Diane Ackerman
The latter decades of the twentieth century saw American literary culture produce a range of writers who worked simultaneously across poetry, nonfiction, and the natural sciences. Diane Ackerman, born on October 7, 1948, in Waukegan, was one such figure, a poet, essayist, naturalist, nonfiction writer, and screenwriter who carried United States citizenship and worked in the English language.
Ackerman was educated at Pennsylvania State University and subsequently at Cornell University. Her occupations as recorded span several distinct categories — poet, essayist, naturalist, nonfiction writer, and screenwriter — indicating a range of activity that moved across both literary and scientific modes of engagement. These roles together constitute the working identity she maintained as an American writer operating within several fields at once.
As an essayist and nonfiction writer, Ackerman worked in forms that the late twentieth century had opened to a wide variety of subjects and approaches. Her additional occupation as a naturalist placed her alongside writers who brought the observation of the natural world into literary prose. Her work as a screenwriter extended her practice into yet another medium, and her poetry represented still another dimension of her output. Across all of these roles, she worked in English and produced within an American context.
Ackerman received a Guggenheim Fellowship, a competitive honor that placed her among a select group of American writers and scholars recognized for their work. That the fellowship came to someone holding occupations as varied as poet, naturalist, essayist, nonfiction writer, and screenwriter reflects the scope of her professional activity. The Guggenheim Fellowship remains the most concrete institutional recognition documented among the available facts about her career.
Quotes by Diane Ackerman
Diane Ackerman's insights on:

Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains; another, a moonlit beach; a third, a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town.

Living things tend to change unrecognizably as they grow. Who would deduce the dragonfly from the larva, the iris from the bud, the lawyer from the infant? Flora or Fauna, we are all shapeshifters and magical re-inventors. Life is really a plural noun, a caravan of selves.

Much of life becomes background, but it is the province of art to throw buckets of light into the shadows and make life a new again.

Complexity excites the mind, and order rewards it. In the garden, one finds both, including vanishingly small orders too complex to spot, and orders so vast the mind struggles to embrace them.

Symbolic of life, hair bolts from our heads. Like the earth, it can be harvested, but it will rise again. We can change its color and texture when the mood strikes us, but in time it will return to its original form, just as Nature will in time turn our precisely laid-out cities into a weed-way.

Look in the mirror. The face that pins you with its double gaze reveals a chastening secret.

We marry children who have grown up and still rejoice in being children, especially if we’re creative. Imaginative people fidget with ideas, including the idea of a relationship. If they’re wordsmiths like us, they fidget a lot in words.


