream, away from the cloud on the
water, water turtles as smooth as beans were gliding down with
the current in a series of easy, weightless push-
offs, as men bound on the moon. I didn’t know whether to trace
the progress of one turtle I was sure of, risking
sticking my face in one of the bridge’s spider webs made
invisible by the gathering dark, or take a chance on seeing
the carp, or scan the mudbank in hope of seeing a muskrat, or
follow the last of the swallows who caught at my
heart and trailed after them like streamers as they appeared
from directly below, under the log, flying upstream
with their tails forked, so fast.
17 | P a g e
But shadows spread, and deepened, and stayed. After thousands

46. of years we’re still strangers to
darkness, fearful aliens in an enemy camp with our arms crossed
over our chests. I stirred. A land turtle on the
bank, startled, hissed the air from its lungs and withdrew into
its shell. An uneasy pink here, and unfathomable
blue there, gave great suggestion of lurking beings. Things were
going on. I couldn’t see whether that sere rustle I
heard was a distant rattlesnake, slit-eyed, or a nearby sparrow
kicking in the dry flood debris slung at the foot of a
willow. Tremendous action roiled the water everywhere I
looked, big action, inexplicable. A tremor welled up
beside a gaping muskrat burrow in the bank and I caught my
breath, but no muskrat appeared. The ripples
continued to fan upstream with a steady, powerful thrust. Night
was knitting over my face an eyeless mask, and I
still sat transfixed. A distant airplane, a delta wing out of a
nightmare, made a gliding shadow on the creek’s
bottom that looked like a stingray cruising upstream. At once a
black fin slit the pink cloud on the water, shearing it
in two. The two halves merged together and seemed to dissolve
before my eyes. Darkness pooled in the cleft of
the creek and rose, as water collects in a well. Untamed,
dreaming lights flickered over the sky. I saw hints of
hulking and underwater shadows, two pale splashes out of the
water, and round ripples rolling close together from
a blackened center.
At last I stared upstream where only the deepest violet remained
of the cloud, a cloud so high its
underbelly still glowed feeble color reflected from a hidden sky
lighted in turn by a sun halfway to China. And out
of that violet, a sudden enormous black body arced over the
water. I saw only a cylindrical sleekness. Head and
tail, if there was a head and tail, were both submerged in cloud I
saw only one ebony fling, a headlong dive to
darkness; then the waters closed, and the lights went out.

47. I walked home in a shivering daze, up hill and down. Later I lay
open-mouthed in bed, my arms flung wide
at my sides to steady the whirling darkness. At this latitude I’m
spinning 836 miles an hour round the earth’s axis; I
often fancy I feel my sweeping fall as a breakneck arc like the
dive of dolphins, and the hollow rushing of wind
raises hair on my neck and the side of my face. In orbit around
the sun I’m moving 64,800 miles an hour. The solar
system as a whole, like a merry-go-round unhinged, spins, bobs,
and blinks at the speed of 43,200 miles an hour
along a course set east of Hercules. Someone has piped, and we
are dancing a tarantella until the sweat pours. I
open my eyes and I see dark, muscled forms curl out of the
water, with flapping gills and flattened eyes. I close my
eyes and I see stars, deep stars giving way to deeper stars,
deeper stars bowing to deepest stars at the crown of an
infinite cone.
“Still,” wrote van Gogh in a letter, “a great deal of light falls on
everything.” If we are blinded by darkness,
we are also blinded by light. When too much light falls on
everything, a special terror results. Peter Freuchen
describes the notorious kayak sickness to which Greenland
Eskimos are prone. “The Greenland fjords are peculiar
for the spells of completely quiet weather, when there is not
enough wind to blow out a match and the water is
like a sheet of glass. The kayak hunter must sit in his boat
without stirring a finger so as not to scare the shy seals
away… The sun, low in the sky, sends a glare into his eyes, and
the landscape around moves into the realm of the
unreal. The reflex from the mirror-like water hypnotizes him, he
seems to be unable to move, and all of a sudden it
is as if he were floating in a bottomless void, sinking, sinking,
and sinking… Horror-stricken, he tries to stir, to cry
out, but he cannot, he is completely paralyzed, he just falls and

48. falls.” Some hunters are especially cursed with this
panic, and bring ruin and sometimes starvation to their families.
Sometimes here in Virginia at sunset low clouds on the southern
or northern horizon are completely
invisible in the lighted sky. I only know one is there because I
can see its reflection in still water. The first time I
discovered this mystery I looked from cloud to no-cloud in
bewilderment, checking my bearings over and over,
thinking maybe the ark of the covenant was just passing by
south of Dead Man Mountain. Only much later did I
read the explanation: polarized light from the sky is very much
weakened by perfection, but the light in clouds isn’t
polarized. So invisible clouds pass among visible clouds, till all
slide over the mountains; so a greater light
extinguishes a lesser as though it didn’t exist.
In the great meteor shower of August, the Perseid, I wail all day
for the shooting stars I miss. They’re out
there showering down, committing hara-kiri in a flame of fatal
attraction, and hissing perhaps at last into the
ocean. But at dawn what looks like a blue dome clamps down
over me like a lid on a pot. The stars and planets
could smash down and I’d never know. Only a piece of ashen
moon occasionally climbs up or down the inside of
the dome, and our local star without surcease explodes on our
heads. We have really only that one light, one
source for all power, and yet we must turn away from it by
universal decree. Nobody here on the planet seems
aware of this strange, powerful taboo, that we all walk about
carefully averting our faces, this way and that, lest
our eyes be blasted forever.
Darkness appalls and light dazzles; the scrap of visible light
that doesn’t hurt my eyes hurts my brain.
What I see sets me swaying. Size and distance and the sudden

49. swelling of meanings confuse me, bowl me over. I
straddle the sycamore log bridge over Tinker Creek in the
summer. I look at the lighted creek bottom: snail tracks
tunnel the mud in quavering curves. A crayfish jerks, but by the
time I absorb what has happened, he’s gone in a
billowing smokescreen of silt. I look at the water: minnows and
shiners. If I’m thinking minnows, a carp will fill my
18 | P a g e
brain till I scream. I look at the water’s surface: skaters,
bubbles, and leaves sliding down. Suddenly, my own face,
reflected, startles me witless. Those snails have been tracking
my face! Finally, with a shuddering wrench of the
will, I see clouds, cirrus clouds. I’m dizzy, I fall in. This
looking business is risky.
Once I stood on a humped rock on nearby Purgatory Mountain,
watching through binoculars the great
autumn hawk migration below, until I discovered that I was in
danger of joining the hawks on a vertical migration
of my own. I was used to binoculars, but not, apparently, to
balancing on humped rocks while looking through
them. I staggered. Everything advanced and receded by turns;
the world was full of unexplained foreshortenings
and depths. A distant huge tan object, a hawk the size of an
elephant, turned out to be the browned bough of a
nearby loblolly pine. I followed a sharp-shinned hawk against a
featureless sky, rotating my head unawares as it
flew, and when I lowered the glass a glimpse of my own
looming shoulder sent me staggering. What prevents men
on Palomar from falling, voiceless and blinded, from their tiny,
vaulted chairs?

50. I reel in confusion; I don’t understand what I see. With the
naked eye I can see two million light-years to
the Andromeda galaxy. Often I slop some creek water in a jar
and when I get home I dump it in a white china bowl.
After the silt settles I return and see tracings of minute snails on
the bottom, a planarian or two winding round the
rum of water, roundworms shimmying frantically, and finally,
when my eyes have adjusted to these dimensions,
amoebae. At first the amoebae look like muscae volitantes,
those curved moving spots you seem to see in your
eyes when you stare at a distant wall. Then I see the amoebae as
drops of water congealed, bluish, translucent,
like chips of sky in the bowl. At length I choose one individual
and give myself over to its idea of an evening. I see it
dribble a grainy foot before it on its wet, unfathomable way. Do
its unedited sense impressions include the fierce
focus of my eyes? Shall I take it outside and show it
Andromeda, and blow its little endoplasm? I stir the water with
a finger, in case it’s running out of oxygen. Maybe I should get
a tropical aquarium with motorized bubblers and
lights, and keep this one for a pet. Yes, it would tell its
fissioned descendants, the universe is two feet by five, and
if you listen closely you can head the buzzing music of the
spheres.
Oh, it’s mysterious lamplit evenings, here in the galaxy, one
after the other. It’s one of those nights when I
wander from window to window, looking for a sign. But I can’t
see. Terror and a beauty insoluble are a ribband of
blue woven into the fringes of garments of things both great and
small. No culture explains, no bivouac offers real
haven or rest. But it could be that we are not seeing something.
Galileo thought comets were an optical illusion.
This is fertile ground: since we are certain that they’re not, we
can look at what our scientists have been saying

51. with fresh hope. What if there are really gleaming, castellated
cities hung upside-down over the desert sand?
What limpid lakes and cool date palms have our caravans
always passed untried? Until, one by one, by the blindest
of leaps, we light on the road to these places, we must stumble
in darkness and hunger. I turn from the window
I’m blind as a bat, sensing only from every direction the echo of
my own thin cries.
I chanced on a wonderful book by Marius von Senden, called
Space and Sight. When Western surgeons
discovered how to perform safe cataract operations, they ranged
across Europe and America operating on dozens
of men and women of all ages who had been blinded by
cataracts since birth. Von Senden collected accounts of
such cases; the histories are fascinating. Many doctors had
tested their patients’ sense perceptions and ideas of
space both before and after the operations. The vast majority of
patients, of both sexes and all ages, had, in von
Senden’s opinion, no idea of space whatsoever. Form, distance,
and size were so many meaningless syllables. A
patient “had no idea of depth, confusing it with roundness.”
Before the operation a doctor would give a blind
patient a cube and a sphere; the patient would tongue it or feel
it with his hands, and name it correctly. After the
operation the doctor would show the same objects to the patient
without letting him touch them; now he had no
clue whatsoever what he was seeing. One patient called
lemonade “square” because it pricked on his tongue as a
square shape pricked on the touch of his hands. Of another
postoperative patient, the doctor writes, “I have found
in her no notion of size, for example, not even within the
narrow limits which she might have encompassed with
the aid of touch. Thus when I asked her to show me how big her

52. mother was, she did not stretch out her hands,
but set her two index-fingers a few inches apart.” Other doctors
reported their patients’ own statements to similar
effect. “The room he was in… he knew to be but part of the
house, yet he could not conceive that the whole house
could look bigger”; “Those who are blind from birth… have no
real conception of height or distance. A house that is
a mile away is thought of as nearby, but requiring the taking of
a lot of steps… The elevator that whizzes him up
and down gives no more sense of vertical distance than does the
train of horizontal.”
For the newly sighted, vision is pure sensation unencumbered
by meaning: “The girl went through the
experience that we all go through and forget, the moment we are
born. She saw, but it did not mean anything but
a lot of different kinds of brightness.” Again, “I asked the
patient what he could see; he answered that he saw an
extensive field of light, in which everything appeared dull,
confused, and in motion. He could not distinguish
objects.” Another patient saw “nothing but a confusion of forms
and colors.” When a newly sighted girl saw
photographs and paintings, she asked, “’Why do they put those
dark marks all over them?’ ‘Those aren’t dark
19 | P a g e
marks,’ her mother explained, ‘those have shape. If it were not
for shadows many things would look flat.’ ‘Well,
that’s how things do look,’ Joan answered. ‘Everything looks
flat with dark patches.’”
But it is the patients’ concepts of space that are most revealing.

53. One patient, according to his doctor,
“practiced his vision in a strange fashion; thus he takes off one
of his boots, throws it some way off in front of him,
and then attempts to gauge the distance at which it lies; he takes
a few steps towards the boot and tries to grasp
it; on failing to reach it, he moves on a step or two and gropes
for the boot until he finally gets a hold of it.” “But
even at this stage, after three weeks’ experience of seeing,” von
Senden goes on, “’space,’ as he conceives it, ends
with visual space, i.e. with color-patches that happen to bound
his view. He does not yet have the notion that a
larger object (a chair) can mask a smaller one (a dog), or that
the latter can still be present even though it is not
directly seen.”
In general the newly sighted see the world as a dazzle of color-
patches. They are pleased by the sensation
of color, and learn quickly to name the colors, but the rest of
seeing is tormentingly difficult. Soon after his
operation a patient “generally bumps into one of these color-
patches and observes them to be substantial, since
they resist him as tactual objects do. In walking about it also
strikes him—or can if he pays attention—that he is
continually passing in between the colors he sees, that he can go
past a visual object, that a part of it then steadily
disappears from view; and that in spite of this, however he
twists and turns—whether entering the room from the
door, for example, or returning back to it—he always has a
visual space in front of him. Thus he gradually comes to
realize there is also a space behind him, which he does not see.”
The mental effort involved in these reasoning’s proves
overwhelming for many patients. It oppresses
them to realize, if they ever do at all, the tremendous size of the
world, which they had previously conceived of as
something touchingly manageable. It oppresses them to realize

54. that they have been visible to people all along,
perhaps unattractively so, without their knowledge or consent.
A disheartening number of them refuse to use their
new vision, continuing to go over objects with their tongues,
and lapsing into apathy and despair. “The child can
see, but will not make use of his sight. Only when pressed can
he with difficulty be brought to look at objects in
his neighborhood; but more than a foot away it is impossible to
bestir him to the necessary effort.” Of a twenty-
one-year-old girl, the doctor relates, “Her unfortunate father,
who had hoped for so much from this operation,
wrote that his daughter carefully shuts her eyes whenever she
wishes to go about the house, especially when she
comes to a staircase, and that she is never happier or more at
ease than when, by closing her eyelids, she relapses
into her former state of total blindness.” A fifteen-year-old boy,
who was also in love with a girl at the asylum for
the blind, finally blurted out, “No, really, I can’t stand it any
more; I want to be sent back to the asylum again. If
things aren’t altered, I’ll tear my eyes out.”
Some do learn to see, especially the young ones. But it changes
their lives. One doctor comments on “the
rapid and complete loss of that striking and wonderful serenity
which is characteristic only of those who have
never yet seen.” A blind man who learns to see is ashamed of
his old habits. He dresses up, grooms himself, and
tries to make a good impression. While he was blind, he was
indifferent to objects unless they were edible; now, “a
sifting of values sets in… his thoughts and wishes are mightily
stirred and some few of the patients are thereby led
into dissimulation, envy, theft and fraud.”
On the other hand, many newly sighted people speak well of the
world, and teach us how dull is our own
vision. To one patient, a human hand, unrecognized, is

55. “something bright and then holes.” Shown a bunch of
grapes, a boy calls out, “it is dark, blue and shiny… It isn’t
smooth, it has bumps and hollows.” A little girl visits a
garden. “She is greatly astonished, and can scarcely be
persuaded to answer, stands speechless in front of the tree,
which she only names on taking hold of it, and then as ‘the tree
with the lights in it.’” Some delight in their sight
and give themselves over to the visual world. Of a patient just
after her bandages were removed, her doctor
writes, “The first things to attract her attention were her own
hands; she looked at them very closely, moved them
repeatedly to and fro, bent and stretched the fingers, and
seemed greatly astonished at the sight.” One girl was
eager to tell her blind friend that “Men do not really look like
trees at all,” and astounded to discover that her
every visitor had an utterly different face. Finally, a twenty-
two-old girl was dazzled by the world’s brightness and
kept her eyes shut for two weeks. When at the end of that time
she opened her eyes again, she did not recognize
the objects, but, “the more she now directed her gaze upon
everything about her, the more it could be seen how
an expression of gratification and astonishment overspread her
features; she repeatedly exclaimed: ‘Oh God! How
beautiful!’”
I saw color-patches for weeks after I read this wonderful book.
It was summer; the peaches were ripe in
the valley orchards. When I woke in the morning, color-patches
wrapped round my eyes, intricately, leaving not
one unfilled spot. All day long I walked among shifting color-
patches that parted before me like the Red Sea and
closed again in silence, transfigured, wherever I looked back.
Some patches swelled and loomed, while others
vanished utterly, and dark marks flitted at random over the

56. whole dazzling sweep. But I couldn’t sustain the
illusion of flatness. I’ve been around for too long. Form is
condemned to an eternal danse macabre with meaning: I
20 | P a g e
couldn’t unpeach the peaches. Now can I remember ever having
seen without understanding; the color patches of
infancy are lost. My brain then must have been smooth as any
balloon. I’m told I reached for the moon; many
babies do. But the color-patches of infancy swelled as meaning
filled them; they arrayed themselves in solemn
ranks down distance which unrolled and stretched before me
like a plain. The moon rocketed away. I live now in a
world of shadows that take shape and distance color, a world
where space makes a kind of terrible sense. What
Gnosticism is this, and what physics? The fluttering patch I saw
in my nursery window—silver and green and
shapeshifting blue—is gone; a row of Lombardy poplars takes
its place, mute, across the distant lawn. That
humming oblong creature pale as light that stole along the walls
of my room at night, stretching exhilaratingly
around the corners, is gone, too, gone the night I ate of the
bittersweet fruit, put two and two together and
puckered forever my brain. Martin Buber tells this tale: “Rabbi
Mendel once boasted to his teacher Rabbi
Elimelekh that evenings he saw the angel who rolls away the
light before the darkness, and mornings the angel
who rolls away the darkness before the light. ‘Yes,’ said Rabbie
Elimelekh, ‘in my youth I saw that too. Later on you
don’t see these things any more.’”
Why didn’t someone hand those newly sighted people paints

57. and brushes from the start, when they still
didn’t know what anything was? Then maybe we all could see
color-patches too, the world unraveled from reason,
Eden before Adam gave names. The scales would drop from my
eyes; I’d see trees like men walking; I’d run down
the road against all orders, hallooing and leaping.
Seeing is of course very much a matter of verbalization. Unless
I call my attention to what passes before
my eyes, I simple won’t see it. It is, as Ruskin says, “not merely
unnoticed, but in the full, clear sense of the word,
unseen.” My eyes alone can’t solve analogy tests using figures,
the ones which show, with increasing elaborations,
a big square, then a small square in a big square, then a big
triangle, and expect me to find a small triangle in a big
triangle. I have to say the words, describe what I’m seeing. If
Tinker Mountain erupted, I’d be likely to notice. But if
I want to notice the lesser cataclysms of valley life, I have to
maintain in my head a running description of the
present. It’s not that I’m observant; it’s just that I talk too
much. Otherwise, especially in a strange place, I’ll never
know what’s happening. Like a blind man at the ball game, I
need a radio.
When I see this way I analyze and pry. I hurl over logs and roll
away stones; I study the bank a square foot
at a time, probing and tilting my head. Some days when a mist
covers the mountains, when the muskrats won’t
show and the microscope’s mirror shatters, I want to climb up
the blank blue dome as a man would storm the
inside of a circus tent, wildly, dangling, and with a steel knife
claw a rent in the top, peep, and, if I must, fall.

58. But there is another kind of seeing that involves a letting go.
When I see this way I sway transfixed and
emptied. The difference between the two ways of seeing is the
difference between walking with and without a
camera. When I walk with a camera I walk from shot to shot,
reading the light on a calibrated meter. When I walk
without a camera, my own shutter opens, and the moment’s light
prints on my own silver gut. When I see this
second way, I am above all an unscrupulous observer.
It was sunny one evening last summer at Tinker Creek; the sun
was low in the sky, upstream. I was sitting
on the sycamore log bridge with the sunset at my back,
watching the shiners the size of minnows who were
feeding over the muddy sand in skittery schools. Again and
again, one fish, then another, turned for a split second
across the current and flash! The sun shot out from its silver
side. I couldn’t watch for it. It was always just
happening somewhere else, and it drew my vision just as it
disappeared: flash, like a sudden dazzle of the thinnest
blade, a sparking over a dun and olive ground at chance
intervals from every direction. Then I noticed white
specks, some sort of pale petals, small, floating from under my
feet on the creek’s surface, very slow and steady.
So I blurred my eyes and gazed towards the brim of my hat and
saw a new world. I saw the pale white circles roll
up, roll up, like the world’s tuning, mute and perfect, and I saw
the linear flashes, gleaming silver, like stars being
born at random down a rolling scroll of time. Something broke
and something opened. I filled up like a new
wineskin. I breathed an air like light; I saw a light like water. I
was the lip of a fountain the creek filled forever; I was
ether, the leaf in the zephyr; I was flesh-flake, feather, bone.

59. When I see this way I see truly. As Thoreau says, I return to my
senses. I am the man who watches the
baseball game in silence in an empty stadium. I see the game
purely; I’m abstracted and dazed. When it’s all over
and the white-suited players lope off the green field to their
shadowed dugouts, I leap to my feet; I cheer and
cheer.
But I can’t go out and try to see this way. I’ll fail, I’ll go mad.
All I can do is try to gag the commentator, to
hush the noise of useless interior babble that keeps me from
seeing just as surely as a newspaper dangled before
my eyes. The effort is really a discipline requiring a lifetime of
dedicated struggle; it makes the literature of saints
and monks of every order East and West, under every rule and
no rule, discalced and shod. The world’s spiritual
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geniuses seem to discover universally that the mind’s muddy
river, this ceaseless flow of trivia and trash, cannot be
dammed, and that trying to dam it is a waste of effort that might
lead to madness. Instead you must allow the
muddy river to flow unheeded in the dim channels of
consciousness; you raise your sights; you look along it,
mildly, acknowledging its presence without interest and gazing
beyond it into the realm of the real where subjects
and objects act and rest purely, without utterance. “Launch into
the deep,” says Jacques Ellul, “and you shall see.”

60. The secret of seeing is, then, the pearl of great price. If I
thought he could teach me to find it and keep it
forever I would stagger barefoot across a hundred deserts after
any lunatic at all. But although the pearl may be
found, it may not be sought. The literature of illumination
reveals this above all: although it comes to those who
wait for it, it is always, even to the most practiced and adept, a
gift and a total surprise. I return from one walk
knowing where the killdeer nests in the field by the creek and
the hour the laurel blooms. I return from the same
walk a day later scarcely knowing my own name. Litanies hum
in my ears; my tongue flaps in my mouth Ailinon,
alleluia! I cannot cause light; the most I can do is try to put
myself in the path of its beam. It is possible, in deep
space, to sail on solar wind. Light, be it particle or wave, has
force: you rig a giant sail and go. The secret of seeing
is to sail on solar wind. Hone and spread your spirit till you
yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to
the merest puff.
When her doctor took her bandages off and led her into the
garden, the girl who was no longer blind saw
“the tree with the lights in it.” It was for this tree I searched
through the peach orchards of summer, in the forests
of fall and down winter and spring for years. Then one day I
was walking along Tinker Creek thinking of nothing at
all and I saw the tree with the lights in it. I saw the backyard
cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and
transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I stood on the grass
with the lights in it, grass that was wholly fire,
utterly focused and utterly dreamed. It was less like seeing than
like being for the first time seen, knocked
breathless by a powerful glance. The flood of fire abated, but
I’m still spending the power. Gradually the lights

61. went out in the cedar, the colors died, the cells unflamed and
disappeared. I was still ringing. I had been my whole
life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted
and struck. I have since only very rarely seen the tree
with the lights in it. The vision comes and goes, mostly goes,
but I live for it, for the moment when the mountains
open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the
mountains slam.
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An Outline of the Essential Key Points of Dillard’s Essay
I. Story about Hiding the Penny
A. The value of encountering the surprise
B. The arrows and words that lead one to the surprise
II. She equates the value of the surprise of finding a penny to
the value of encountering the quick
glimpses of the things she encounters in nature
A. The value of encountering these quick glimpses is not a
monetary / material value
B. These quick glimpses are very much a “now-you-see-it,
now-you-don’t” experience
C. Nature reveals and conceals
1. Example of the blackbirds suddenly flying out of the Osage
Orange tree
D. Knowledge improves your chances of seeing these things that
are often hidden (you have a
better chance of finding where they are hidden if you have

62. knowledge)
E. Natural Obvious
1. How you biologically and neurologically see (the literal
sense of “seeing”)
F. Artificial Obvious
1. All the ways we see that lie beyond the biological and
neurological (the figurative
sense of “seeing”)
G. Misty fog covers the pines (example of conceal / reveal)
leads to next section about how
darkness light conceals
1. We edit what we see (in other words, we do not look at
everything so that we can
focus on specific things)
III. She stays too late at Tinker Creek (a section that looks at
our vision being blinded, obscured,
lessened, tricked)
A. Fading light as twilight transitions into dark
B. Seeing in the dark (even though she cannot “see,” her eyes
are still processing)
C. Too much light blinds / heavy glare confuses
D. How our vision can be confused
1. binoculars / observatory
E. Do we really see what we see (in other words, is our
knowledge of “what things are” and “how
they are what they are” accurate?)

63. IV. She writes about formerly blind people who struggle with
learning how to see?
A. They cannot, at first, discern shapes, space, distance, depth,
etc.
1. They had not learned how to as we have—so they must learn
to see
B. In general, they see the world in “color patches”
C. She is particularly fascinated by the image of the “tree with
the lights in it” (important later in
the essay)
V. She, imaginatively speaking, sees color patches (in other
words, she is trying to see in the way those
who had not yet learned how to see are seeing).
A. But you cannot undo how you have learned to see (you
cannot “unpeach a peach’).
VI. Seeing is a matter of verbalization
A. In other words, seeing, which is bound to experience and
knowledge, is bound to language.
B. When we see, we use language.
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VII. She suggests there is another kind of seeing, one in which
we attempt to “let go” of being bound to

64. verbalization.
A. She offers the example of seeing with a camera vs. seeing
without a camera
VIII. She describes seeing the minutiae at Tinker Creek as if
she becomes these things.
A. An example of “letting go”
B. An attempt to see in a way that is not bound to knowledge
and experience
C. She claims this is seeing more truly
1. It is “more true” because it is not as edited and not as bound
to how we have learned
to understand the things we see
IX. One cannot sustain this for very long because we provide
ourselves a never-ending dialog in our head
that “narrates” everything we see (constant verbalization of
what we perceive and see and know and
ponder, etc.)
A. We, again, cannot cause things we wish to see to appear
1. Conceal / Reveal – Now you see it, now you don’t
2. The secret of “seeing” gives great reward (associated with
insight / spiritual
illumination) but it also cannot be demanded and called for –
you encounter it when you
encounter it)
B. She associates light with spiritual illumination (deep
understanding – a kind of understanding
that lies beyond “reason,” a moment of insight (deeper
“artificial obvious”

65. C. We cannot call for the light / illumination to appear; all we
can do is place ourselves in its path
when it is there.
1. See the “arrows” that lead to the “pennies” when they are
there.
2. Ride the solar wind (the continual flowing of particles from
the sun that permeate
the entire solar system).
X. She ends by describing a “vison-like” moment that is
manifested by her finally seeing “the tree with
the lights on it”
A. Vision = an experience that appears visibly to the mind, but
it is not present
B. She wanted to see it / had looked for it
C. When she encountered it, she was not thinking about it
D. What she describes lies outside of “reason,” outside of the
natural obvious (she had never
seen it before)
E. But she was aware of it / open to its possibility
F. It was a now you see it, now you don’t moment
G. It was a “precious penny” / it was a different kind of seeing
H. She compares herself to a bell that has finally been rung
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66. Sample Paragraphs for Writing about Annie Dillard’s “Seeing”
Note: This would not be an introduction— more likely the first
two body paragraphs of an essay
Dillard begins her exploration of seeing by offering a story
from her childhood, when she used to
hide pennies, among other places, in the nooks and crannies of
the street and a sycamore tree. To ensure
that people would find the pennies, she drew arrows and labels
with chalk in order to lead people to the
hidden pennies that she quite clearly saw as treasures.
However, she never waited around to witness
anyone encountering them. Dillard’s retelling of this story
illustrates how enamored she still is with the
joy of leading someone to discover the unexpected little
surprises she left behind, her fascination focused
on the pleasure and value of encountering the unexpected.
After all, she never waited around to witness
the person happening upon the penny, such a stance implying a
very different kind of seeing because it
takes the experience of witnessing something with one’s eyes
and infuses it with the excited feeling one
has when one encounters the unexpected (even if that something
has an arrow pointing to it). After all,
many would pass by the seemingly-obvious, chalk-drawn arrows
and labels without noticing them, in part,
because one might just not care about such things or be far too
preoccupied with other concerns and
thoughts. Dillard’s story not only illustrates her own passion
for encountering such moments but also
recognizes how easily such things pass by us unnoticed— even
the more obvious and common ones. For,
as she explains, nature is “very much a now-you-see-it, now-